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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e434342 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66528 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66528) diff --git a/old/66528-0.txt b/old/66528-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 022b10b..0000000 --- a/old/66528-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21877 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Joan Haste, by H. Rider Haggard - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Joan Haste - -Author: H. Rider Haggard - -Illustrator: F.S. Wilson - -Release Date: October 13, 2021 [eBook #66528] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Larry Dunn - - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOAN HASTE *** - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[Illustration] - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - - - - -CETYWAYO AND HIS WHITE NEIGHBOURS - - -DAWN - - -THE WITCH’S HEAD - - -KING SOLOMON’S MINES - - -SHE - - -JESS - - -ALLAN QUATERMAIN - - -MAIWA’S REVENGE - - -MR. MEESON’S WILL - - -COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. - - -CLEOPATRA - - -ALLAN’S WIFE - - -BEATRICE - - -ERIC BRIGHTEYES - - -NADA THE LILY - - -MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER - - -THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST - - -JOAN HASTE - - -THE WORLD’S DESIRE (IN COLLABORATION WITH ANDREW LANG) - - - -JOAN HASTE - - -by H. Rider Haggard - - - - -AUTHOR OF ‘KING SOLOMON’S MINES,’ ‘SHE, -’ -‘ALLAN QUATERMAIN,’ ETC. - - - - - -‘Il y a une page effrayante dans le livre des destinées -humaines; on y lit en tête ces mots “les désirs -accomplis.”’—GEORGES SAND - - - - - -WITH 20 ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. S. WILSON - - - - - - -LONDON - - - - - -LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. - - - -AND NEW YORK - - - -1895 - - - -All rights reserved - - - - - -To - - - -I. H. - - - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Indeed, in that moment she was lovely.’ - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAPTER I. JOAN HASTE. -CHAPTER II. SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF. -CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE. -CHAPTER IV. THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES. -CHAPTER V. THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM. -CHAPTER VI. MR. LEVINGER PUTS A CASE. -CHAPTER VII. A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE. -CHAPTER VIII. TWO CONVERSATIONS. -CHAPTER IX. MUTUAL ADMIRATION. -CHAPTER X. AZRAEL’S WING -CHAPTER XI. ELLEN GROWS ALARMED. -CHAPTER XII. ELLEN FINDS A REMEDY. -CHAPTER XIII. A MEETING BY THE MERE. -CHAPTER XIV. SOWING THE WIND. -CHAPTER XV. THE FIRSTFRUITS. -CHAPTER XVI. FORTITER IN RE. -CHAPTER XVII. BETWEEN DUTY AND DUTY. -CHAPTER XVIII. CONGRATULATIONS. -CHAPTER XIX. RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION. -CHAPTER XX. “LET IT REMAIN OPEN.” -CHAPTER XXI. A LUNCHEON PARTY. -CHAPTER XXII. AN INTERLUDE. -CHAPTER XXIII. A NEW DEPARTURE. -CHAPTER XXIV. MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER. -CHAPTER XXV. “I FORBID YOU.” -CHAPTER XXVI. A LOVE LETTER. -CHAPTER XXVII. LUCK AT LAST. -CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD. -CHAPTER XXIX. THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. -CHAPTER XXX. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. -CHAPTER XXXI. THE GATE OF PARADISE. -CHAPTER XXXII. THE CLOSING OF THE GATE. -CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GATE OF HELL. -CHAPTER XXXIV. THE OPENING OF THE GATE. -CHAPTER XXXV. DISENCHANTMENT. -CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DESIRE OF DEATH— AND THE FEAR OF HIM. -CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH. -CHAPTER XXXVIII. A GHOST OF THE PAST. -CHAPTER XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE. -CHAPTER XL. FULL MEASURE, PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER. - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - -INDEED, IN THAT MOMENT SHE WAS LOVELY -SAMUEL ROCK -AND THESE TWO LAY SILENT -I’D MARRY A RUSSIAN JEW RATHER THAN SEE THE OLD PLACE GO TO THE DOGS -SO WE MEET AT LAST -FORGIVE ME, MR. LEVINGER, THERE IS ANOTHER SIDE TO THE QUESTION -A VIVID SUNBEAM FELL UPON THE GIRL’S PALE COUNTENANCE -THEY SET OUT UPON THE LONG TRUDGE BACK TO BRADMOUTH -MY NAME? OH! MY NAME! GASPED JOAN -HER FEW BOOKS WITH WHICH SHE COULD NOT MAKE UP HER MIND TO PART -“THERE, MY DEAR, YOU ARE INTRODUCED,” SAID MRS. BIRD. “THIS IS MY FAMILY” -GO BACK: I FORBID YOU! -YOU REMEMBER MY WORDS WHEN YOU LIE A-DYING -SAMUEL PICKED UP THE BOOK, AND SWORE THUS AT HER DICTATION -AND NOW ... GET OUT OF MY WAY BEFORE I FORGET MYSELF -YOUR DAUGHTER! -I HAVE WAITED FOR YOU HERE BECAUSE I HAVE THINGS THAT I MUST TELL YOU IN PRIVATE -COME ON, SIR HENRY—COME ON! -A WHITE FACE GLOWERING INTO THE ROOM -IT IS JOAN HASTE - - - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -JOAN HASTE. - - - -Alone and desolate, within hearing of the thunder of the waters of the North -Sea, but not upon them, stand the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. Once there was a -city at their feet, now the city has gone; nothing is left of its greatness -save the stone skeleton of the fabric of the Abbey above and the skeletons of -the men who built it mouldering in the earth below. To the east, across a waste -of uncultivated heath, lies the wide ocean; and, following the trend of the -coast northward, the eye falls upon the red roofs of the fishing village of -Bradmouth. When Ramborough was a town, this village was a great port; but the -sea, advancing remorselessly, has choked its harbour and swallowed up the -ancient borough which to-day lies beneath the waters. - - - -With that of Ramborough the glory of Bradmouth is departed, and of its priory -and churches there remains but one lovely and dilapidated fane, the largest -perhaps in the east of England—that of Yarmouth alone excepted—and, -as many think, the most beautiful. At the back of Bradmouth church, which, -standing upon a knoll at some distance from the cliff, has escaped the fate of -the city that once nestled beneath it, stretch rich marsh meadows, ribbed with -raised lines of roadway. But these do not make up all the landscape, for -between Bradmouth and the ruins of Ramborough, following the indentations of -the sea coast and set back in a fold or depression of the ground, lie a chain -of small and melancholy meres, whose brackish waters, devoid of sparkle even on -the brightest day, are surrounded by coarse and worthless grass land, the haunt -of the shore-shooter, and a favourite feeding-place of curlews, gulls, coots -and other wild-fowl. Beyond these meres the ground rises rapidly, and is -clothed in gorse and bracken, interspersed with patches of heather, till it -culminates in the crest of a bank that marks doubtless the boundary of some -primeval fiord or lake, where, standing in a ragged line, are groups of -wind-torn Scotch fir trees, surrounding a grey and solitary house known as Moor -Farm. - - - -The dwellers in these parts—that is, those of them who are alive to such -matters,—think that there are few more beautiful spots than this slope of -barren land pitted with sullen meres and bordered by the sea. Indeed, it has -attractions in every season: even in winter, when the snow lies in drifts upon -the dead fern, and the frost-browned gorse shivers in the east wind leaping on -it from the ocean. It is always beautiful, and yet there is truth in the old -doggerel verse that is written in a quaint Elizabethan hand upon the fly-leaf -of one of the Bradmouth parish registers,— - - - -‘Of Rambro’, north and west and south, - -Man’s eyes can never see enough; - -Yet winter’s gloom or summer’s light, - -Wide England hath no sadder sight.’ - - - - -And so it is; even in the glory of June, when lizards run across the grey -stonework and the gorse shows its blaze of gold, there is a stamp of native -sadness on the landscape which lies between Bradmouth and Ramborough, that -neither the hanging woodlands to the north, nor the distant glitter of the sea, -on which boats move to and fro, can altogether conquer. Nature set that seal -upon the district in the beginning, and the lost labours of the generations now -sleeping round its rotting churches have but accentuated the primal impress of -her hand. - - - -Though on the day in that June when this story opens, the sea shone like a -mirror beneath her, and the bees hummed in the flowers growing on the ancient -graves, and the larks sang sweetly above her head, Joan felt this sadness -strike her heart like the chill of an autumn night. Even in the midst of life -everything about her seemed to speak of death and oblivion: the ruined church, -the long neglected graves, the barren landscape, all cried to her with one -voice, seeming to say, “Our troubles are done with, yours lie before you. -Be like us, be like us.” - - - -It was no high-born lady to whom these voices spoke in that appropriate spot, -nor were the sorrows which opened her ears to them either deep or poetical. To -tell the truth, Joan Haste was but a village girl, or, to be more accurate, a -girl who had spent most of her life in a village. She was lovely in her own -fashion, it is true,—but of this presently; and, through circumstances -that shall be explained, she chanced to have enjoyed a certain measure of -education, enough to awaken longings and to call forth visions that perhaps she -would have been happier without. Moreover, although Fate had placed her humbly, -Nature gave to her, together with the beauty of her face and form, a mind -which, if a little narrow, certainly did not lack for depth, a considerable -power of will, and more than her share of that noble dissatisfaction without -which no human creature can rise in things spiritual or temporal, and having -which, no human creature can be happy. - - - -Her troubles were vulgar enough, poor girl: a scolding and coarse-minded aunt, -a suitor toward whom she had no longings, the constant jar of the talk and jest -of the ale-house where she lived, and the irk of some vague and half-understood -shame that clung to her closely as the ivy clung to the ruined tower above her. -Common though such woes be, they were yet sufficiently real to Joan—in -truth, their somewhat sordid atmosphere pressed with added weight upon a mind -which was not sordid. Those misfortunes that are proper to our station and -inherent to our fate we can bear, if not readily, at least with some show of -resignation: those that fall upon us from a sphere of which we lack experience, -or arise out of a temperament unsuited to its surroundings, are harder to -endure. To be different from our fellows, to look upwards where they look down, -to live inwardly at a mental level higher than our circumstances warrant, to -desire that which is too far from us, are miseries petty in themselves, but -gifted with Protean reproductiveness. - - - -Put briefly, this was Joan’s position. Her parentage was a mystery, at -least so far as her father was concerned. Her mother was her aunt’s -younger sister; but she had never known this mother, whose short life closed -within two years of Joan’s birth. Indeed, the only tokens left to link -their existences together were a lock of soft brown hair and a faded photograph -of a girl not unlike herself, who seemed to have been beautiful. Her aunt, Mrs. -Gillingwater, gave her these mementos of the dead some years ago, saying, with -the brutal frankness of her class, that they were almost the only property that -her mother had left behind her, so she, the daughter, might as well take -possession of them. - - - -Of this mother, however, there remained one other memento— a mound in the -churchyard of the Abbey, where until quite recently the inhabitants of -Ramborough had been wont to be laid to sleep beside their ancestors. This mound -Joan knew, for, upon her earnest entreaty, Mr. Gillingwater, her uncle by -marriage, pointed it out to her: indeed, she was sitting by it now. It had no -headstone, and when Joan asked him why, he replied that those who were neither -wife nor maid had best take their names with them six feet underground. - - - -The poor girl shrank back abashed at this rough answer, nor did she ever return -to the subject. But from this moment she knew that she had been unlucky in her -birth, and though such an accident is by no means unusual in country villages, -the sense of it galled her, lowering her in her own esteem. Still she bore no -resentment against this dead and erring mother, but rather loved her with a -strange and wondering love than which there could be nothing more pathetic. The -woman who bore her, but whom she had never seen with remembering eyes, was -often in her thoughts; and once, when some slight illness had affected the -balance of her mind, Joan believed that she came and kissed her on the -brow—a vision whereof the memory was sweet to her, though she knew it to -be but a dream. Perhaps it was because she had nothing else to love that she -clung thus to the impalpable, making a companion of the outcast dead whose -blood ran in her veins. At the least this is sure, that when her worries -overcame her, or the sense of incongruity in her life grew too strong, she was -accustomed to seek this lowly mound, and, seated by it, heedless of the -weather, she would fix her eyes upon the sea and soothe herself with a sadness -that seemed deeper than her own. - - - -Her aunt, indeed, was left to her, but from this relation she won no comfort. -From many incidents trifling in themselves, but in the mass irresistible, Joan -gathered that there had been little sympathy between her mother and Mrs. -Gillingwater—if, in truth, their attitude was not one of mutual dislike. -It would appear also that in her own case this want of affection was an -hereditary quality, seeing that she found it difficult to regard her aunt with -any feeling warmer than tolerance, and was in turn held in an open aversion, -which to Joan’s mind, was scarcely mitigated by the very obvious pride -Mrs. Gillingwater took in her beauty. In these circumstances Joan had often -wondered why she was not dismissed to seek her fortune. More than once, when -after some quarrel she sought leave to go, she found that there was no surer -path to reconciliation than to proffer this request; and speeches of apology, -which, as she knew well, were not due to any softening of Mrs. -Gillingwater’s temper, or regret for hasty misbehaviour, were at once -showered upon her. - - - -To what, then, were they due? The question was one that Joan took some years to -answer satisfactorily. Clearly not to love, and almost as clearly to no desire -to retain her services, since, beyond attending to her own room, she did but -little work in the way of ministering to the wants and comforts of the few -customers of the Crown and Mitre, nor was she ever asked to interest herself in -such duties. - - - -Gradually a solution to the riddle forced itself into Joan’s -intelligence—namely, that in some mysterious way her aunt and uncle lived -on her, not she on them. If this were not so, it certainly became difficult to -understand how they did live, in view of the fact that Mr. Gillingwater -steadily consumed the profits of the tap-room, if any, and that they had no -other visible means of subsistence. Yet money never seemed to be wanting; and -did Joan need a new dress, or any other luxury, it was given to her without -demur. More, when some years since she had expressed a sudden and spontaneous -desire for education; after a few days’ interval, which, it seemed to -her, might well have been employed in reference to superior powers in the -background, she was informed that arrangements had been made for her to be sent -to a boarding school in the capital of the county. She went, to find that her -fellow-pupils were for the most part the daughters of shop-keepers and large -farmers, and that in consequence the establishment was looked down upon by the -students of similar, but higher-class institutions in the same town, and by all -who belonged to them. Joan being sensitive and ambitious, resented this state -of affairs, though she had small enough right to do so, and on her return home -informed her aunt that she wished to be taken away from that school and sent to -another of a better sort. The request was received without surprise, and again -there was a pause as though to allow of reference to others. Then she was told -that if she did not like her school she could leave it, but that she was not to -be educated above her station in life. - - - -So Joan returned to the middle-class establishment, where she remained till she -was over nineteen years of age. On the whole she was very happy there, for she -felt that she was acquiring useful knowledge which she could not have obtained -at home. Moreover, among her schoolfellows were certain girls, the daughters of -poor clergymen and widows, ladies by birth, with whom she consorted -instinctively, and who did not repel her advances. - - - -At the age of nineteen she was informed suddenly that she must leave her -school, though no hint of this determination had been previously conveyed to -her. Indeed, but a day or two before her aunt had spoken of her return thither -as if it were a settled thing. Pondering over this decision in much grief, Joan -wondered why it had been arrived at, and more especially whether the visit that -morning of her uncle’s landlord, Mr. Levinger, who came, she understood, -to see about some repairs to the house, had anything to do with it. To Mr. -Levinger himself she had scarcely spoken half a dozen times in her life, and -yet it seemed to her that whenever they met he regarded her with the keenest -interest. Also on this particular occasion Joan chanced to pass the bar-parlour -where Mr. Levinger was closeted with her aunt, and to overhear his parting -words, or rather the tag of them which was “too much of a lady,” a -remark that she could not help thinking had to do with herself. Seeing her go -by, he stopped her, keeping her in conversation for some minutes, then abruptly -turned upon his heel and left the house with the air of a man who is determined -not to say too much. - - - -Then it was that Joan’s life became insupportable to her. Accustomed as -she had become to more refined associations, from which henceforth she was cut -off, the Crown and Mitre, and most of those connected with it, grew hateful in -her sight. In her disgust she racked her brain to find some means of escape, -and could think of none other than the time-honoured expedient of “going -as a governess.” This she asked leave to do, and the permission was -accorded after the usual pause; but here again she was destined to meet with -disappointment. Her surroundings and her attainments were too humble to admit -of her finding a footing in that overcrowded profession. Moreover, as one lady -whom she saw told her frankly, she was far too pretty for this walk of life. At -length she did obtain a situation, however, a modest one enough, that of -nursery governess to the children of the rector of Bradmouth, Mr. Biggen. This -post she held for nine months, till Mr. Biggen, a kind-hearted and scholarly -man, noting her beauty and intelligence, began to take more interest in her -than pleased his wife—a state of affairs that resulted in Joan’s -abrupt dismissal on the day previous to the beginning of this history. - - - -To come to the last and greatest of her troubles: it will be obvious that such -a woman would not lack for admirers. Joan had several, all of whom she -disliked; but chiefly did she detest the most ardent and persistent of them, -the favoured of her aunt, Mr. Samuel Rock. Samuel Rock was a Dissenter, and the -best-to-do agriculturist in the neighbourhood, farming some five hundred acres, -most of them rich marsh-lands, of which three hundred or more were his own -property inherited and acquired. Clearly, therefore, he was an excellent match -for a girl in the position of Joan Haste, and when it is added that he had -conceived a sincere admiration for her, and that to make her his wife was the -principal desire of his life, it becomes evident that in the nature of things -the sole object of hers ought to have been to meet his advances half-way. -Unfortunately this was not the case. For reasons which to herself were good and -valid, however insufficient they may have appeared to others, Joan would have -nothing to do with Samuel Rock. It was to escape from him that she had fled -this day to Ramborough Abbey, whither she fondly hoped he would not follow her. -It was the thought of him that made life seem so hateful to her even in the -golden afternoon; it was terror of him that caused her to search out every -possible avenue of retreat from the neighbourhood of Bradmouth. - - - -She might have spared herself the trouble, for even as she sighed and sought, a -shadow fell upon her, and looking up she saw Samuel Rock standing before her, -hat in hand and smiling his most obsequious smile. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -Samuel Rock. - - - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF. - - - -Mr. Samuel Rock was young-looking rather than young in years, of which he might -have seen some thirty-five, and, on the whole, not uncomely in appearance. His -build was slender for his height, his eyes were blue and somewhat shifty, his -features sharp and regular except the chin, which was prominent, massive, and -developed almost to deformity. Perhaps it was to hide this blemish that he wore -a brown beard, very long, but thin and straggling. His greatest peculiarity, -however, was his hands, which were shaped like those of a woman, were long, -white notwithstanding their exposure to the weather, and adorned with -almond-shaped nails that any lady might have envied. These hands were never -still; moreover, there was something furtive and unpleasant about them, capable -as they were of the strangest contortions. Mr. Rock’s garments suggested -a compromise between the dress affected by Dissenters who are pillars of their -local chapel and anxious to proclaim the fact, and those worn by the ordinary -farmer, consisting as they did of a long-tailed black coat rather the worse for -wear, a black felt wide-awake, and a pair of cord breeches and stout riding -boots. - - - -“How do you do, Miss Haste?” said Samuel Rock, in his soft, -melodious voice, but not offering to shake hands, perhaps because his fingers -were engaged in nervously crushing the crown of his hat. - - - -“How do you do?” answered Joan, starting violently. “How did -you——” (‘find me here,’ she was about to add; -then, remembering that such a remark would show a guilty knowledge of being -sought after, substituted) “get here?” - - - -“I—I walked, Miss Haste,” he replied, looking at his legs and -blushing, as though there were something improper about the fact; then added, -“You are quite close to my house, Moor Farm, you know, and I was told -that—I thought that I should find you here.” - - - -“I suppose you mean that you asked my aunt, and she sent you after -me?” said Joan bluntly. - - - -Samuel smiled evasively, but made no other reply to this remark. - - - -Then came a pause, while, with a growing irritation, Joan watched the long -white fingers squeezing at the black wide-awake. - - - -“You had better put your hat on, or you will catch cold,” she -suggested, presently. - - - -“Thank you, Miss Haste, it is not what I am liable to, not but what I -take it kindly that you should think of my health;” and he carefully -replaced the hat upon his head in such a fashion that the long brown hair -showed beneath it in a ragged fringe. - - - -“Oh, please don’t thank me,” said Joan rudely, dreading lest -her remark should be taken as a sign of encouragement. - - - -Then came another pause, while Samuel searched the heavens with his wandering -blue eyes, as though to find inspiration there. - - - -“You are very fond of graves, Miss Haste,” he said at length. - - - -“Yes, Mr. Rock; they are comfortable to sit on,—and I don’t -doubt very good beds to sleep in,” she added, with a touch of grim humour. - - - -Samuel gave a slight but perceptible shiver. He was a highly strung man, and, -his piety notwithstanding, he did not appreciate the allusion. When you wish to -make love to a young woman, to say the least of it, it is disagreeable if she -begins to talk of that place whither no earthly love can follow. - - - -“You shouldn’t think of such things at your age—you should -not indeed, Miss Haste,” he replied; “there are many things you -have got to think of before you think of them.” - - - -“What things?” asked Joan rashly. - - - -Again Samuel blushed. - - - -“Well—husbands, and—cradles and such-like,” he answered -vaguely. - - - -“Thank you, I prefer graves,” Joan replied with tartness. - - - -By this time it had dawned upon Samuel that he was “getting no -forwarder.” For a moment he thought of retreat; then the native -determination that underlay his soft voice and timid manner came to his aid. - - - -“Miss Haste—Joan,” he said huskily, “I want to speak to -you.” - - - -Joan felt that the hour of trial had come, but still sought a feeble refuge in -flippancy. - - - -“You have been doing that for the last five minutes, Mr. Rock,” she -said; “and I should like to go home.” - - - -“No, no, not yet—not till you have heard what I have to say.” -And he made a movement as though to cut off her retreat. - - - -“Well, be quick then,” she answered, in a voice in which vexation -and fear struggled for the mastery. - - - -Twice Samuel strove to speak, and twice words failed him, for his agitation was -very real. At last they came. - - - -“I love you,” he said, in an intense whisper. “By the God -above you and the dead beneath your feet, I love you, Joan, as you have never -been loved before and never will be loved again!” - - - -She threw her head back and looked at him, frightened by his passion. The -realities of his declaration were worse than she had anticipated. His thin face -was fierce with emotion, his sensitive lips quivered, and the long lithe -fingers of his right hand played with his beard as though he were plaiting it. -Joan grew seriously alarmed: she had never seen Samuel Rock look like this -before. - - - -“I am sorry,” she murmured. - - - -“Don’t be sorry,” he broke in; “why should you be -sorry? It is a great thing to be loved as I love you, Joan, a thing that does -not often come in the way of a woman, as you will find out before you die. Look -here: do you suppose that I have not fought against this? Do you suppose that I -wanted to fall into the power of a girl without a sixpence, without even an -honest name? I tell you, Joan, I have fought against it and I have prayed -against it since you were a chit of sixteen. Chance after chance have I let -slip through my fingers for your sake. There was Mrs. Morton yonder, a handsome -body as a man need wish for a wife, with six thousand pounds invested and house -property into the bargain, who as good as told me that she would marry me, and -I gave her the go-by for you. There was the minister’s widow, a lady -born, and a holy woman, who would have had me fast enough, and I gave her the -go-by for you. I love you, Joan—I tell you that I love you more than land -or goods, more than my own soul, more than anything that is. I think of you all -day, I dream of you all night. I love you, and I want you, and if I don’t -get you then I may as well die for all the world is worth to me.” And he -ceased, trembling with passion. - - - -If Joan had been alarmed before, now she was terrified. The man’s -earnestness impressed her artistic sense—in a certain rude way there was -something fine about it but it awoke no answer within her heart. His passion -repelled her; she had always disliked him, now she loathed him. Swiftly she -reviewed the position in her mind, searching a way of escape. She knew well -enough that he had not meant to affront her by his references to her poverty -and the stain upon her birth—that these truths had broken from him -together with that great truth which animated his life; nevertheless, with a -woman’s wit putting the rest aside, it was on these unlucky sayings that -she pounced in her emergency. - - - -“How, Mr. Rock,” she asked, rising and standing before him, -“how can you ask me to marry you, for I suppose that is what you mean, -when you throw my poverty—and the rest—in my teeth? I think, Mr. -Rock, that you would do well to go back to Mrs. Morton, or the minister’s -widow who was born a lady, and to leave me in peace.” - - - -“Oh, don’t be angry with me,” he said, with something like a -groan; “you know that I did not mean to offend you. Why should I offend -you when I love you so, and want to win you? I wish that I had bitten out my -tongue before I said that, but it slipped in with the rest. Will you have me, -Joan? Look here: you are the first that ever I said a sweet word to, and that -ought to go some way with a woman; and I would make you a good husband. There -isn’t much that you shall want for if you marry me, Joan. If any one had -told me when I was a youngster that I should live to go begging and craving -after a woman in this fashion, I’d have said he lied; but you have put me -off, and pushed me aside, and given me the slip, till at length you have worked -me up to this, and I can’t live without you—I can’t live -without you, that’s the truth.” - - - -“But I am afraid you will have to, Mr. Rock,” said Joan more -gently, for the tears which trembled in Samuel’s light blue eyes touched -her somewhat; and after all, although he repelled her, it was flattering that -any man should value her so highly: “I do not love you.” - - - -His chin dropped upon his breast dejectedly. Presently he looked up and spoke -again. - - - -“I did not expect that you would,” he said: “it had been too -much luck for a miserable sinner. But be honest with me, Joan—if a woman -can—and tell me, do you love anybody else?” - - - -“Not a soul,” she answered, opening her brown eyes wide. “Who -is there that I should love here?” - - - -“Ah! that’s it,” he answered, with a sigh of relief: -“there is nobody good enough for you in these parts. You are a lady, -however you were born, and you want to mate with your own sort. It is no use -denying it: I have watched you, and I’ve seen how you look down upon us; -and all I’ve got to say is:—Be careful that it does not bring you -into trouble. Still, while you don’t love anybody else—and the man -you do love had better keep out of my way, curse him!—there is hope for -me. Look here, Joan: I don’t want to press you—take time to think -it over. I’m in no hurry. I could wait five years if I were sure of -getting you at last. I dare say I frightened you by my roughness: I was a fool; -I should have remembered that it is all new to you, though it is old enough for -me. Listen, Joan: tell me that I may wait awhile and come again,—though, -whether you tell me or not, I shall wait and I shall come, while there is -breath in my body and I can find you out.” - - - -“What’s the use?” said Joan. “I don’t love you, -and love does not grow with waiting; and if I do not love you, how can I marry -you? We had better make an end of the business once and for all. I am very -sorry, but it has not been my fault.” - - - -“What’s the use? Why, all in the world! In time you will come to -think differently; in time you will learn that a Christian man’s honest -love and all that goes with it isn’t a thing to be chucked away like -dirty water; in time, perhaps, your aunt and uncle will teach you reason about -it, though you do despise me since you went away for your fine -schooling——” - - - -“Oh, don’t tell them!” broke in Joan imploringly. - - - -“Why, I have told them. I spoke to your aunt this very day about it, and -she wished me God-speed with all her heart, and I am sure she will be vexed -enough when she learns the truth.” - - - -As Joan heard these words her face betrayed the perturbation of her mind. Her -aunt’s fury when she understood that she, Joan, had rejected Samuel Rock -would indeed be hard to bear. Samuel, watching, read her thoughts, and, growing -cunning in his despair, was not slow to turn them to his advantage. - - - -“Listen, Joan,” he said: “say that you will take time to -think it over, and I will make matters easy for you with Mrs. Gillingwater. I -know how to manage her, and I promise that not a rough word shall be said to -you. Joan, Joan, it is not much to ask. Tell me that I may come again for my -answer in six months. That can’t hurt you, and it will be hope to -me.” - - - -She hesitated. A warning sense told her that it would be better to have done -with this man at once; but then, if she obeyed it, the one thing which she -truly feared—her aunt’s fury—would fall upon her and crush -her. If she gave way, on the other hand, she knew well enough that Samuel would -shelter her from this storm for his own sake if not for hers. What could it -matter, she argued weakly, if she did postpone her final decision for six -months? Perhaps before that time she might be able to escape from Bradmouth and -Samuel Rock, and thus avoid the necessity of giving any answer. - - - -“If I do as you wish, will you promise not to trouble me, or interfere -with me, or to speak to me about this kind of thing in the meanwhile?” -she asked. - - - -“Yes; I swear that I will not.” - - - -“Very good: have your own way about it, Mr. Rock; but understand that I -do not mean to encourage you by this, and I don’t think it likely that my -answer six months hence will be any different from what it is to-day.” - - - -“I understand, Joan.” - - - -“Very well, then: good-bye.” And she held out her hand. - - - -He took it, and, overmastered by a sudden impulse, pressed it to his lips and -kissed it twice or thrice. - - - -“Leave go,” she said, wrenching herself free. “Is that the -way you keep your promise?” - - - -“I beg your pardon,” he answered humbly. “I could not help -it—Heaven knows that I could not help it. I will not break my word -again.” And he turned and left her, walking through the grass of the -graves with a slow and somewhat feline step. - - - -At last he was gone, and Joan sat down once more, with a gasp of relief. Her -first feelings were those of exultation at being rid of Mr. Rock; but they did -not endure. Would he keep his promise, she wondered, and hide from her aunt the -fact that he had proposed and been rejected? If he did not, one thing was clear -to her,—that she would be forced to fly from Bradmouth, since by many a -hint she knew well that it was expected of her that she should marry Samuel -Rock, who was considered to have honoured her greatly by his attentions. This, -in view of their relative social positions in the small society of Bradmouth, -was not wonderful; but Joan’s pride revolted at the thought. - - - -“After all,” she said aloud, “how is he so much higher than I -am? and why should my aunt always speak of him as though he were a king and I a -beggar girl? My blood is as good as his, and better,” and she glanced at -a row of ancient tombstones, whereof the tops were visible above the herbage of -rank grass, yellow crowsfoot, and sheep’s parsley still white with bloom, -that marked the resting-places of the Lacons. - - - -These Lacons had been yeomen farmers for many generations, until the last of -them, Joan’s grandfather, took to evil courses and dissipated his -ancestral patrimony, the greater part of which was now in the possession of -Samuel Rock. - - - -Yes, that side of her pedigree was well enough, and were it not for the mystery -about her father she could have held her head up with the best of them. Oh, it -was a bitter thing that, through no fault of her own, Samuel Rock should be -able to reproach her with her lack of an “honest name”! So it was, -however—she was an outcast, a waif and a stray, and it was useless to -cloak this fact. But, outcast or no, she was mistress of herself, and would not -be driven into marriage, however advantageous, with Samuel Rock or any other -man who was repellent to her. - - - -Having come to this conclusion, Joan’s spirits rose. After all, she was -young and healthy, and, she believed, beautiful, with the wide world before -her. There were even advantages in lacking an “honest name,” since -it freed her from responsibilities and rendered it impossible for her to -disgrace that which she had not got. As it was, she had only herself to please -in the world, and within reasonable and decent limits Joan meant to please -herself. Most of all did she mean to do so in connection with these matters of -the heart—Nobody had ever loved her, and she had never found anybody to -love; and yet, as in all true women, love of one sort or another was the great -desire and necessity of her life. Therefore on this point she was determined: -she would never marry where she could not love. - - - -Thus thought Joan; then, weary of the subject, she dismissed it from her mind -for a while, and, lying back upon the grass in idle contentment, watched the -little clouds float across the sky till, far out to sea, they melted into the -blue of the horizon. It was a perfect afternoon, and she would enjoy what was -left of it before she returned to Bradmouth to face Samuel Rock and all her -other worries. Grasshoppers chirped in the flowers at her feet, a beautiful -butterfly flitted from tombstone to grey tombstone, sunning itself on each, and -high over her head flew the jackdaws, taking food to their young in the -crumbling tower above. - - - -For a while Joan watched these jackdaws through her half-shut eyes, till -suddenly she remembered that her late employer Mr. Biggen’s little boy -had confided to her his ardent desire for a young bird of that species, and she -began to wonder if she could reach the nest and rob it as a farewell gift to -him. - - - -Speculation led to desire, and desire to endeavour. The ruined belfry stairway -still ran up the interior of the tower for twenty feet or more—to a spot, -indeed, in the stonework where a huge fragment of masonry had fallen bodily, -leaving a V-shaped opening that reached to the battlements. Ivy grew upon this -gap in the flint rubble, and the nest of the two jackdaws that Joan had been -watching particularly, did not appear to be more than a dozen feet above the -top of the broken stair. This stair she proceeded to climb without further -hesitation. It was not at all safe, but she was active, and her head being -good, she reached the point where it was broken away without accident, and, -taking her stand on the thickness of the wall, supported herself by the ivy and -looked up. There, twice her own height above her, was the window slit with the -nest in it, but the mortar and stone upon which she must cling to reach it -looked so crumbling and insecure that she did not dare to trust herself to -them. So, having finished her inspection, Joan decided to leave those young -jackdaws in peace and descend to earth again. - - - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE. - - - -It was at this juncture that Captain Henry Archibald Graves, R.N., pursuing his -way by the little-frequented sea road that runs along the top of the cliff past -the Ramborough ruins to Bradmouth, halted the cob on which he was riding in -order that he might admire the scene at leisure. Presently his eye, following -the line of the ruined tower, lit upon the figure of a girl standing twenty -feet from the ground in a gap of the broken wall. He was sixty yards away or -more, but there was something so striking and graceful about this figure, -poised on high and outlined against the glow of the westering sun, that his -curiosity became excited to know whose it was and what the girl might be doing. -So strongly was it excited, indeed, that, after a fateful moment of hesitation, -Captain Graves, reflecting that he had never examined Ramborough Abbey since he -was a boy, turned his horse and rode up the slope of broken ground that -intervened between him and the churchyard, where he dismounted and made the -bridle fast to a stunted thorn. Possibly the lady might be in difficulty or -danger, he explained to himself. - - - -When he had tied up the cob to his satisfaction, he climbed the bank whereon -the thorn grew, and reached the dilapidated wall of the churchyard, whence he -could again see the lower parts of the tower which had been hidden from his -view for a while by the nature of the ground. Now the figure of the woman that -had stood there was gone, and a genuine fear seized him lest she should have -fallen… With some haste he walked to the foot of the tower, to halt -suddenly within five paces of it, for before him stood the object of his -search. She had emerged from behind a thicket of briars that grew among the -fallen masonry; and, holding her straw hat in her hand, was standing with her -back towards him, gazing upwards at the unattainable nest. - - - -“She is safe enough, and I had better move on,” thought Captain -Graves. - - - -At that moment Joan seemed to become aware of his presence; at any rate, she -wheeled round quickly, and they were face to face. - - - -She started and blushed—perhaps more violently than the occasion -warranted, for Joan was not accustomed to meet strange men of his class thus -unexpectedly. Captain Graves scarcely noticed either the start or the blush, -for, to tell the truth, he was employed in studying the appearance of the -loveliest woman that he had ever beheld. Perhaps it was only to him that she -seemed lovely, and others might not have rated her so highly; perhaps his -senses deceived him, and Joan was not truly beautiful; but, in his judgment, -neither before nor after did he see her equal, and he had looked on many women -in different quarters of the world. - - - -She was tall, and her figure was rounded without being coarse, or even giving -promise of coarseness. Her arms were somewhat long for her height, and set on -to the shoulders with a peculiar grace, her hands were rather thin, and -delicately shaped, and her appearance conveyed an impression of vigour and -perfect health. These gifts, however, are not uncommon among English girls. -What, to his mind, seemed uncommon was Joan’s face as it appeared then, -in the beginning of her two-and-twentieth year, with its curved lips, its -dimpled yet resolute chin, its flawless oval, its arched brows, and the steady, -tender eyes of deepest brown that shone beneath them. For the rest, her head -was small and covered with rippling chestnut hair gathered into a knot at the -back, her loose-bodied white dress, secured about the waist with a leather -girdle, was clean and simple, and her bearing had a grace and dignity that -Nature alone can give. Lastly, though from various indications he judged that -she did not belong to his own station in life, she looked like a person of some -refinement. - - - -Such was Joan’s outward appearance. It was attractive enough, and yet it -was not her beauty only that fascinated Henry Graves. There was something about -this girl which was new to him; a mystery more beautiful than beauty shone upon -her sweet face—such a mystery as he had noted once or twice in the -masterpieces of ancient art, but never till that hour on human lips or eyes. In -those days Joan might have posed as a model of Psyche before Cupid kissed her. - - - -Now let us turn for a moment to Henry Archibald Graves, the man destined to be -the hero of her life’s romance. - - - -Like so many sailors, he was short, scarcely taller than Joan herself indeed, -and stout in build. In complexion he was fair, though much bronzed by exposure -to foreign climates; his blue eyes were keen and searching, as might be -expected in one who had watched at sea by night for nearly twenty years; and he -was clean shaved. His features were good though strongly marked, especially as -regards the nose and chin; but he could not be called handsome, only a -distinguished-looking man of gentlemanly bearing. At first sight the face might -strike a stranger as hard, but more careful examination showed it to be rather -that of a person who made it a practice to keep guard over his emotions. In -repose it was a somewhat proud face, that of one accustomed to command and to -be obeyed; but frank and open withal, particularly if its owner smiled, when it -became decidedly pleasing. - - - -For a few seconds they stood still in their mutual surprise, looking at each -other, and the astonishment and admiration written in the stranger’s eyes -were so evident, and yet so obviously involuntary, that Joan blushed more -deeply than before. - - - -Captain Graves felt the situation to be awkward. His first impulse was to take -off his hat and go, his next and stronger one to stay and explain. - - - -“I really beg your pardon,” he said, with a shyness which was -almost comic; “I saw a lady standing on the tower I was riding by, and -feared that she might be in difficulties.” - - - -Joan turned her head away, being terribly conscious of the blush which would -not fade. This stranger’s appearance pleased her greatly; moreover, she -was flattered by his notice, and by the designation of “lady.” -Hitherto her safety had not been a matter of much moment to any one, except, -perhaps, to Samuel Rock. - - - -“It is very kind of you,” she answered, with hesitation; “but -I was in no danger—I got down quite easily.” - - - -Again Captain Graves paused. He was puzzled. The girl’s voice was as -sweet as her person,—low and rich in tone—but she spoke with a -slight Eastern-counties accent. Who and what was she? - - - -“Then I must apologise for troubling you, -Miss—Miss——?” - - - -“I am only Joan Haste of Bradmouth, sir,” she interrupted -confusedly, as though she guessed his thoughts. - - - -“Indeed! and I am Captain Graves of Rosham—up there, you know. -Bradmouth is—I mean, is the view good from that tower?” - - - -“I think so; but I did not go up to look at it. I went to try to get -those young jackdaws. I wanted them for a little boy in Bradmouth, the -clergyman’s son.” - - - -“Ah!” he said, his face lighting up, for he saw an opportunity of -prolonging the acquaintance, which interested him not a little; “then -perhaps I may be of service after all. I think that I can help you -there.” And he stepped towards the tower. - - - -“I don’t believe that it is quite safe, sir,” said Joan, in -some alarm; “please do not take the trouble,”—and she -stretched out her hand as though to detain him. - - - -“Oh, it is no trouble at all, I assure you: I like climbing. You see, I -am well accustomed to it. Once I climbed the second Pyramid, the one with the -casing on it, though I won’t try _that_ again,” he replied, -with a pleasant laugh. And before she could interfere further he was mounting -the broken stair. - - - -At the top of it Henry halted, surveying the crumbling slope of wall -doubtfully. Then he took his coat off, threw it down into the churchyard, and -rolled his shirt sleeves up above his elbows, revealing a pair of very powerful -and fair-skinned arms. - - - -“Please don’t—please!” implored Joan from below. - - - -“I am not going to give in now,” he answered; and, grasping a firm -and projecting stone with his right hand, he set his foot upon a second -fragment and began the ascent of the broken wall. Soon he reached the head of -the slope in safety, but only to be encountered by another difficulty. The -window slit containing the jackdaws’ nest was round the corner, a little -above him on the surface of the wall, and it proved impossible to reach it from -where he stood. Very cautiously he bent to one side and looked round the angle -of the masonry. Close to him a strong stem of ivy grew up the tower, dividing -into two branches some five feet below the nest. He knew that it would be -dangerous to trust his weight to it, and still more dangerous to attempt the -turning of the corner; but at this moment he was more set upon getting the -young birds which this village beauty desired, than on his own safety or any -other earthly thing. Henry Graves was a man who disliked being beaten. - - - -Very swiftly he shifted his hold, and, stretching out his left hand, he felt -about until it gripped the ivy stem. Now he must go on. Exactly how it happened -would be difficult to describe on paper, but in two more seconds his foot was -in the fork of ivy and his face was opposite to the window slit containing the -nest. - - - -“I can see the young ones,” he said. “I will throw them out, -and you must catch them in your hat, for I can’t carry them.” - - - -“Oh! pray take care,” gasped Joan. - - - -He laughed by way of answer; and next second, with loud squawks and an impotent -flapping of untried wings, a callow jackdaw was launched upon its first flight, -to be deftly caught in Joan’s broad hat before it touched the earth. A -second followed, then another and another. The last bird was the strongest of -the four, and flew some yards in its descent. Joan ran to catch it, a process -that took a little time, for it lay upon its back behind a broken tombstone, -and pecked at her hand in a fashion necessitating its envelopment in her -handkerchief. Just as she secured it she heard Captain Graves say: -“That’s the lot. Now I am coming down.” - - - -Next instant there was a sound as of something being torn. Joan looked up, to -see him hanging by one arm against the sheer face of the tower. In attempting -to repass the corner Henry’s foot had slipped, throwing all his weight on -to the stem of ivy which he held; but it was not equal to the strain, and a -slab of it had come away from the wall. To this ivy he clung desperately, -striving to find foothold with his heels, his face towards her, for he had -swung round. Uttering a low cry of fear, Joan sped back to the tower like a -swallow. She knew that he _must_ fall; but that was not the worst of it, -for almost immediately beneath where he hung stood a raised tomb shaped like a -stone coffin, having its top set thickly with rusted iron spikes, three inches -or more in length, especially designed to prevent the idle youth of all -generations from seating themselves upon this home of the dead. - - - -If he struck upon these! - - - -Joan rushed round the spiked tomb, and halted almost, but not quite, beneath -Henry’s hanging shape. His eyes fell upon her agonised and upturned face. - - - -“Stand clear! I am coming,” he said in a low voice. - - - -Watching, she saw the muscles of his arm work convulsively. Then the rough stem -of ivy began to slip through his clenched fingers. Another second, and he -dropped like a stone from a height of twenty feet or more. Instinctively Joan -stretched out her arms as though to catch him; but he struck the ground legs -first just in front of her, and, with a sharp exclamation, pitched forward -against her. - - - -The shock was tremendous. Joan saw it coming, and prepared to meet it as well -as she might by bending her body forward, since, at all hazards, he must be -prevented from falling face foremost on the spiked tomb, there to be impaled. -His brow cut her lip almost through, his shoulder struck her bosom, knocking -the breath out of her, then her strong arms closed around him like a vice, and -down they went together. - - - -All this while her mind remained clear. She knew that she _must_ not go -down backwards, or the fate from which she strove to protect him would overtake -her—the iron spikes would pierce her back and brain. By a desperate -effort she altered the direction of their fall, trusting to come to earth -alongside the tomb. But she could not quite clear it, as a sudden pang in the -right shoulder told her. For a moment they lay on the edge of the tomb, then -rolled free. Captain Graves fell undermost, his head striking with some -violence on a stone, and he lay still, as did Joan for nearly a minute, since -her breath was gone. - - - -Presently the pain of breathlessness passed a little, and she began to recover. -Glancing at her arm, she saw that a stream of blood trickled along her sleeve, -and blood from her cut lips was falling on the bosom of her dress and upon the -forehead of Henry Graves beneath her, staining his white face. - - - -“Oh, he is dead!” mourned Joan aloud; “and it is my -fault.” - - - -At this moment Henry opened his eyes. Apparently he had overheard her, for he -answered: “Don’t distress yourself: I am all right.” - - - -As he spoke, he tried to move his leg, with the result that a groan of agony -broke from him. Glancing at the limb, Joan saw it was twisted beneath him in a -fashion so unnatural that it became evident even to her inexperience that it -must be broken. At this discovery her distress overpowered her to so great an -extent that she burst into tears. - - - -“Oh! your leg is broken,” she sobbed. “What shall I do?” - - - -“I think,” he whispered, with a ghastly smile, biting his lips to -keep back any further expression of his pain, “that you will find a flask -in my coat pocket, if you do not mind getting it.” - - - -Joan rose from her knees, and going to the coat, which lay hard by, took from -it a little silver flask of whiskey-and-water; then, returning, she placed one -arm beneath the injured man’s head and with the other contrived to pour -some of the liquid down his throat. - - - -“Thank you,” he said: “I feel better”; then suddenly -fainted away. - - - -In great alarm she poured some more of the spirit down his throat; for now a -new terror had taken her that he might be suffering from internal injuries -also. To her relief, he came to himself again, and caught sight of the red -stain growing upon her white dress. - - - -“You are hurt,” he said. “What a selfish fellow I am, -thinking only of myself!” - - - -“Oh, don’t think of me,” Joan answered: “it is nothing, -—a mere scratch. What is to be done? How can I get you from here? Nobody -lives about, and we are a long way from Bradmouth.” - - - -“There is my horse,” he murmured, “but I fear that I cannot -ride him.” - - - -“I will go,” said Joan; “yet how can I leave you by -yourself?” - - - -“I shall get on for a while,” Henry answered. “It is very -good of you.” - - - -Then, since there was no help for it, Joan rose, and running to where the horse -was tied, she loosed it. But now a new difficulty confronted her: her wounded -arm was already helpless and painful, and without its aid she could not manage -to climb into the saddle, for the cob, although a quiet animal enough, was not -accustomed to a woman’s skirts, and at every effort shifted itself a foot -or two away from her. At length Joan, crying with pain, grief and vexation, -determined to abandon the attempt and to set out for Bradmouth on foot, when -for the first time fortune favoured her in the person of a red-haired lad whom -she knew well, and who was returning homewards from an expedition in search of -the eggs of wild-fowl. - - - -“Oh! Willie Hood,” she cried, “come and help me. A gentleman -has fallen from the tower yonder and broken his leg. Now do you get on this -horse and ride as hard as you can to Dr. Child’s, and tell him that he -must come out here with some men, and a door or something to carry him on. Mind -you say his leg is broken, and that he must bring things to tie it up with. Do -you understand?” - - - -“Why you’re all bloody!” answered the boy, whose face -betrayed his bewilderment; “and I never did ride a horse in my -life.” - - - -“Yes, yes, I am hurt too; but don’t think of that. You get on to -him, and you’ll be safe enough. Why, surely you’re not afraid, -Willie Hood?” - - - -“Afraid? No, I aren’t afraid,” answered the boy, colouring, -“only I like my legs better than his’n, that’s all. Here -goes.” And with a prodigious and scuffling effort Willie landed himself -on the back of the astonished cob. - - - -“Stop,” said Joan; “you know what to say?” - - - -“Yes,” he answered proudly; “don’t you fret—I -know right enough. I’ll bring the doctor back myself.” - - - -“No, Willie: you go on to the Crown and Mitre, and tell my aunt that a -gentleman, Captain Graves of Rosham, has hurt himself badly, and that she must -get a room ready for him. It had best be mine, for it’s the -nicest,” she added; “and there is nowhere else that he can -go.” - - - -Willie nodded, and with a loud “gee-up” to the horse, started on -his journey, his legs hanging clear of the stirrups, and gripping the pommel of -the saddle with his right hand. - - - -Having watched him disappear, Joan returned to where the wounded man lay. His -eyes were shut, but apparently he heard her come, for presently he opened them. - - - -“What, back so soon?” he said; “I must have been -asleep.” - - - -“No, no: I could not leave you. I found a boy and sent him on the horse -for the doctor. I only trust that he may get there safely,” she added to -herself. - - - -“Very well: I am glad you have come back,” he said faintly. -“I am afraid that I am giving you a great deal of trouble, but do you -mind rubbing my hand? It feels so cold.” - - - -She sat down on the grass beside him, having first wrapped his coat round him -as best she could, and began to chafe his hand. Presently the pain, which had -subsided for a while, set in more sharply then ever, and his fingers, that had -been like ice, were now burning hot. Another half-hour passed, while the -shadows lengthened and the evening waned, and Henry’s speech became -incoherent. He fancied himself on board a man-of-war, and uttered words of -command; he talked of foreign countries, and mentioned many names, among them -one that was not strange to Joan’s ears—that of Emma Levinger; -lastly even he spoke of herself: - - - -“What a lovely girl!” he muttered. “It’s worth risking -one’s neck to please her. Worth risking one’s neck to please -her!” - - - -A third half-hour passed; the fever lessened, and he grew silent. Then the cold -fit took him again—his flesh shivered. - - - -“I am frozen,” he murmured through his chattering teeth: “for -Heaven’s sake help me! Can’t you see how cold I am?” - - - -Joan was in despair. Alas and alas! she had nothing to put on him, for even if -she took it off, her thin white dress would be no protection. Again and again -he prayed for warmth, till at length her tender pity overcame her natural -shrinking, and she did the only thing she could. Lying down beside him, she put -her arms about him, and held him so, to comfort him if she might. - - - -Apparently it did comfort him, for his moaning ceased, and by slow degrees he -sank into stupor. Now twilight was upon them, and still no help came. Where -could Willie have gone, Joan wondered: oh, if he did not come quickly, the man -would surely die! Her own strength was failing her she felt it going with the -blood that ebbed continually from the wound in her shoulder. Periods of mist -and oblivion alternated in her mind with times of clearest reason. Quick they -came and quicker, till at last all was a blank and she knew no more. - - - -And now the twilight had grown into darkness, and these two lay silent, locked -in each other’s arms among the graves, and the stars shed their light -upon them. - - - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES. - - - -Henry Graves, a man of thirty-three years of age, was the second and only -surviving son of Sir Reginald Graves, of Rosham Hall, a place situated about -four miles from Bradmouth. When a lad he chose the Navy as a profession, and to -that profession he clung with such unusual earnestness, that during the last -eighteen years or so but little of his time had been passed at home. Some -months previous to his meeting with Joan Haste, however, very much against his -own will, he was forced to abandon his calling. He was cruising in command of a -gunboat off the coast of British Columbia, when one evening a telegram reached -him informing him of the death of his elder brother, Reginald, who met his end -through an accident whilst riding a steeplechase. There had never been much -sympathy or affection between the two brothers, for reasons to be explained -presently; still this sudden and terrible intelligence was a heavy shock to -Henry, nor did the fact that it left him heir to an entailed property, which he -believed to be considerable, greatly mitigate it in his mind. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘And these two lay silent.’ - - - - -When there are but two sons, it is almost inevitable that one should be -preferred before the other. Certainly this was the case in the Graves family. -As children Reginald, the elder, had been wayward, handsome, merry and -attractive; whereas Henry was a somewhat plain and silent boy, with a habit of -courting his own society, and almost aggressive ideas of honour and duty. -Naturally, therefore, the love of father, mother and sister went out to the -brilliant Reginald, while Henry was left very much to his own devices. He said -nothing, and he was too proud to be jealous, but nobody except the lad himself -ever knew what he suffered under this daily, if unintentional, neglect. Though -his constitutional reserve prevented him from showing his heart, in truth he -was very affectionate, and almost adored the relations who looked on him as a -dullard, and even spoke of him at times as “poor Henry,” as though -he were deficient in intellect. - - - -Thus it came about that very early in his young life, with characteristic -determination, Henry arrived at the conclusion that he would be happier away -from the home where he was little wanted. Once in the Navy, he applied himself -to his profession with industry and intelligence, and as a result did better in -the service than most young men who cannot bring to their support any -particular interest, or the advantage of considerable private means. In -whatever capacity he served, he won the confidence and the respect both of his -subordinates and of his superiors. He was a hard-working man, so hard work was -thrust upon him; and he never shirked it, though often enough others got the -credit of his efforts. At heart, moreover, he was ambitious. Henry could never -forget the slights that he had experienced as a child, and he was animated by a -great but secret desire to show the relatives who disparaged him in favour of -his more showy brother that he was made of better stuff than they were disposed -to believe. - - - -To this purpose he subordinated his life. His allowance was small, for their -father’s means were not in proportion to his nominal estate, and as time -went on his brother Reginald grew more and more extravagant. But, such as it -was, Henry never exceeded it, though few were aware of the straits to which he -was put at times. In the same way, though by nature he was a man of strong -passions and genial temperament, he rarely allowed either the one or the other -to master him. Geniality meant expense, and he observed that indulgence in -passion of any sort, more especially if it led to mixing with the other sex, -spelt anxiety and sorrow at the best, or at the worst disgrace and ruin. -Therefore he curbed these inclinations till what began in the pride of duty -ended in the pride of habit. - - - -Thus time wore on till he received the telegram announcing his brother’s -shocking death. A fortnight or so afterwards it was followed by a letter from -his father, a portion of which may be transcribed. It began: - - - -“MY DEAR HENRY,— - - - -“My telegram has informed you of the terrible loss which has overtaken -our family. Your brother Reginald is no more; it has pleased Providence to -remove him from the world in the fulness of his manhood, and we must accept the -fact that we cannot alter with such patience as we may.” - - - -Here followed particulars of the accident, and of arrangements for the -interment. The letter went on: - - - -“Your mother and sister are prostrated, and for myself I can only say -that my heart is broken. Life is a ruin to me henceforward, and I think that -when the time comes I shall welcome its close. It does indeed seem cruel that -one so brilliant and so beloved as your brother should be snatched from us -thus, but God’s will be done. Though you have been little together of -late years, I know that we shall have your sympathy in our overwhelming sorrow. - - - -“To turn to other matters, of which this event makes it necessary that I -should speak: of course your beloved brother’s death puts you in the -place he held—that is, so far as temporal things are concerned. I may as -well tell you at once that the finances of this property are in great -confusion. Latterly Reginald had the largest share in its management, and as -yet I cannot therefore follow all the details. It seems, however, that, -speaking generally, affairs are much worse than I supposed, and already, though -he lies unburied, some very heavy claims have come in against his estate, which -of course must be met for the honour of the family. - - - -“And now, my dear boy, I—or rather your mother, your sister, and -I—must ask you to make a sacrifice, should you look at it in that light: -namely, to give up your profession and take the place at home to which the -death of your brother has promoted you. This request is not made lightly; but, -as you know, my health is now very feeble, and I find myself quite unable to -cope with the difficulties of the time and the grave embarrassments by which I -am hampered. Indeed, it would be idle to disguise from you that unless matters -are speedily taken in hand and some solution is found to our troubles, there is -every prospect that before long Rosham will be foreclosed on a probability of -which I can scarcely bear to think, and one that will be equally painful to -yourself when you remember that the property has been in our family for full -three hundred years, and that we have no resources beyond those of the -land.” - - - -Then the letter went into details that were black enough, and ended by hinting -at some possible mode of escape from the family troubles which would be -revealed to him on his return to England. - - - -The receipt of this epistle plunged Henry Graves into a severe mental struggle. -As has been said, he was fond of his profession, and he had no wish to leave -it. His prospects in the Navy were not especially brilliant, indeed, but his -record at the Admiralty was good, and he was popular in the service both with -his brother officers and the men, though perhaps more so with the latter than -the former. Moreover, he had confidence in himself, and was filled with a -sincere ambition to rise to the top of the tree, or near it. Now, after serving -many years as a lieutenant, when at last he had earned an independent command, -he was asked to abandon his career, and with it the hopes of half a lifetime, -in order that he might undertake the management of a bankrupt estate, a task -for which he did not conceive himself to be suited. - - - -At first he was minded to refuse altogether; but while he was still hesitating -a second letter arrived, from his mother, with whom he was in greater sympathy -than with any other member of the family. This epistle, which did not enter -into details, was written in evident distress, and implored him to return to -England at all hazards if he wished to save them from ruin. In conclusion, like -that received from his father, it hinted mysteriously at an unknown something -by means of which it would be in his power, and his alone, to restore the -broken fortunes of their house. - - - -Duty had always been the first consideration with Henry Graves, and so it -remained in this emergency of his life. He had no longer any doubt as to what -he ought to do, and, sacrificing his private wishes and what he considered to -be his own advantage, he set himself to do it. - - - -An effort to obtain leave on urgent private affairs having failed, he was -reduced to the necessity of sending in his papers and begging the Lords of the -Admiralty for permission to retire from the service on the ground of his -brother’s death. - - - -The night that he posted this application was an unhappy one for him: the -career he had hoped to make for himself and the future honour which he dreamed -of had melted away, and the only prospect left to him was that of one day -becoming a baronet without a sixpence to support his title, and the nominal -owner of a bankrupt estate. Moreover, however reasonable and enlightened he may -be, no sailor is entirely without superstition, and on this matter Henry Graves -was superstitious. Something in his heart seemed to tell him that this new -start would bring him little luck, whatever advantage might result to his -family. Once again he felt the awe of an imaginative boy who for the first time -understands that the world is before him, and that he must fight his way -through its cruel multitudes, or be trampled to death of them. - - - -In due course my Lords of the Admiralty signified to Commander Graves that his -request had been taken into favourable consideration, and that he was granted -leave pending the arrangements necessary to his retirement from Her -Majesty’s Navy. His feelings as for the last time he was rowed away from -the ship in the gig which had been his especial property need not be dwelt -upon. They were bitter enough, and the evident regret of his messmates at -parting from him did not draw their sting: indeed, it would not be too much to -say that in this hour of farewell Henry Graves went as near to tears as he had -done since he attained to manhood. - - - -But he got through it somehow, and even laughed and waved his hat when the crew -of the _Hawk_—that was the name of the gunboat he had -commanded—cheered him as he left her deck for ever. - - - -Eighteen days later he stood in the library of Rosham Hall. Although the season -was mid-May the weather held bitterly cold, and such green as had appeared upon -the trees did not suffice to persuade the traveller that winter was done with. -An indescribable air of gloom hung about the great white house, which, shaped -like an early Victorian mausoleum, and treed up to the windows with funereal -cedars, was never a cheerful dwelling even in the height of summer. The shadow -of death lay upon the place and on the hearts of its inmates, and struck a -chill through Henry as he crossed the threshold. His father, a tall and -dignified old gentleman with snowy hair, met him in the hall with a show of -cordiality that soon flickered away. - - - -“How are you, my dear boy?” he said. “I am very glad to see -you home and looking so well. It is most kind of you to have fallen in with our -wishes as to your leaving the Navy. I scarcely expected that you would myself. -Indeed, I was never more surprised than when I received your letter saying that -you had sent in your papers. It is a comfort to have you back again, though I -doubt whether you will be able to do any good.” - - - -“Then perhaps I might as well have stopped where I was, father,” -answered Henry. - - - -“No, no, you did well to come. For many reasons which you will understand -soon you did well to come. You are looking for your mother and Ellen. They have -gone to the church with a wreath for your poor brother’s grave. The train -is generally late you were not expected so soon. That was a terrible blow to -me, Henry: I am quite broken down, and shall never get over it. Ah! here they -are.” - - - -As Sir Reginald spoke Lady Graves and her daughter entered the hall and greeted -Henry warmly enough. His mother was a person of about sixty, still handsome in -appearance, but like himself somewhat silent and reserved in manner. Trouble -had got hold of her, and she showed it on her face. For the rest, she was an -upright and a religious woman, whose one passion in life, as distinguished from -her predilections, had been for her dead son Reginald. He was taken away, her -spirit was broken, and there remained to her nothing except an unvarying desire -to stave off the ruin that threatened her husband’s house and herself. - - - -The daughter, Ellen, now a woman of twenty-five, was of a different type. In -appearance she was fair and well-developed, striking and ladylike rather than -good-looking; in manner she was quick and vivacious, well-read, moreover, in a -certain shallow fashion, and capital company. Ellen was not a person of deep -affections, though she also had worshipped Reginald; but on the other hand she -was swift to see her own advantage and to shape the course of events toward -that end. At this moment her mind was set secretly upon making a rich marriage -with the only eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood, Milward by name, a vain -man of good extraction but of little strength of character, and one whom she -knew that she could rule. - - - -It has been said that his welcome was warm enough to all outward appearance, -and yet it left a sense of disappointment in Henry’s mind. Instinctively -he felt, with the exception, perhaps, of his mother, that they all hoped to use -him that he had been summoned because he might be of service, not because the -consolation of his presence was desired in a great family misfortune; and once -more he wished himself back on the quarter-deck of the _Hawk,_ dependent -upon his own exertions to make his way in the world. - - - -After a somewhat depressing dinner in the great dining-room, of which the cold -stone columns and distempered walls, decorated with rather dingy specimens of -the old masters, did not tend to expansion of the heart, a family council was -held in the study. It lasted far into the night, but its results may be summed -up briefly. In good times the Rosham Hall property was worth about a hundred -thousand pounds; now, in the depths of the terrible depression which is ruining -rural England, it was doubtful if it would find a purchaser at half that -amount, notwithstanding its capacities as a sporting estate. When Sir Reginald -Graves came into possession the place was burdened with a mortgage of -twenty-five thousand pounds, more or less. On the coming of age of his elder -son, Reginald, Henry’s brother, the entail had been cut and further -moneys raised upon resettlement, so that in the upshot the incumbrances upon -the property including over-due interests which were added to the capital at -different dates, stood at a total of fifty-one thousand, or something more than -the present selling value of the estate. - - - -Henry inquired where all the money had gone; and, after some beating about the -bush, he discovered that of late years, for the most part, it had been absorbed -by his dead brother’s racing debts. After this revelation he held his -tongue upon the matter. - - - -In addition to these burdens there were unsatisfied claims against -Reginald’s estate amounting to over a thousand pounds; and, to top up -with, three of the principal tenants had given notice to leave at the -approaching Michaelmas, and no applicants for their farms were forthcoming. -Also the interest on the mortgages was over a year in arrear. - - - -When everything had been explained, Henry spoke with irritation: “The -long and the short of it is that we are bankrupt, and badly bankrupt. Why on -earth did you force me to leave the Navy? At any rate I could have helped -myself to some sort of a living there. Now I must starve with the rest.” - - - -Lady Graves sighed and wiped her eyes. The sigh was for their broken fortunes, -the tear for the son who had ruined them. - - - -Sir Reginald, who was hardened to money troubles, did not seem to be so deeply -affected. - - - -“Oh, it is not so bad as that, my boy,” he said, almost cheerfully. -“Your poor brother always managed to find a way out of these difficulties -when they cropped up, and I have no doubt that you will be able to do the same. -For me the matter no longer has much personal interest, since my day is over; -but you must do the best for yourself, and for your mother and sister. And now -I think that I will go to bed, for business tires me at night.” - - - -When his father and mother had gone Henry lit his pipe. - - - -“Who holds these mortgages?” he asked of his sister Ellen, who sat -opposite to him, watching him curiously across the fire. - - - -“Mr. Levinger,” she answered. “He and his daughter.” - - - -“What, my father’s mysterious friend, the good-looking man who used -to be agent for the property when I was a boy?” - - - -“I remember: he had his daughter with him—a pale-faced, quiet -girl.” - - - -“Yes; but do not disparage his daughter, Henry.” - - - -“Why not?” - - - -“Because it is a mistake to find fault with one’s future wife. That -way salvation lies, my dear brother. She is an heiress, and more than half in -love with you, Henry. No, it is not a mistake—I know it for a fact. Now, -perhaps, you understand why it was necessary that you should come home. Either -you must follow the family tradition and marry an heiress, Miss Levinger or -some other, or this place will be foreclosed on and we may all adjourn to the -workhouse.” - - - -“So that is why I was sent for,” said Henry, throwing down his -pipe: “to be sold to this lady? Well, Ellen, all I have to say is that it -is an infernal shame!” - - - -And, turning, he went to bed without even bidding her good night. - - - -His sister watched him go without irritation or surprise. Rising from her -chair, she stood by the fire warming her feet, and glancing from time to time -at the dim rows of family portraits that adorned the library walls. There were -many of them, dating back to the early part of the seventeenth century or even -before it; for the Graveses, or the De Greves as they used to be called, were -an ancient race, and though the house had been rebuilt within the last hundred -and twenty years, they had occupied this same spot of ground for many -generations. During all these years the family could not be said either to have -sunk or risen, although one of its members was made a baronet at the beginning -of the century in payment for political services. It had produced no great men, -and no villains; it had never been remarkable for wealth or penury, or indeed -for anything that distinguishes one man, or a race of men, from its fellows. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘I’d marry a Russian Jew rather -than see the old place go to the dogs.’ - - - - -It may be asked how it came about that these Graveses contrived to survive the -natural waste and dwindling of possessions that they never did anything to -augment. A glance at the family pedigree supplies an answer. From generation to -generation it had been held to be the duty of the eldest son for the time being -to marry an heiress; and this rule was acted on with sufficient regularity to -keep the fortunes of the race at a dead level, notwithstanding the -extravagances of occasional spendthrifts and the claims of younger children. - - - -“They all did so,” said Ellen to herself, as she looked upon the -portraits of her dead-and-gone forefathers by the light of the flickering -flame; “and why shouldn’t he? I am not sentimental, but I believe -that I’d marry a Russian Jew rather than see the old place go to the -dogs, and that sort of thing is worse for a woman than a man. It will be -difficult to manage, but he will marry her in the end, even if he hates the -very sight of her. A man has no right to let his private inclinations weigh -with him in such a matter, for he passes but his family remains. Thank Heaven, -Henry always had a strong sense of duty, and when he comes to look at the -position coolly he will see it in a proper light; though what made that -flaxen-haired little mummy fall in love with him is a mystery to me, for he -never spoke a word to her. Blessings on her! It is the only piece of good luck -that has come to our family for a generation. And now I must go to -bed,—those old pictures are beginning to stare at me.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM. - - - -Seldom did Henry Graves spend a more miserable night than on this occasion of -his return to Rosham. He had expected to find his father’s affairs in -evil case, but the reality was worse than anything that he had imagined. The -family was absolutely ruined—thanks to his poor brother’s -wickedness, for no other word was strong enough to describe his -conduct—and now it seemed that the remedy suggested for this state of -things was that he should marry the daughter of their principal creditor. That -was why he had been forced to leave the Navy and dragged home from the other -side of the world. Henry laughed as he thought of it, for the situation had a -comical side. Both in stories and in real life it is common enough for the -heroine of the piece to be driven into these dilemmas, in order to save the -honour or credit of her family; but it is unusual to hear of such a choice -being thrust upon a man, perhaps because, when they chance to meet with them, -men keep these adventures to themselves. - - - -Henry tried to recall the appearance of the young lady; and after a while a -vision of her came back to him. He remembered a pale-faced, silent girl, with -an elegant figure, large grey eyes, dark lashes, and absolutely flaxen hair, -who sat in the corner of the room and watched everybody and everything almost -without speaking, but who, through her silence, or perhaps on account of it, -had given him a curious impression of intensity. - - - -This was the woman whom his family expected him to marry, and, as his sister -seemed to suggest, who, directly or indirectly, had intimated a willingness to -marry him! Ellen said, indeed, that she was “half in love” with -him, which was absurd. How could Miss Levinger be to any degree whatsoever in -love with a person whom she knew so slightly? If there were truth in the tale -at all, it seemed more probable that she was consumed by a strange desire to -become Lady Graves at some future time; or perhaps her father was a victim to -the desire and she a tool in his hands. Although personally he had met him -little, Henry remembered some odds and ends of information about Mr. Levinger -now, and as he lay unable to sleep he set himself to piece them together. - - - -In substance this is what they amounted to: many years ago Mr. Levinger had -appeared in the neighbourhood; he was then a man of about thirty, very handsome -and courteous in his manners, and, it was rumoured, of good birth. It was said -that he had been in the Army and seen much service; but whether this were true -or no, obviously he did not lack experience of the world. He settled himself at -Bradmouth, lodging in the house of one Johnson, a smack owner; and, being the -best of company and an excellent sportsman, gradually, by the help of Sir -Reginald Graves, who seemed to take an interest in him and employed him to -manage the Rosham estates, he built up a business as a land agent, out of which -he supported himself—for, to all appearance, he had no other means of -subsistence. - - - -One great gift Mr. Levinger possessed—that of attracting the notice and -even the affection of women—and, in one way and another, this proved to -be the foundation of his fortunes. At length, to the secret sorrow of sundry -ladies of his acquaintance, he put a stop to his social advancement by -contracting a glaring _mésalliance_, taking to wife a good-looking -but homely girl, Emma Johnson, the only child of his landlord the smack owner. -Thereupon local society, in which he had been popular so long as he remained -single, shut its doors upon him, nor did the ladies with whom he had been in -such favour so much as call upon Mrs. Levinger. - - - -When old Johnson the smack owner died, a few months after the marriage, and it -became known that he had left a sum variously reported at from fifty to a -hundred thousand pounds behind him, every farthing of which his daughter and -her husband inherited, society began to understand, however, that there had -been method in Mr. Levinger’s madness. - - - -Owing, in all probability, to the carelessness of the lawyer, the terms of -Johnson’s will were somewhat peculiar. All the said Johnson’s -property, real and personal, was strictly settled under this will upon his -daughter Emma for life, then upon her husband, George Levinger, for life, with -remainder “to the issue of the body of the said George Levinger lawfully -begotten.” - - - -The effect of such a will would be that, should Mrs. Levinger die childless, -her husband’s children by a second marriage would inherit her -father’s property, though, should she survive her husband, apparently she -would enjoy a right of appointment of the fund, even though she had no children -by him. As a matter of fact, however, these issues had not arisen, since Mrs. -Levinger predeceased her husband, leaving one child, who was named Emma after -her. - - - -As for Mr. Levinger himself, his energy seemed to have evaporated with his, -pecuniarily speaking, successful marriage. At any rate, so soon as his -father-in-law died, abandoning the land agency business, he retired to a -comfortable red brick house situated on the sea shore in a very lonely position -some four miles south of Bradmouth, and known as Monk’s Lodge, which had -come to him as part of his wife’s inheritance. Here he lived in complete -retirement; for now that the county people had dropped him he seemed to have no -friends. Nor did he try to make any, but was content to occupy himself in the -management of a large farm, and in the more studious pursuits of reading and -archæology. - - - -The morrow was a Saturday. At breakfast Ellen remarked casually that Mr. and -Miss Levinger were to arrive at the Hall about six o’clock, and were -expected to stay over the Sunday. - - - -“Indeed,” replied Henry, in a tone which did not suggest anxiety to -enlarge upon the subject. - - - -But Ellen, who had also taken a night for reflection, would not let him escape -thus. “I hope that you mean to be civil to these people, Henry?” -she said interrogatively. - - - -“I trust that I am civil to everybody, Ellen.” - - - -“Yes, no doubt,” she replied, in her quiet, persistent voice; -“but you see there are ways _and_ ways of being civil. I am not sure -that you have quite realised the position.” - - - -“Oh yes, I have thoroughly. I am expected to marry this lady, that is, if -she is foolish enough to take me in payment of what my father owes to hers. But -I tell you, Ellen, that I do not see my way to it at present.” - - - -“Please don’t get angry, dear,” said Ellen more gently; -“I dare say that such a notion is unpleasant enough, and in a -way—well, degrading to a proud man. Of course no one can force you to -marry her if you don’t wish to, and the whole business will probably fall -through. All I beg is that you will cultivate the Levingers a little, and give -the matter fair consideration. For my part I think that it would be much more -degrading to allow our father to become bankrupt at his age than for you to -marry a good and clever girl like Emma Levinger. However, of course I am only a -woman, and have no ‘sense of honour’ or at least one that is not -strong enough to send my family to the workhouse when by a little -self-sacrifice I could keep them out of it.” - - - -And with this sarcasm Ellen left the room before Henry could find words to -reply to her. - - - -That morning Henry walked with his mother to the church in order to inspect his -brother’s grave a melancholy and dispiriting duty the more so, indeed, -because his sense of justice would not allow him to acquit the dead man of -conduct that, to his strict integrity, seemed culpable to the verge of -dishonour. On their homeward way Lady Graves also began to talk about the -Levingers. - - - -“I suppose you have heard, Henry, that Mr. Levinger and his daughter are -coming here this afternoon?” - - - -“Yes, mother; Ellen told me.” - - - -“Indeed. You will remember Miss Levinger, no doubt. She is a nice girl in -every sense; your dear brother used to admire her very much.” - - - -“Yes, I remember her a little; but Reginald’s tastes and mine were -not always similar.” - - - -“Well, Henry, I hope that you will like her. It is a delicate matter to -speak about, even for a mother to a son, but you know now how terribly indebted -we are to the Levingers, and of course if a way could be found out of our -difficulties it would be a great relief to me and to your dear father. Believe -me, my boy, I do not care so much about myself; but I wish, if possible, to -save him from further sorrow. I think that very little would kill him -now.” - - - -“See here, mother,” said Henry bluntly: “Ellen tells me that -you wish me to marry Miss Levinger for family reasons. Well, in this matter, as -in every other, I will try to oblige you if I can; but I cannot understand what -grounds you have for supposing that the young lady wishes to marry me. So far -as I can judge, she might take her fortune to a much better market.” - - - -“I don’t quite know about it, Henry,” answered Lady Graves, -with some hesitation. “I gathered, however, that, when he came here after -you had gone to join your ship about eighteen months ago, Mr. Levinger told -your father, with whom you know he has been intimate since they were both -young, that you were a fine fellow, and had taken his fancy as well as his -daughter’s. Also I believe he said that if only he could see her married -to such a man as you are he should die happy, or words to that effect.” - - - -“Rather a slight foundation to build all these plans on, isn’t it, -mother? In eighteen months her father may have changed his mind, and Miss -Levinger may have seen a dozen men whom she likes better. Here comes Ellen to -meet us, so let us drop the subject.” - - - -About six o’clock that afternoon Henry, returning from a walk on the -estate, saw a strange dog-cart being run into the coach-house, from which he -inferred that Mr. and Miss Levinger had arrived. Wishing to avoid the -appearance of curiosity, he went straight to his room, and did not return -downstairs till within a few minutes of the dinner-hour. - - - -The large and rather ill-lighted drawing-room seemed to be empty when he -entered, and Henry was about to seat himself with an expression of relief, for -his temper was none of the best this evening, when a rustling in a distant -corner attracted his attention. Glancing in the direction of the noise, he -perceived a female figure seated in a big arm-chair reading. - - - -“Why don’t you come to the light, Ellen?” he said. “You -will ruin your eyes.” - - - -Again the figure rustled, and the book was shut up; then it rose and advanced -towards him timidly a delicate figure dressed with admirable taste in pale -blue, having flaxen hair, a white face, large and beseeching grey eyes, and -tiny hands with tapering fingers. At the edge of the circle of lamp-light the -lady halted, overcome apparently by shyness, and stood still, while her pale -face grew gradually from white to pink and from pink to red. Henry also stood -still, being seized with a sudden and most unaccountable nervousness. He -guessed that this must be Miss Levinger in fact, he remembered her face but not -one single word could he utter; indeed, he seemed unable to do anything except -regret that he had not waited upstairs till the dinner-bell rang. There is this -to be said in excuse of his conduct, that it is somewhat paralysing to a modest -man unexpectedly to find himself confronted by the young woman whom his family -desire him to marry. - - - -“How do you do?” he ejaculated at last: “I think that we have -met before.” And he held out his hand. - - - -“Yes, we have met before,” she answered shyly and in a low voice, -touching his sun-browned palm with her delicate fingers, “when you were -at home last Christmas year.” - - - -“It seems much longer ago than that,” said Henry, “so long -that I wonder you remember me.” - - - -“I do not see so many people that I am likely to forget one of -them,” she answered, with a curious little smile. “I dare say that -the time seemed long to you, abroad in new countries; but to me, who have not -stirred from Monk’s Lodge, it is like yesterday.” - - - -“Well, of course that does make a difference;” then, hastening to -change the subject, he added, “I am afraid I was very rude; I thought -that you were my sister. I can’t imagine how you can read in this light, -and it always vexes me to see people trying their eyes. If you had ever kept a -night watch at sea you would understand why.” - - - -“I am accustomed to reading in all sorts of lights,” Emma answered. - - - -“Do you read much, then?” - - - -“I have nothing else to do. You see I have no brothers or sisters, no one -at all except my father, who keeps very much to himself; and we have few -neighbours round Monk’s Lodge—at least, few that I care to be -with,” she added, blushing again. - - - -Henry remembered hearing that the Levingers were considered to be outside the -pale of what is called society, and did not pursue this branch of the subject. - - - -“What do you read?” he asked. - - - -“Oh, anything and everything. We have a good library, and sometimes I -take up one class of reading, sometimes another; though perhaps I get through -more history than anything else, especially in the winter, when it is too -wretched to go out much. You see,” she added in explanation, “I -like to know about human nature and other things, and books teach me in a -second-hand kind of way,” and she stopped suddenly, for just then Ellen -entered the room, looking very handsome in a low-cut black dress that showed -off the whiteness of her neck and arms. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘So we meet at last.’ - - - - -“What, are you down already, Miss Levinger!” she said, “and -with all your things to unpack too. You _do_ dress quickly,” and she -looked critically at her visitor’s costume. “Let me see: do you and -Henry know each other, or must I introduce you?” - - - -“No, we have met before,” said Emma. - - - -“Oh yes! I remember now. Surely you were here when my brother was on -leave last time.” At this point Henry smiled grimly and turned away to -hide his face. “There is not going to be any dinner-party, you know. Of -course we couldn’t have one even if we wished at present, and there is no -one to ask if we could. Everybody is in London at this time of the year. Mr. -Milward is positively the only creature left in these parts, and I believe -mother has asked him. Ah! here he is.” - - - -As she spoke the butler opened the door and announced —“Mr. -Milward.” - - - -Mr. Milward was a tall and good-looking young man, with bold prominent eyes and -a receding forehead, as elaborately dressed as the plain evening attire of -Englishmen will allow. His manner was confident, his self-appreciation great, -and his tone towards those whom he considered his inferiors in rank or fortune -patronising to the verge of insolence. In short, he was a coarse-fibred person, -puffed up with the pride of his possessions, and by the flattery of women who -desired to secure him in marriage, either themselves or for some friend or -relation. - - - -“What an insufferable man!” was Henry’s inward comment, as -his eyes fell upon him entering the room; nor did he change his opinion on -further acquaintance. - - - -“How do you do, Mr. Milward?” said Ellen, infusing the slightest -possible inflection of warmth into her commonplace words of greeting. “I -am so glad that you were able to come.” - - - -“How do you do, Miss Graves? I had to telegraph to Lady Fisher, with whom -I was going to dine to-night in Grosvenor Square, to say that I was ill and -could not travel to town. I only hope she won’t find me out, that is -all.” - - - -“Indeed!” answered Ellen, with a touch of irony: “Lady -Fisher’s loss is our gain, though I think that you would have found -Grosvenor Square more amusing than Rosham. Let me introduce you to my brother, -Captain Graves, and to Miss Levinger.” - - - -Mr. Milward favoured Henry with a nod, and turning to Emma said, “Oh! how -do you do, Miss Levinger? So we meet at last. I was dreadfully disappointed to -miss you when I was staying at Cringleton Park in December. How is your mother, -Lady Levinger? Has she got rid of her neuralgia?” - - - -“I think that there is some mistake,” said Emma, visibly shrinking -before this bold, assertive man: “I have never been at Cringleton Park in -my life, and my mother, _Mrs._ Levinger, has been dead many years.” - - - -“Oh, indeed: I apologise. I thought you were Miss Levinger of Cringleton, -the great heiress who was away in Italy when I stayed there. You see, I -remember hearing Lady Levinger say that there were no other Levingers.” - - - -“I am afraid that I am a living contradiction to Lady Levinger’s -assertion,” answered Emma, flushing and turning aside. - - - -Ellen, who had been biting her lip with vexation, was about to intervene, -fearing lest Mr. Milward should make further inquiries, when the door opened -and Mr. Levinger entered, followed by her father and mother. Henry took the -opportunity of shaking hands with Mr. Levinger to study his appearance somewhat -closely—an attention that he noticed was reciprocated. - - - -Mr. Levinger was now a man of about sixty, but he looked much older. Either -because of an accident, or through a rheumatic affection, he was so lame upon -his right leg that it was necessary for him to use a stick even in walking from -one room to another; and, although his hair was scarcely more than streaked -with white, frailty of health had withered him and bowed his frame. Looking at -him, Henry could well believe what he had heard that five-and-twenty years ago -he was one of the handsomest men in the county. To this hour the dark and -sunken brown eyes were full of fire and eloquence—a slumbering fire that -seemed to wax and wane within them; the brow was ample, and the outline of the -features flawless. He seemed a man upon whom age had settled suddenly and -prematurely—a man who had burnt himself out in his youth, and was now but -an ash of his former self, though an ash with fire in the heart of it. - - - -Mr. Levinger greeted him in a few courteous, well-chosen words, that offered a -striking contrast to the social dialect of Mr. Milward,—the contrast -between the old style and the new,—then, with a bow, he passed on to -offer his arm to Lady Graves, for at that moment dinner was announced. As Henry -followed him with Miss Levinger, he found himself wondering, with a curiosity -that was unusual to him, who and what this man had been in his youth, before he -drifted a waif to Bradmouth, there to repair his broken fortunes by a -_mésalliance_ with the smack owner’s daughter. - - - -“Was your father ever in the Army?” he asked of Emma, as they filed -slowly down the long corridor. “Forgive my impertinence, but he looks -like a military man.” - - - -He felt her start at his question. - - - -“I don’t know: I think so,” she answered, “because I -have heard him speak of the Crimea as though he had been present at the -battles; but he never talks of his young days.” - - - -Then they entered the dining-room, and in the confusion of taking their seats -the conversation dropped. - - - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -MR. LEVINGER PUTS A CASE. - - - - -At dinner Henry found himself seated between Mr. Levinger and his daughter. -Naturally enough he began to make conversation to the latter, only to find -that, either from shyness or for some other reason, she would not talk in -public, but contented herself with replies that were as monosyllabic as she -could make them. - - - -Somewhat disappointed, for their short _tête-à-tête_ -interview had given promise of better things, Henry turned his attention to her -father, and soon discovered that he was a most interesting and brilliant -companion. Mr. Levinger could talk well on any subject and, whatever the matter -he touched, he adorned it by an aptness and facility of illustration truly -remarkable in a man who for twenty years and more was reported to have been -little better than a hermit. At length they settled down to the discussion of -archæological questions, in which, as it chanced, Henry took an -intelligent interest, and more particularly of the flint weapons used by the -early inhabitants of East Anglia. Of these, as it appeared, Mr. Levinger -possessed one of the best collections extant, together with a valuable and -unique series of ancient British, Danish and Saxon gold ornaments and arms. - - - -The subject proved so mutually agreeable, indeed, that before dinner was over -Mr. Levinger had given, and Henry had accepted, an invitation to stay a night -or two at Monk’s Lodge and inspect these treasures,—this, be it -said, without any arrière-pensée,—at any rate, so far as -the latter was concerned. - - - -In the silence that followed this pleasant termination to their talk Henry -overheard Milward pumping Miss Levinger. - - - -“Miss Graves tells me,” he was saying, “er—that you -live in that delightful old house beyond—er—Bradmouth—the one -that is haunted.” - - - -“Yes,” she answered, “if you mean Monk’s Lodge. It is -old, for the friars used it as a retreat in times of plague, and after that it -became a headquarters of the smugglers; but I never heard that it was -haunted.” - - - -“Oh! pray don’t rob me of my illusion, Miss Levinger. I drove past -there with your neighbours the Marchams; and Lady Marcham, the -dowager—the one who wears an eye-glass I mean—assured me that it -was haunted by a priest running after a grey nun, or a grey nun running after a -priest, which seems more likely; and I am certain she cannot be mistaken: she -never was about anything yet, spiritual or earthly, except her own age.” - - - -“Lady Marcham may have seen the ghost: I have not,” said Emma. - - - -“Oh, I have no doubt that she has seen it: she sees everything. Of course -you know her? She is a dear old soul, isn’t she?” - - - -“I have met Lady Marcham; I do not know her,” answered Emma. - - - -“Not know Lady Marcham!” said Milward, in affected surprise; -“why, I should have thought that it would have been as easy to escape -knowing the North Sea when one was on it; she is positively _surrounding._ -What _do_ you mean, Miss Levinger?” - - - -“I mean that I have not the honour of Lady Marcham’s -acquaintance,” she replied, in an embarrassed voice. - - - -“If that cad does not stop soon, I shall shut him up!” reflected -Henry. - - - -“What! have you quarrelled with her, then?” went on Milward -remorselessly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, for she is a bad -enemy; and, besides, it must be so awkward, seeing that you have to meet her at -every house about there.” - - - -Emma looked round in despair; and just as Henry was wondering how he could -intervene without showing the temper that was rapidly getting the mastery of -him, with a polite “Excuse me” Mr. Levinger leant across him. - - - -“Perhaps you will allow me to explain, Mr. Milward,” he said, in a -particularly clear and cutting voice. “I am an invalid and a recluse. -What I am my daughter must be also. I have not the honour of the acquaintance -of Lady Marcham, or of any other of the ladies and gentlemen to whom you refer. -Do I make myself plain?” - - - -“Oh, perfectly, I assure you.” - - - -“I am glad, Mr. Milward, since, from what I overheard of your remarks -just now, I gathered that you are not very quick of comprehension.” - - - -At this point Lady Graves rose with a certain haste and left the room, followed -by Miss Levinger and her daughter. Thereupon Sir Reginald fell into talk with -Mr. Levinger, leaving Henry and Mr. Milward together. - - - -“Can you tell me who our friend there is?” the latter asked of -Henry. “He seems a very touchy as well as a retired person. I should not -have thought that there was anything offensive in my suggesting that his -daughter knew Lady Marcham.” - - - -“Perhaps you insisted upon the point a little too much,” said Henry -drily. “I am not very well posted about Mr. Levinger myself, although my -father has known him all his life; but I understand that he is a rich man, who, -from one reason and another, has been more or less of a hermit for many -years.” - - - -“By George! I have it now,” said Milward. “He’s the man -who was very popular in our mothers’ days, then married a wealthy cook or -some one of that sort, and was barred by the whole neighbourhood. Of course I -have put my foot into it horribly. I am sorry, for really I did not mean to -hurt his daughter’s feelings.” - - - -“I am sure I am glad to hear that you did so inadvertently,” -answered Henry rather gruffly. “Won’t you have a cigarette?” - - - -The rest of the evening passed quietly enough; almost too quietly, indeed, for -Emma, dismayed by her former experiences, barricaded herself in a corner behind -an enormous photograph album; and Ellen, irritated by a scene which jarred upon -her and offended her sense of the social proprieties, grew somewhat tart in -speech, especially when addressing her admirer, who quailed visibly beneath her -displeasure. Mr. Levinger noticed with some amusement, indeed, that, however -largely he might talk, Mr. Milward was not a little afraid of the young lady to -whom he was paying his court. - - - -At length the party broke up. Mr. Milward retired to his own place, Upcott -Hall, which was situated in the neighbourhood, remarking as he went that he -hoped to see them all at church on the morrow in the afternoon; whereon Henry -resolved instantly that he would not attend divine service upon that occasion. -Then Sir Reginald and Lady Graves withdrew to bed, followed by Ellen and Emma -Levinger; but, somewhat to his surprise, Henry having announced his intention -of smoking a pipe in the library, Mr. Levinger said that he also smoked, and -with his permission would accompany him. - - - -At first the conversation turned upon Mr. Milward, of whom Henry spoke in no -complimentary terms. - - - -“You should not judge him so harshly,” said Levinger: “I have -seen many such men in my day. He is not a bad fellow at bottom; but he is rich -and an only child, and has been spoilt by a pack of women—wants taking -down a peg or two, in short. He will find his level, never fear. Most of us do -in this world. Indeed, unless my observation is at fault,” Mr. Levinger -added significantly, “there is a lady in this house who will know how to -bring him down to it. But perhaps you will think that is no affair of -mine.” - - - -Henry was somewhat mystified by this allusion, though he guessed that it must -have reference to Ellen. Of the state of affairs between Mr. Milward and his -sister he was ignorant; indeed, he disliked the young gentleman so much himself -that, except upon the clearest evidence, it would not have occurred to him that -Ellen was attracted in this direction. Mr. Levinger’s remark, however, -gave him an opening of which he availed himself with the straightforwardness -and promptitude which were natural to him. - - - -“It seems, Mr. Levinger,” he said, “from what I have heard -since I returned home, that all our affairs are very much your own, or _vice -versa._ I don’t know,” he added, hesitating a little, “if -it is your wish that I should speak to you of these matters now. Indeed, it -seems a kind of breach of hospitality to do so; although, if I understand the -position, it is we who are receiving your hospitality at this moment, and not -you ours.” - - - -Mr. Levinger smiled faintly at this forcible way of putting the situation. - - - -“By all means speak, Captain Graves,” he said, “and let us -get it over. I am exceedingly glad that you have come home, for, between -ourselves, your late brother was not a business man, and I do not like to -distress Sir Reginald with these conversations—for I presume I am right -in supposing that you allude to the mortgages I hold over the Rosham -property.” - - - -Henry nodded, and Mr. Levinger went on: “I will tell you how matters -stand in as few words as possible.” And he proceeded to set out the -financial details of the encumbrances on the estate, with which we are already -sufficiently acquainted for the purposes of this history. - - - -“The state of affairs is even worse than I thought,” said Henry, -when he had finished. “It is clear that we are absolutely bankrupt; and -the only thing I wonder at, Mr. Levinger,” he added, with some -irritation, “is that you, a business man, should have allowed things to -go so far.” - - - -“Surely that was my risk, Captain Graves,” he answered. “It -is I who am liable to lose money, not your family.” - - - -“Forgive me, Mr. Levinger, there is another side to the question. It -seems to me that we are not only paupers, we are also defaulters, or something -like it; for if we were sold up to the last stick to-morrow we should not be -able to repay you these sums, to say nothing of other debts that may be owing. -To tell you the truth, I cannot quite forgive you for putting my father in this -position, even if he was weak enough to allow you to do so.” - - - -“There is something in what you say considered from the point of view of -a punctiliously honest man, though it is an argument that I have never had -advanced to me before,” replied Mr. Levinger drily. “However, let -me disabuse your mind: the last loan of ten thousand pounds, which, I take it, -leaving interest out of the count, would about cover my loss were the security -to be realised to-day, was not made at the instance of your father, who I -believe did not even know of it at the time. If you want the facts, it was made -because of the earnest prayer of your brother Reginald, who declared that this -sum was necessary to save the family from immediate bankruptcy. It is a painful -thing to have to say, but I have since discovered that it was your brother -himself who needed the money, very little of which found its way into Sir -Reginald’s pocket.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Forgive me, Mr. Levinger, there -is another side to the question.’ - - - - -At this point Henry rose and, turning his back, pretended to refill his pipe. -He dared not trust himself to speak, lest he might say words that should not be -uttered of the dead; nor did he wish to show the shame which was written on his -face. Mr. Levinger saw the movement and understood it. Dropping the subject of -Reginald’s delinquencies, he went on: - - - -“You blame me, Captain Graves, for having acted as no business man should -act, and for putting temptation in the path of the weak. Well, in a sense I am -still a business man, but I am not an usurer, and it is possible that I may -have had motives other than those of my own profit. Let us put a hypothetical -case: let us suppose that once upon a time, many years ago, a young fellow of -good birth, good looks and fair fortune, but lacking the advantages of careful -education and not overburdened with principle, found himself a member of one of -the fastest and most expensive regiments of Guards. Let us suppose that he -lived—well, as such young men have done before and since—a life of -extravagance and debauchery that very soon dissipated the means which he -possessed. In due course this young man would not improbably have betaken -himself to every kind of gambling in order to supply his pocket with money. -Sometimes he would have won, but it is possible that in the end he might have -found himself posted as a defaulter because he was unable to pay his racing -debts, and owing as many thousands at cards as he possessed five-pound notes in -the world. - - - -“Such a young man might not unjustly have hard things said of him; his -fellow-officers might call him a scamp and rake up queer stories as to his -behaviour in financial transactions, while among outsiders he might be branded -openly as no better than a thief. Of course the regimental career of this -imaginary person would come to a swift and shameful end, and he would find -himself bankrupt and dishonoured, a pariah unfit for the society of gentlemen, -with no other opening left to him than that which a pistol bullet through the -head can offer. It is probable that such a man, being desperate and devoid of -religion, might determine to take this course. He might almost be in the act of -so doing, when he, who thought himself friendless, found a friend, and that -friend one by whom of all others he had dealt ill. - - - -“And now let us suppose for the last time that this friend threw into the -fire before his eyes that bankrupt’s I.O.U.’s, that he persuaded -him to abandon his mad design of suicide, that he assisted him to escape his -other creditors, and, finally, when the culprit, living under a false name, was -almost forgotten by those who had known him, that he did his best to help him -to a fresh start in life. In such a case, Captain Graves, would not this -unhappy man owe a debt of gratitude to that friend?” - - - -Mr. Levinger had begun the putting of this “strange case” quietly -enough, speaking in his usual low and restrained voice; but as he went on he -grew curiously excited—so much so, indeed, that, notwithstanding his -lameness, he rose from his chair, and, resting on his ebony stick, limped -backwards and forwards across the room—while the increasing clearness and -emphasis of his voice revealed the emotion under which he was labouring. As he -asked the question with which his story culminated, he halted in his march -directly opposite to the chair upon which Henry was sitting, and, leaning on -his stick, looked him in the face with his piercing brown eyes. - - - -“Of course he would,” answered Henry quietly. - - - -“Of course he would,” repeated Mr. Levinger. “Captain Graves, -that story was my story, and that friend was your father. I do not say that it -is all the story, for there are things which I cannot speak of, but it is some -of it—more, indeed, than is known to any living man except Sir Reginald. -Forgiving me my sins against him, believing that he saw good in me, your father -picked me out of the mire and started me 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 these 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 which 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. - - - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -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. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘A vivid sunbeam ... fell upon the -girl’s pale countenance.’ - - - - -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, or of his company, he could not tell -which, and held his peace. - - - -“That will be very pleasant,” said Emma, “if it does not bore -you.” - - - -“Not at all; the sea never bores me,” replied Henry. “I will -be ready at three o’clock if that suits you.” - - - -“I must say that you are polite, Henry,” put in his sister in a -sarcastic voice. “If I were Miss Levinger I would walk by myself and -leave you to contemplate the ocean in solitude.” - - - -“I am sure I did not mean to be otherwise, Ellen,” he replied. -“There is nothing wrong in saying that one likes the sea.” - - - -At this moment Lady Graves intervened with some tact, and the subject dropped. - - - -About three o’clock Henry found Emma waiting for him in the hall, and -they started on their walk. - - - -Passing through the park they came to the high road, and for some way went on -side by side in silence. The afternoon was cloudy, but not cold; there had been -rain during the previous night, and all about them were the evidences of -spring, or rather of the coming of summer. Birds sang upon every bush, most of -the trees were clothed in their first green, the ashes, late this year, were -bursting their black buds, the bracken was pushing up its curled fronds in the -sandy banks of the roadway, already the fallen black-thorn bloom lay in patches -like light snow beneath the hedgerows, while here and there pink-tipped -hawthorns were breaking into bloom. As she walked the promise and happy spirit -of the spring seemed to enter into Emma’s blood, for her pale cheeks took -a tinge of colour like that which blushed upon the May-buds, and her eyes grew -joyful. - - - -“Is it not beautiful?” she said suddenly to her companion. - - - -“Well, it would be if there were some sunshine,” he replied, in a -somewhat matter-of-fact way. - - - -“Oh, the sunshine will come. You must not expect everything in this -climate, you know. I am quite content with the spring.” - - - -“Yes,” he answered; “it is very pleasant after the long -winter.” - - - -She hesitated a little, and then said, “To me it is more than pleasant. I -cannot quite tell you what it is, and if I did you would not understand -me.” - - - -“Won’t you try?” he replied, growing interested. - - - -“Well, to me it is a prophecy and a promise; and I think that, although -perhaps they do not understand it, that is why almost all old people love the -spring. It speaks to them of life, life arising more beautiful out of death; -and, perhaps unconsciously, they see in it the type of their own spiritual -fortune and learn from it resignation to their fate.” - - - -“Yes, we heard that in the lesson this morning,” said Henry. -“‘Thou fool! that which thou sowest is not quickened except it -die.’” - - - -“Oh, I know that the thought is an old one,” she answered, with -some confusion, “and I put what I mean very badly, but somehow these -ancient truths always seem new to us when we find them out for ourselves. We -hit upon an idea that has been the common property of men for thousands of -years, and think that we have made a great discovery. I suppose the fact of it -is that there are no new ideas, and you see each of us must work out his own -salvation. I do not mean in a spiritual sense only. Nobody else’s -thoughts or feelings can help us; they may be as old as the world, but when we -feel them or think them, for us they are fresh as the spring. A mother does not -love her child less because millions of mothers have loved _theirs_ -before.” - - - -Henry did not attempt to continue the argument. This young lady’s ideas, -if not new, were pretty; but he was not fond of committing himself to -discussion and opinions on such metaphysical subjects, though, like other -intelligent men, he had given them a share of his attention. - - - -“You are very religious, Miss Levinger, are you not?” he said. - - - -“Religious? What made you think so? No; I wish I were. I have certain -beliefs, and I try to be—that is all.” - - - -“It was watching your face in church that gave me the idea, or rather -assured me of the fact,” he answered. - - - -She coloured, and then said: “Why do you ask? You believe in our -religion, do you not?” - - - -“Yes, I believe in it. I think that you will find few men of my -profession who do not—perhaps because their continual contact with the -forces and dangers of nature brings about dependence upon an unseen protecting -Power. Also my experience is that religion in one form or another is necessary -to all human beings. I never knew a man to be quite happy who was devoid of it -in some shape.” - - - -“Religion does not always bring happiness, or even peace,” said -Emma. “My experience is very small—indeed, I have none outside -books and the village—but I have seen it in the case of my own father. I -do not suppose it possible that a man could be more religious than he has been -ever since I can remember much about him; but certainly he is not happy, nor -can he reconcile himself to the idea of death, which to me, except for its -physical side, does not seem such a terrible matter.” - - - -“I should say that your father is a very nervous man,” Henry -answered; “and the conditions of your life and of his may have been quite -different. Everybody feels these things according to his temperament.” - - - -“Yes, he is nervous,” she said; then added suddenly, as though she -wished to change the subject, “Look! there is the sea. How beautiful it -is! Were you not sorry to leave it, Captain Graves?” - - - -By now they had turned off the main road, and, following a lane which was used -to cart sand and shingle from the beach, had reached a chalky slope known as -the Cliff. Below them was a stretch of sand, across which raced the in-coming -tide, and beyond lay the great ocean, blue in the far distance, but marked -towards the shore with parallel lines of white-crested billows. - - - -Hitherto the afternoon had been dull, but as Emma spoke the sunlight broke -through the clouds, cutting a path of glory athwart the sea. - - - -“Sorry to leave it!” he said, staring at the familiar face of the -waters, and speaking almost passionately: “it has pretty well broken my -heart—that is all. I loved my profession, it was everything to me: there -I was somebody, and had a prospect before me; now I am nobody, and have none, -except——” And he stopped. - - - -“And why did you leave?” she asked. - - - -“For the same reason that we all do disagreeable things: because it was -my duty. My brother died, and my family desired my presence, so I was obliged -to retire from the Service, and there is an end of it.” - - - -“I guessed as much,” said Emma softly, “and I am very sorry -for you. Well, we cannot go any farther, so we had better turn.” - - - -Henry nodded an assent, and they walked homewards silently, either because -their conversation was exhausted, or because they were lost in their own -thoughts. - - - -It may be remembered that Mr. Milward had announced his intention of attending -Rosham church that afternoon. As Ellen knew that he was not in the habit of -honouring any place of worship with his presence, this determination of her -admirer gave her cause for thought. - - - -For a year or more Mr. Milward’s attentions towards herself had been -marked, but as yet he had said nothing of a decisive nature. Could it be that -upon this occasion he intended to cross the line which divides attention from -courtship? She believed that he did so intend, for, otherwise, why did he take -the trouble to come several miles to church, and why had he suggested to her -that they might go out walking together afterwards, as he had done privately on -the previous evening? At any rate, if such were his mind, Ellen determined that -he should have every opportunity of declaring it; and it was chiefly for this -reason that she had arranged Emma’s expedition with her brother, since it -would then be easy for her to propose that Mr. Milward should escort herself in -search of them. - - - -Ellen did not deceive herself. She knew Mr. Milward’s faults, his -vulgarity and assumption made her wince, and on the whole perhaps she disliked -him. But on the other hand his admiration flattered her vanity, for many were -the women who had tried to excite it and failed; his wealth appealed to her -love of luxury and place, and she was well aware that, once in the position of -his wife, she could guide his weaker will in whatever direction she desired. -Moreover his faults were all on the surface, he had no secret vices, and she -trusted to her own tact if not to counterbalance, at least to divert attention -from his errors of manner. - - - -In due course Ellen and Lady Graves went to church, but to the private -mortification of the former Mr. Milward did not appear. At length, much to her -relief, towards the middle of the second lesson a disturbance in the nave -behind her assured her of his presence. She would not look round, indeed, but -her knowledge of him told her that nobody else arriving so painfully late would -have ventured to interrupt the congregation in this unnecessary fashion. -Meanwhile Mr. Milward had entered the pew behind her, occupying the same place -that Henry had sat in that morning, whence by many means, such as the dropping -of books and the shifting of hassocks, he endeavoured to attract her attention; -but in vain, for Ellen remained inflexible and would not so much as turn her -head. His efforts, however, did not altogether fail of their effect, inasmuch -as she could see that they drove her mother almost to distraction, for Lady -Graves liked to perform her devotions in quiet. - - - -“My dear,” she whispered to her daughter at the termination of the -service, “I really wish that when he comes to church Mr. Milward could be -persuaded not to disturb other people by his movements, and generally to adopt -a less patronising attitude towards the Almighty,” a sarcasm that in -after days Ellen was careful to repeat to him. - - - -At the doorway they met, and Ellen greeted him with affected surprise: - - - -“I thought that you had given up the idea of coming, Mr. Milward.” - - - -“Oh no; I was a little late, that was all. Did you not hear me come -in?” - - - -“No,” said Ellen sweetly. - - - -“If Ellen did not hear you I am sure that everybody else did, Mr. -Milward,” remarked Lady Graves with some severity, and then with a sigh -she glided away to visit her son’s grave. By this time they were at the -church gate, and Ellen turned up the path that ran across the park to the Hall. - - - -“How about our walk?” said Milward. - - - -“Our walk? Oh! I had forgotten. Do you wish to walk?” - - - -“Yes; that is what I came for.” - - - -“Indeed! I thought you had come to church. Well, my brother and Miss -Levinger have gone to the Cliff, and if you like we can meet them—that -is, unless you think that it is going to rain.” - - - -“Oh no, it won’t rain,” he answered. - - - -In a few minutes they had left the park and were following the same road that -Henry and Emma had taken. But Ellen did not talk of the allegorical mystery of -the spring, nor did Edward Milward set out his views as to the necessity of -religion. On the contrary, he was so silent that Ellen began to be afraid they -would meet the others before he found the courage to do that which, from the -nervousness of his manner, she was now assured he meant to do. - - - -At length it came, and with a rush. - - - -“Ellen,” said Edward in a husky voice. - - - -“I beg your pardon,” replied that young lady with dignity. - - - -“Miss Graves, I mean. I wish to speak to you.” - - - -“Yes, Mr. Milward.” - - - -“I want—to ask—you to marry me.” - - - -Ellen heard the fateful words, and a glow of satisfaction warmed her breast. -She had won the game, and even then she found time to reflect with complacency -upon the insight into character which had taught her from the beginning to -treat her admirer with affected coldness and assumed superiority. - - - -“This is very sudden and unexpected,” she said, gazing over his -head with her steady blue eyes. - - - -Her tone frightened Edward, and he stammered,— - - - -“Do you really think so? You are so clever that I should have thought -that you must have seen it coming for a long while. I know I have only just -been able to prevent myself from proposing on two or three occasions—no, -that’s a mistake, I don’t mean that. Oh! there! Ellen, will you -have me? I know that you are a great deal too good for me in a way—ever -so much cleverer, and all that sort of thing; but I am truly fond of you, I am -really. I am well off, and I know that you would be a credit to me and help me -on in the world, for I want to go into Parliament some time, and—there, I -think that is all I have got to say.” - - - -Ellen considered this speech rapidly. Its manner was somewhat to seek, but its -substance was most satisfactory and left nothing to be desired. Accordingly she -concluded that the time had come when she might with safety unbend a little. - - - -“Really, Mr. Milward,” she said in a softer voice, and looking for -a second into his eyes, “this is very flattering to me, and I am much -touched. I can assure you I had no idea that my friend had become -a”—and Ellen hesitated and even blushed as she murmured the -word—“lover. I think that perhaps it would be best if I considered -your offer for a while, in order that I may make perfectly sure of the state of -my own feelings before I allow myself to say words which would be absolutely -irrevocable, since, were I once to pledge myself——” and she -ceased, overcome. - - - -“Oh! pray don’t take time to consider,” said Edward. “I -know what that means: you will think better of it, and tell me to-morrow that -you can only be a sister to me, or something of the sort.” - - - -Ellen looked at him a while, then said, “Do you really understand what -you ask of me, and mean all you say?” - - - -“Why, of course I do, Ellen: I am not an idiot. What do you suppose I -should mean, if it is not that I want you to marry me?” - - - -“Then, Edward,” she whispered, “I will say yes, now and for -always. I will be your wife.” - - - -“Well, that’s all right,” answered Edward, wiping his brow -with his pocket-handkerchief. “Why couldn’t you tell me so at -first, dear? It would have spared me a great deal of agitation.” - - - -Then it occurred to him that further demonstrations were usual on these -occasions, and, dropping the handkerchief, he made a somewhat clumsy effort to -embrace her. But Ellen was not yet prepared to be kissed by Mr. Milward. She -felt that these amatory proceedings would require a good deal of leading up to, -so far as she was concerned. - - - -“No, no,” she murmured—“not now and here: I am -upset.” And, withdrawing her cheek, she gave him her hand to kiss. - - - -It struck Edward that this was a somewhat poor substitute, more especially as -she was wearing dog-skin gloves, whereon he must press his ardent lips. -However, he made the best of it, and even repeated the salute, when a sound -caused him to look up. - - - -Now, the scene of this passionate encounter was in a lane that ran from the -main road to the coast; moreover, it was badly chosen, for within three paces -of it the lane turned sharply to the right. Down this path, still wrapped in -silence, came Henry and Emma, and as Edward was in the act of kissing -Ellen’s hand, they turned the corner. Emma was the first to perceive them. - - - -“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a start. - - - -Then Henry saw. “What the deuce!——” he said. - - - -Ellen took in the situation at a glance. It was discomposing, even to a person -of her considerable nerve; but she felt that on the whole nothing could have -happened more opportunely. Recovering themselves, Henry and Emma were beginning -to advance again, as though they had seen nothing, when Ellen whispered -hurriedly to her _fiancé:_ - - - -“You must explain to my brother at once.” - - - -“All right,” said Edward. “I say, Graves, I dare say you were -surprised when you saw me kissing Ellen’s hand, weren’t you?” - - - -“Yes, Mr. Milward, I was surprised.” - - - -“Well, you won’t be any more when I tell you that we are engaged to -be married.” - - - -“Forgive me,” said Henry, somewhat icily: “I am still -surprised.” And in his heart he added, “How could Ellen do -it!—how could she do it!” - - - -Guessing what was passing in his mind, his sister looked at him warningly, and -at that moment Emma began to murmur some confused congratulations. Then they -set out homewards. Presently Ellen, who was a person of decision, and thought -that she had better make the position clear without delay, managed to attach -herself to her brother, leaving the other two to walk ahead out of hearing, -much to their mutual disgust. - - - -“You have not congratulated me, Henry,” she said, in a steady voice. - - - -“Congratulated you, Ellen! Good Lord! how can I congratulate you?” - - - -“And why not, pray? There is nothing against Mr. Milward that I have ever -heard of. His character is irreproachable, and his past has never been -tarnished by any excesses, which is more than can be said of many men. He is -well born, and he has considerable means.” - - - -“Very considerable, I understand,” interrupted Henry. - - - -“And, lastly, he has a most sincere regard for me, as I have for him, and -it was dear Reginald’s greatest wish that this should come about. Now may -I ask you why I am not to be congratulated?” - - - -“Well, if you want to know, because I think him insufferable. I cannot -make out how a lady like yourself can marry such a man just -for——” and he stopped in time. - - - -By this time Ellen was seriously angry, and it must be admitted not altogether -without cause. - - - -“Really, my dear Henry,” she said, in her most bitter tones, -“I am by no means sure that the epithet which you are so good as to apply -to Mr. Milward would not be more suitable to yourself. You always were -impossible, Henry—you see I imitate your frankness—and certainly -your manners and temper have not improved at sea. Please let us come to an -understanding once and for all: I mean to marry Mr. Milward, and if by chance -any action or words of yours should cause that marriage to fall through, I will -never forgive you. On reflection you must admit that this is purely my own -affair. Moreover, you are aware of the circumstances of our family, which by -this prudent and proper alliance _I_ at any rate propose to do _my_ -best to improve.” - - - -Henry looked at his stately and handsome sister and the cold anger that was -written on her face, and thought to himself, “On the whole I am sorry for -Milward, who, whatever his failings may be, is probably an honest man in his -way.” But to Ellen he said: - - - -“I apologise. In nautical language, I come up all I have said. You are -quite right: I am a bear—I have often thought so myself—and my -temper, which was never of the best, has been made much worse by all that I -have seen and learned since I returned home, and because I am forced by duty to -leave my profession. You must make allowances for me, and put up with it, and I -for my part will do my best to cultivate a better frame of mind. And now, -Ellen, I offer you my warm congratulations on your engagement. You are of an -age to judge for yourself, and doubtless, as you say, you know your own -business. I hope that you may be happy, and of course I need hardly add, even -if my prejudice makes him uncongenial to me, that I shall do my best to be -friendly with Mr. Milward, and to say nothing that can cause him to think he is -not welcome in our family.” - - - -Ellen heard and smiled: once more she had triumphed. Yet, while the smile was -on her face, a sadness crept into her heart, which, if it was hard and worldly, -was not really bad; feeling, as she did, that this bitterly polite speech of -her brother’s had shut an iron door between them which could never be -reopened. The door was shut, and behind her were the affectionate memories of -childhood and many a loving delusion of her youth. Before her lay wealth and -pride of place, and every luxury, but not a grain of love —unless indeed -she should be so happy as to find the affection whereof death and the other -circumstances of her life and character had deprived her, in the hearts of -children yet to be. From her intended husband, be it noted, when custom had -outworn his passion and admiration for her, she did not expect love even in -this hour of her engagement, and if it were forthcoming she knew that from him -it would not satisfy her. Well, she knew also if she had done with -“love” and other illusions, that she had chosen the better part -according to her philosophy. - - - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -TWO CONVERSATIONS. - - - - -On arriving at the Hall, Ellen went at once to her mother’s room, while -Edward retired to the library, where he was informed that Sir Reginald was to -be found. Lady Graves received the news of her daughter’s engagement -kindly, but without emotion, for since her son’s death nothing seemed to -move her. Sir Reginald was more expansive. When Edward told him that he was -engaged to Ellen, he took his hand and shook it warmly, not, indeed, that he -had any especial affection for that young man, whose tone and manners did not -chime in with his old-fashioned ideas of gentlemanly demeanour, but because he -knew his wealth to be large, and rejoiced at the prospect of an alliance that -would strengthen the tottering fortunes of his family. - - - -Edward had always been a little afraid of Sir Reginald, whose stately and -distant courtesy oppressed him, and this fear or respect stood the older man in -good stead on the present occasion. It enabled him even to explain that Ellen -would inherit little with as much dignity as though he were announcing that she -had ten thousand a year in her own right, and, striking while the iron was hot, -to extract a statement as to settlements. - - - -Edward mentioned a sum that was liberal enough, but by a happy inspiration Sir -Reginald hummed and hawed before making any answer—whereupon, fearing -opposition to his suit, his would-be son-in-law corrected himself, adding to -the amount he proposed to put into settlement a very handsome rent-charge on -his real property in the event of his predeceasing Ellen. - - - -“Yes, yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I think your amended proposal -proper and even generous. But I am no business man—if I had been, things -would be very different with me now—and my head for figures is so -shockingly bad that perhaps you will not mind jotting down what you suggest on -a piece of paper, so that I can think it over at my leisure and submit it to my -lawyers. And then, will it be too much trouble to ask you to find Ellen, as I -should like to congratulate her?” - - - -“Shall I go at once? I can do the writing afterwards,” suggested -Edward, with an instinctive shrinking from the cold record of pen and ink. - - - -“No, no,” answered the old gentleman testily; “these money -matters always worry me,”—which was true enough,—“and I -want to be done with them.” - - - -So Edward wrote first and went afterwards, albeit not without qualms. - - - -The sight of his lawyer’s face when he explained to him the terms of -settlement on his intended marriage, that he himself had propounded in black -and white, amply justified his doubts. - - - -“I! Well, I never!” said the man of law: “they must know -their way about at Rosham Hall. However, as you have put it in writing, you -cannot get out of it now. But perhaps, Mr. Milward, next time you wish to make -proposals of settlement on an almost penniless lady, you will consult me -first.” - - - -That night there was more outward show of conviviality in the cold Hall -dining-room than there had been for many a day. Everybody drank champagne, and -all the gentlemen made speeches with the exception of Henry, who contented -himself with wishing health and happiness to Edward and his sister. - - - -“You see,” Mr. Levinger whispered to him in the drawing-room, -“I did well to caution you to be patient with the foibles of your future -brother-in-law, and I was not far out in a surmise that at the time you may -have thought impertinent.” - - - -Henry shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. - - - -After dinner Lady Graves, who always retired early, vanished to her room, Sir -Reginald and Mr. Levinger went to the library, and Henry, after wandering -disconsolately for a while about the great drawing-room, in a distant corner of -which the engaged couple were carrying on a -_tête-à-tête,_ betook himself to the conservatory. Here -he chanced upon Emma. - - - -To-night she was dressed in white, wearing pearls upon her slender neck; and -seated alone upon a bench in the moonlight, for the conservatory was not -otherwise illuminated, she looked more like a spirit than a woman. Indeed, to -Henry, who came upon her unobserved, this appearance was much heightened by a -curious and accidental contrast. Immediately behind Emma was a life-sized -marble replica of one of the most beautiful of the statues known to ancient -art. There above this pale and spiritual maiden, with outstretched arms and -alluring lips stood the image of Aphrodite, triumphing in her perfect nakedness. - - - -Henry looked from one to the other, speculating as to which was the more lovely -of these types of the spirit and the flesh. “Supposing,” he thought -to himself, “that a man were obliged to take his choice between them, I -wonder which he would choose, and which would bring him the greater happiness. -For the matter of that, I wonder which I should choose myself. To make a -perfect woman the two should be merged.” - - - -Then he came forward, smiling at his speculation, and little knowing that -before all was done this very choice would be forced upon him. - - - -“I hope that I am not disturbing you, Miss Levinger,” he said; -“but to tell you the truth I fled here for refuge, the drawing-room being -engaged.” - - - -Emma started, and seeing who it was, said, “Yes, I thought so too; that -is why I came away. I suppose that you are very much pleased, Captain -Graves?” - - - -“What pleases others pleases me,” he answered grimly. -“_I_ am not going to marry Mr. Milward.” - - - -“Why don’t you like him?” she asked. - - - -“I never said I did not like him. I have no doubt that he is very well, -but he is not quite the sort of man with whom I have been accustomed to -associate—that is all.” - - - -“Well, I suppose that I ought not to say it, but I do not admire him -either; not because he was rude to me last night, but because he seems so -coarse. I dislike what is coarse.” - - - -“Do you? Life itself is coarse, and I fancy that a certain amount of that -quality is necessary to happiness in the world. After all, the flesh rules here -and not the spirit,”—and again he looked first at the marble -Aphrodite, then at the girl beneath it. “We are born of the flesh, we are -flesh, and all our affections and instincts partake of it.” - - - -“I do not agree with you at all,” Emma answered, with some warmth. -“We are born of the spirit: that is the reality; the flesh is only an -accident, if a necessary accident. When we allow it to master us, then our -troubles begin.” - - - -“Perhaps; but it is rather a pervading accident for many of us. In short, -it makes up our world, and we cannot escape it. While we are of it the most -refined among us must follow its routine—more or less. A day may come -when that routine will be different, and our desires, aims and objects will -vary with it, but it is not here or now. - - - -“Everything has its season, Miss Levinger, and it is useless to try to -escape from the facts of life, for at last in one shape or another they -overtake us, who, strive as we may, can very rarely defy our natures.” - - - -Emma made no answer, though she did not look convinced, and for a while they -remained silent. - - - -“My father tells me that you are coming to see us,” she said at -last. - - - -“Yes; he kindly asked me. Do you wish me to come?” - - - -“Of course I do,” she answered, colouring faintly. “It will -be a great change to see a stranger staying at Monk’s Lodge. But I am -afraid that you will find it very dull; we are quite alone, at this time of -year there is nothing on earth to do, unless you like bird-nesting. There are -plenty of wild fowl about, and I have rather a good collection of eggs.” - - - -“Oh, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself,” he answered. -“Don’t you think that we had better be going back? They must have -had enough of each other by this time.” - - - -Making no answer, Emma rose and walked across the conservatory, Henry following -her. At the door, acting on a sudden impulse, she stopped suddenly and said, -“You do really mean to come to Monk’s Lodge, do you not, Captain -Graves?” And she looked up into his face. - - - -“If you wish it,” he answered in a low voice. - - - -“I have said that I do wish it,” she replied, and turning led the -way into the drawing-room. - - - - - - -Meanwhile another conversation had taken place in the library, where Sir -Reginald and Mr. Levinger were seated. - - - -“I think that you are to be very much congratulated on this engagement, -Graves,” said his companion. “Of course the young man is not -perfect: he has faults, and obvious ones; but your daughter knows what she is -about, and understands him, and altogether in the present state of affairs it -is a great thing for you.” - - - -“Not for me—not for me,” answered Sir Reginald sadly. - - - -“I seem to have neither interests nor energies left, and so far as I am -concerned literally I care for nothing. I have lived my life, Levinger, and I -am fading away. That last blow of poor Reginald’s death has killed me, -although I do not die at once. The only earthly desire which remains to me is -to provide, if possible, for the welfare of my family. In furtherance of that -end this afternoon I condescended even to get the best possible terms of -settlement out of young Milward. Twenty years ago I should have been ashamed to -do such a thing, but age and poverty have hardened me. Besides, I know my man. -He blows hot to-day, a month hence he may blow cold; and as it is quite on the -cards that he and Ellen will not pull together very well in married life, and I -have nothing to leave her, I am anxious that she should be properly provided -for. By the way, have you spoken to Henry about these mortgages?” - - - -“Yes, I explained the position to him on Saturday night. It seemed to -upset him a good deal.” - - - -“I don’t wonder at it, I am sure. You have behaved very kindly in -this matter, Levinger. Had it been in anybody else’s hands I suppose that -we should all have been in the workhouse by now. But, frankly, I don’t -see the end of it. The money is not yours—it is your daughter’s -fortune, or the greater part of it and you can’t go on being generous -with other people’s fortunes. As it is, she stands to lose heavily on the -investment, and the property is sinking in value every day. It is very well to -talk of our old friendship and of your gratitude to me. Perhaps you should be -grateful, and no doubt I have pulled you out of some nasty scrapes in bygone -days, when you were the Honourable——” - - - -“Don’t mention the name, Graves!” said Levinger, striking his -stick fiercely on the floor: “that man is dead; never mention his name -again to me or to anybody else.” - - - -“As you like,” answered Sir Reginald, smiling. “I was only -going to repeat that you cannot continue to be grateful on your -daughter’s money, and if you take your remedy Rosham must go to the -hammer after all these generations. I shall be dead first, but it breaks my -heart to think of it.” And the old man covered his face with his thin -hand and groaned aloud. - - - -“Don’t distress yourself, Graves,” said Levinger gently; -“I have hinted to you before that there is a possible way of -escape.” - - - -“You mean if Henry were to take a fancy to your daughter, and she were to -reciprocate it?” - - - -“Yes, that is what I mean; and why shouldn’t they? So far as Emma -is concerned the matter is already done. I am convinced of it. She was much -struck with your son when she was here nearly two years ago, and has often -spoken of him since. Emma has no secrets from me, and her mind is clear as a -glass. It is easy to read what is passing there. I do not say that she has -thought of marrying Henry, but she is attached to him, and admires him and his -character which shows her sense, for he is a fine fellow, a far finer fellow -than any of you give him credit for. And on his side, why shouldn’t he -take to her? It is true that her mother’s origin was humble, though she -was a much more refined woman than people guessed, and that I, her father, am a -man under a cloud, and deservedly. But what of that? The mother is dead, and -alas! my life is not a good one, so that very soon her forbears will be -forgotten. For the rest, she is a considerable, if not a large, heiress; there -should be a matter of at least fifteen thousand pounds to come to her besides -the mortgages on this place and real property as well. In her own way—to -my mind at any rate—she is beautiful, and there never lived a sweeter, -purer or more holy-minded woman. If your son were married to her, within a year -he would worship the ground she trod on. Why shouldn’t it come about, -then?” - - - -“I don’t know, except that things which are very suitable and very -much arranged have a way of falling through. Your daughter Emma is all you say, -though perhaps a little too unearthly. She strikes me as rather -ghost-like—that is, compared with the girls of my young days, though I -understand this sort of thing has become the fashion. The chief obstacle that I -fear, however, is Henry himself. He is a very queer-grained man, and as likely -as not the knowledge that this marriage is necessary to our salvation will -cause him to refuse to have anything to do with it.” - - - -“For his own sake I hope that it may not be so,” answered Levinger, -with some approach to passion, “for if it is I tell you fairly that I -shall let matters take their course. Emma will either come into possession of -this property as the future Lady Graves or as Miss Levinger, and it is for your -son to choose which he prefers.” - - - -“Yes, yes, I understand all that. What I do not understand, Levinger, is -why you should be so desperately anxious for this particular marriage. There -are plenty of better matches for Emma than my son Henry. We are such old -friends, I do not mind telling you I have not the slightest doubt but that you -have some secret reason. It seems to me—I know you won’t mind my -saying it—that you carry the curious double-sidedness of your nature into -every detail of life. You cannot be anything wholly,—there is always a -reservation about you: thus, when you seemed to be thoroughly bad, there was a -reservation of good in you; and now, when you appear to be the most righteous -man in the county, I sometimes think that there is still a considerable leaven -of the other thing.” - - - -Mr. Levinger smiled and shrugged his shoulders, but he did not take offence at -these remarks. That he refrained from doing so showed the peculiar terms on -which the two men were—terms born of intimate knowledge and long -association. - - - -“Most people have more reasons for desiring a thing than they choose to -publish on the housetops, Graves; but I don’t see why you should seek for -secret motives here when there are so many that are obvious. You happen to be -the only friend I have in the world; it is therefore natural that I should wish -to see my daughter married to your son, and for this same reason I desire that -your family, which has been part and parcel of the country-side for hundreds of -years, should be saved from ruin. Further, I have taken a greater liking to -Henry than to any man I have met for many a long day, and I know that Emma -would love him and be happy with him, whereas did she marry elsewhere, with her -unusual temperament, she might be very unhappy. - - - -“Also, the match would be a good one for her, which weighs with me a -great deal. Your son may never be rich, but he has done well in his profession, -he is the inheritor of an ancient name, and he will be a baronet. As you know, -my career has been a failure, and more than a failure. Very probably my child -will never even know who I really am, but that she is the granddaughter of a -Bradmouth smack owner is patent to everybody. I am anxious that all this should -be forgotten and covered up by an honourable marriage; I am anxious, after -being slighted and neglected, that she should start afresh in a position in -which she can hold her head as high as any lady in the county, and I do not -think that in my case this is an unnatural or an exorbitant ambition. Finally, -it is my desire, the most earnest desire of my life, and I mean to live to see -it accomplished. Now have I given you reasons enough?” - - - -“Plenty, and very good ones too. But I still think that you have another -and better in the background. Well, for my part I shall only be too thankful if -this can be brought about. It would be a fair marriage also, for such -disadvantages as there are seem to be very equally divided; and I like your -daughter, Levinger,—she is a sweet girl and interesting, even if she is -old Will Johnson’s grandchild. Now I must be off and say something civil -to my future son-in-law before he goes”—and, rising with something -of an effort, Sir Reginald left the room. - - - -“Graves is breaking up, but he is still shrewd,” said Mr. Levinger -to himself, gazing after him with his piercing eyes. “As usual he put his -finger on the weak spot. Now, if he knew my last and best reason for wishing to -see Emma married to his son, I wonder what he would do? Shrug his shoulders and -say nothing, I expect. Beggars cannot be choosers, and bankrupts are not likely -to be very particular. Poor old friend! I am sorry for him. Well, he shall -spend his last days in peace if I can manage it—that is, unless Henry -proves himself an obstinate fool, as it is possible he may.” - - - -Next morning Mr. Levinger and his daughter returned to Monk’s Lodge; but -before they went it was settled that Henry was to visit them some three weeks -later, on the tenth of June, that date being convenient to all concerned. - - - -On the following day Henry went to London for a week to arrange about a little -pension to which he was entitled, and other matters. This visit did not improve -his spirits, for in the course of his final attendances at the Admiralty he -discovered for the first time how well he was thought of there, and that he had -been looked on as a man destined to rise in the Service. - - - -“Pity that you made up your mind to go, Captain Graves—great -pity!” said one of the head officials to him. “I always thought -that I should see you an admiral one day, if I lived long enough. We had -several good marks against your name here, I can tell you. However, it is too -late to talk of all this now, and I dare say that you will be better off as a -baronet with a big estate than banging about the world in an ironclad, with the -chance of being shot or drowned. You are too good a man to be lost, if you will -allow me to say so, and now that you are off the active list you must go into -Parliament and try to help us there.” - - - -“By Heavens, sir,” answered Henry with warmth, “I’d -rather be a captain of an ironclad in the Channel Fleet than a baronet with -twenty thousand a year, though now I have no chance of either. But we -can’t always please ourselves in this world. Good-bye.” And, -turning abruptly, he left the room. - - - -“I wonder why that fellow went,” mused the official as the door -closed. “For a young man he was as good a sailor as there is in the -Service, and he really might have got on. Private affairs, I suppose. Well, it -can’t be helped, and there are plenty ready to step into his shoes.” - - - -Henry returned to Rosham very much depressed, nor did he find the atmosphere of -that establishment conducive to lightness of heart. Putting aside his personal -regrets at leaving the Navy, there was much to sadden him. First and foremost -came financial trouble, which by now had reached an acute stage, for it was -difficult to find ready money wherewith to carry on the ordinary expenses of -the house. Then his mother’s woeful face oppressed him as she went about -mourning for the dead, mourning also for their fallen fortunes, and his -father’s failing health gave great reason for anxiety. - - - -Furthermore, though here he knew that he had no just cause of complaint, the -constant presence of Edward Milward irritated him to a degree that he could not -conceal. In vain did he try to like this young man, or even to make it appear -that he liked him; his efforts were a failure, and he felt that Ellen, with -whom otherwise he remained on good, though not on cordial terms, resented this -fact, as he on his part resented the continual false pretences, or rather the -subterfuges and suppressions of the truth, in which she indulged in order to -keep from her _fiancé_ a knowledge of the real state of the Rosham -affairs. These arts exasperated Henry’s pride to an extent almost -unbearable, and Ellen knew that it was so, but not on this account would she -desist from them. For she knew also the vulgar nature of her lover, and feared, -perhaps not without reason, lest he should learn how great were their -distresses, and how complete was the ruin which overshadowed them, and break -off an engagement that was to connect him with a bankrupt and discredited -family. - - - -In the midst of these and other worries the time passed heavily enough, till at -length that day arrived on which Henry was engaged to visit Monk’s Lodge. -Already he had received a note from Emma Levinger, writing on behalf of her -father, to remind him of his promise. It was a prettily expressed note, written -in a delicate and beautiful hand; and he answered it saying that he proposed to -send his portmanteau by train and to ride over to Monk’s Lodge, arriving -there in time for dinner. - - - -Henry had not thought much of Emma during the last week or two; or, if he had -thought of her, it was in an impersonal way, as part of a sordid problem with -which he found himself called upon to cope. At no time was he much given to -allow his mind to run upon the fascinations of any woman; and, charming and -original as this lady might be, he was not in a mood just now to contemplate -her from the standpoint of romance. None the less, however, was he glad of the -opportunity which this visit gave him to escape for a while from Rosham, even -if he could not leave his anxieties behind him. - - - -He had no further conversation with Ellen upon the subject of Emma. The terms -upon which they stood implied a mutual truce from interference in each -other’s affairs. His father, however, did say a word to him when he went -to bid him good-bye. He found the old man in bed, for now he did not rise till -lunchtime. - - - -“Good-bye, my boy,” he said. “So you are going to -Monk’s Lodge? Well, it will be a pleasant change for you. Old Levinger is -a queer fish, and in some ways not altogether to be trusted, as I have known -for many a year, but he has lots of good in him; and to my mind his daughter is -charming. Ah, Henry! I wish, without doing violence to your own feelings, that -you could manage to take a fancy to this girl. There, I will say no more; you -know what I mean.” - - - -“I know, father,” answered Henry, “and I will do my best to -fall in with your views. But, all the same, however charming she may be, it is -a little hard on me that I should be brought down to this necessity.” - - - -Then he rode away, and in due course reached the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. - - - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -MUTUAL ADMIRATION. - - - - -That Henry and Joan were left lying for so many hours among the graves of -Ramborough Abbey is not greatly to be wondered at, since, before he had ridden -half a mile, Master Willie Hood’s peculiar method of horsemanship -resulted in frightening the cob so much that, for the first time in its -peaceful career, it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. For a mile or -more it galloped on at right angles to the path, while Willie clung to its -mane, screaming “Wo!” at the top of his voice, and the -seabirds’ eggs with which his pockets were filled, now smashed into a -filthy mass, trickled in yellow streams down the steed’s panting sides. - - - -At length the end came. Arriving at a fence, the cob stopped suddenly, and -Willie pitched over its head into a bramble bush. By the time that he had -extricated himself—unharmed, but very much frightened, and bleeding from -a dozen scratches—the horse was standing five hundred yards away, -snorting and staring round in an excited manner. Willie, who was a determined -youth, set to work to catch it. - - - -Into the details of the pursuit we need not enter: suffice it to say that the -sun had set before he succeeded in his enterprise. Mount it again he could not, -for the saddle had twisted and one stirrup was lost; nor would he have done so -if he could. Therefore he determined to walk into Bradmouth, whither, after -many halts and adventures, he arrived about ten o’clock, leading the -unwilling animal by the rein. - - - -Now Willie, although exceedingly weary, and somewhat shaken, was a boy of his -word; so, still leading the horse, he proceeded straight to the residence of -Dr. Childs, and rang the bell. - - - -“I want the doctor, please, miss,” he said to the servant girl who -answered it. - - - -“My gracious! you look as if you did,” remarked that young lady, -surveying his bleeding countenance. - - - -“’Tain’t for myself, Silly!” he replied. “You ask -the doctor to step out, for I don’t trust this here horse to you or -anybody: he’s run away once, and I don’t want no more of that there -game.” - - - -The girl complied, laughing; and presently Dr. Childs, a middle-aged man with a -quiet manner, appeared, and asked what was the matter. - - - -“Please, sir, there’s a gentleman fallen off Ramborough Tower and -broken his leg; and Joan Haste she’s with him, and she’s all bloody -too—though I don’t know what she’s broken. I was to ask you -to go and fetch him with a shutter, and to take things along to tie him up -with.” - - - -“When did he fall, and what is his name, my boy?” asked the doctor. - - - -“I don’t know when he fell, sir; but I saw Joan Haste about six -o’clock time. Since then I’ve been getting here with this here -horse; and I wish that I’d stuck to my legs, for all the help he’s -been to me—the great idle brute! I’d rather wheel a barrow of -bricks nor pull him along behind me. Oh! the name? She said it was Captain -Graves of Rosham: that was what I was to tell her aunt.” - - - -“Captain Graves of Rosham!” said Dr. Childs to himself. “Why, -I heard Mr. Levinger say that he was coming to stay with him to-day!” - - - -Then he went into the house, and ten minutes later he was on his way to -Ramborough in a dog-cart, followed by some men with a stretcher. On reaching -the ruined abbey, the doctor stood up and looked round; but, although the moon -was bright, he could see no one. He called aloud, and presently heard a faint -voice answering him. Leaving the cart in charge of his groom, he followed the -direction of the sound till he came to the foot of the tower. Here, beneath the -shadow of the spiked tomb, clasping the senseless body of a man in her arms, he -found a woman—Joan Haste— whose white dress was smirched with -blood, and who, to all appearance, had but just awakened from a faint. Very -feebly—for she was quite exhausted—she explained what had happened; -and, without more words, the doctor set to work. - - - -“It’s a baddish fracture,” he said presently. “Lucky -that the poor fellow is insensible.” - - - -In a quarter of an hour he had done all that could be done there and in that -light, and by this time the men who were following with the stretcher, were -seen arriving in another cart. Very gently they lifted Henry, who was still -unconscious, on to the stretcher, and set out upon the long trudge back to -Bradmouth, Dr. Childs walking by their side. Meanwhile Joan was placed in the -dog-cart and driven forward by the coachman, to see that every possible -preparation was made at the Crown and Mitre, whither it was rapidly decided -that the injured man must be taken, for it was the only inn at Bradmouth, and -the doctor had no place for him in his own house. - - - -At length they arrived, and Henry, who by now was recovering consciousness, was -carried into Joan’s room, an ancient oak-panelled apartment on the ground -floor. Once this room served as the justice-chamber of the monks; for what was -now the Crown and Mitre had been their lock-up and place of assize, when, under -royal charter, they exercised legal rights over the inhabitants of Bradmouth. -There the doctor and his assistant, who had returned from visiting some case in -the country, began the work of setting Henry’s broken leg, aided by Mrs. -Gillingwater, Joan’s aunt, a hard-featured, stout and capable-looking -woman of middle age. At length the task was completed, and Henry was sent to -sleep under the influence of a powerful narcotic. - - - -“And now, sir,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, as Dr. Childs surveyed his -patient with a certain grave satisfaction, for he felt that he had done well by -a very difficult bit of surgery, “if you have a minute or two to spare, I -think that you might give Joan a look: she’s got a nasty hole in her -shoulder, and seems shaken and queer.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘They…set out upon the -long trudge back to Bradmouth.’ - - - - -Then she led the way across the passage to a little room that in the monastic -days had served as a cell, but now was dedicated to the use of Mr. Gillingwater -whenever his wife considered him too tipsy to be allowed to share the marital -chamber. - - - -Here Joan was lying on a truckle bed, in a half-fainting condition, while near -her, waving a lighted candle to and fro over her prostrate form, stood Mr. -Gillingwater, a long, thin-faced man, with a weak mouth, who evidently had -taken advantage of the general confusion to help himself to the gin bottle. - - - -“Poor dear! poor dear! ain’t it sad to see her dead?” he -said, in maudlin tones, dropping the hot grease from the candle upon the face -of the defenceless Joan; “and she, what she looks, a real lady. Oh! -ain’t it sad to see her dead?” And he wept aloud. - - - -“Get out, you drunken sot, will you!” exclaimed his wife, with -savage energy. “Do you want to set the place on fire?” And, -snatching the candle from Mr. Gillingwater’s hand, she pushed him through -the open door so vigorously that he fell in a heap in the passage. Then she -turned to Dr. Childs, and said, “I beg your pardon, sir; but -there’s only one way to deal with him when he’s on the drink.” - - - -The doctor smiled, and began to examine Joan’s shoulder. - - - -“It is nothing serious,” he said, when he had washed the wound, -“unless the rust from the spike should give some trouble in the healing. -Had it been lower down, it would have been another matter, for the lung might -have been pierced. As it is, with a little antiseptic ointment and a sleeping -draught, I think that your niece will be in a fair way to recovery by to-morrow -morning, if she has not caught cold on that damp grass.” - - - -“However did she come by this, sir?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater. - - - -“I understand that Captain Graves climbed the tower to get some young -jackdaws. He fell, and she tried to catch him in her arms, but of course was -knocked backwards.” - - - -“She always was a good plucked one, was Joan,” said Mrs. -Gillingwater, with a certain reluctant pride. “Well, if no harm comes of -it, she has brought us a bit of custom this time anyhow, and when we want it -bad enough. The Captain is likely to be laid up here some weeks, ain’t -he, sir?” - - - -“For a good many weeks, I fear, Mrs. Gillingwater, even if things go well -with him.” - - - -“Is he in any danger, then?” - - - -“There is always some danger to a middle-aged man in such a case: it is -possible that he may lose his leg, and that is a serious matter.” - - - -“Lord! and all to get _her_ young jackdaws. You have something to -answer for, miss, you have,” soliloquised Mrs. Gillingwater aloud; -adding, by way of explanation, as they reached the passage, “She’s -an unlucky girl, Joan is, for all her good looks,—always making trouble, -like her mother before her: I suppose it is in the blood.” - - - -Leaving his assistant in charge, Dr. Childs returned home, for he had another -case to visit that night. Next morning he wrote two notes—one to Sir -Reginald Graves and one to Mr. Levinger, both of whom were patients of his, -acquainting them with what had occurred in language as little alarming as -possible. Having despatched these letters by special messengers, he walked to -the Crown and Mitre. As he had anticipated, except for the pain of the wound in -her shoulder, Joan was almost herself again: she had not caught cold, the -puncture looked healthy, and already her vigorous young system was shaking off -the effects of her shock and distress of mind. Henry also seemed to be -progressing as favourably as could be expected; but it was deemed advisable to -keep him under the influence of opiates for the present. - - - -“I suppose that we had better send for a trained nurse,” said the -doctor. “If I telegraph to London, we could have one down by the -evening.” - - - -“If you do, sir, I am sure I don’t know where she’s to -sleep,” answered Mrs. Gillingwater; “there isn’t a hole or -corner here unless Joan turns out of the little back room, and then there is -nowhere for her to go. Can’t I manage for the present, sir, with Joan to -help? I’ve had a lot to do with sick folk of all sorts in my day, worse -luck, and some knack of dealing with them too, they tell me. Many and -many’s the eyes that I have shut for the last time. Then it isn’t -as though you was far off neither: you or Mr. Salter can always be in and out -if you are wanted.” - - - -“Well,” said the doctor, after reflecting, “we will let the -question stand over for the present, and see how the case goes on.” - - - -He knew Mrs. Gillingwater to be a capable and resourceful woman, and one who -did not easily tire, for he had had to do with her in numerous maternity cases, -where she acted the part of _sage-femme_ with an address that had won her -a local reputation. - - - -About twelve o’clock a message came to him to say that Lady Graves and -Mr. Levinger were at the inn, and would be glad to speak to him. He found them -in the little bar-parlour, and Emma Levinger with them, looking even paler than -her wont. - - - -“Oh! doctor, how is my poor son?” said Lady Graves, in a shaken -voice. “Mrs. Gillingwater says that I may not see him until I have asked -you. I was in bed this morning and not very well when your note came, but Ellen -had gone over to Upcott, and of course Sir Reginald could not drive so far, so -I got up and came at once.” And she paused, glancing at him anxiously. - - - -“I think that you would have done better to stop where you were, Lady -Graves, for you are not looking very grand,” answered Dr. Childs. -“I thought, of course, that your daughter would come. Well, it is a bad -double fracture, and, unluckily, Captain Graves was left exposed for some hours -after the accident; but at present he seems to be going on as well as possible. -That is all I can say.” - - - -“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Levinger. - - - -“Joan Haste can tell you better than I can,” the doctor answered. -“She is up, for I saw her standing in the passage. I will call her.” - - - -At the mention of Joan’s name Mr. Levinger’s face underwent a -singular contraction, that, quick as it was, did not escape the doctor’s -observant eye. Indeed, he made a deprecatory movement with his hand, as though -he were about to negative the idea of her being brought before them; then -hearing Lady Graves’s murmured “by all means,” he seemed to -change his mind suddenly and said nothing. Dr. Childs opened the door and -called Joan, and presently she stood before them. - - - -Her face was very pale, her under lip was a little cut, and her right hand -rested in a sling on the bosom of her simple brown dress; but her very pallor -and the anxiety in her dark eyes made her beauty the more remarkable, by -touching it with an added refinement. Joan bowed to Mr. Levinger, who -acknowledged her salute with a nod, and curtseyed to Lady Graves; then she -opened her lips to speak, when her eyes met those of Emma Levinger, and she -remained silent. - - - -The two women had seen each other before; in childhood they had even spoken -together, though rarely; but since they were grown up they had never come thus -face to face, and now it seemed that each of them found a curious fascination -in the other. It was of Emma Levinger, Joan remembered, that Captain Graves had -spoken on the previous night, when his mind began to wander after the accident; -and though she scarcely knew why, this gave her a fresh interest in -Joan’s eyes. Why had his thoughts flown to her so soon as his mental -balance was destroyed? she wondered. Was he in love with her, or engaged to be -married to her? It was possible, for she had heard that he was on his way to -stay at Monk’s Lodge, where they never saw any company. - - - -Joan had almost made up her mind, with considerable perspicuity, that there was -something of the sort in the air, when she remembered, with a sudden flush of -pleasure, that Captain Graves had spoken of herself also yonder in the -churchyard, and in singularly flattering terms, which seemed to negative the -idea that the fact of a person speaking of another person, when under the -influence of delirium, necessarily implied the existence of affection, or even -of intimacy, between them. Still, thought Joan, it would not be wonderful if he -did love Miss Levinger. Surely that sweet and spiritual face and those solemn -grey eyes were such as any man might love. - - - -But if Joan was impressed with Emma, Emma was equally impressed with Joan, for -in that instant of the meeting of their gaze, the thought came to her that she -had never before seen so physically perfect a specimen of womanhood. Although -Emma could theorise against the material, and describe beauty as an accident, -and therefore a thing to be despised, she was too honest not to confess to -herself her admiration for such an example of it as Joan afforded. This was the -girl whose bravery, so she was told, had saved Captain Graves from almost -certain death; and, looking at her, Emma felt a pang of envy as she compared -her health and shape with her own delicacy and slight proportions. Indeed, -there was something more than envy in her mind—something that, if it was -not jealousy, at least partook of it. Of late Emma’s thoughts had centred -themselves a great deal round Captain Graves, and she was envious of this -lovely village girl with whom, in some unknown way, he had become acquainted, -and whose good fortune it had been to be able to protect him from the worst -effects of his dreadful accident. - - - -At that moment a warning voice seemed to speak in Emma’s heart, telling -her that this woman would not readily let go the man whom fate had brought to -her, that she would cling to him indeed as closely as though he were her life. -It had nothing to do with her, at any rate as yet; still Emma grew terribly -afraid as the thought went home, afraid with a strange, impalpable fear she -knew not of what. At least she trembled, and her eyes swam, and she wished in -her heart that she had never seen Joan Haste, that they might live henceforth -at different ends of the world, that she might never see her again. - - - -All this flashed through the minds of the two girls in one short second; the -next Emma’s terror, for it may fitly be so called, had come and gone, and -Lady Graves was speaking. - - - -“Good day, Joan Haste,” she said kindly: “I understand that -you were with my son at the time of this shocking accident. Will you tell us -how it came about?” - - - -“Oh, my Lady,” answered Joan with agitation, “it was all my -fault—at least, in a way it was, though I am sure I never meant that he -should be so foolish as to try and climb the tower.” And in a simple -straightforward fashion she went on to relate what had occurred, saying as -little as possible, however, about her own share in the adventure. - - - -“Thank you,” said Lady Graves when Joan had finished. “You -seem to have behaved very bravely, and I fear that you are a good deal hurt. I -hope you will soon be well again. And now, Dr. Childs, do you think that I -might see Henry for a little?” - - - -“Well, perhaps for a minute or two, if you will keep as quiet as -possible,” he answered, and led the way to the sick room. - - - -By this time the effects of the sleeping draughts had passed off, and when his -mother entered Henry was wide awake and talking to Mrs. Gillingwater. He knew -her step at once, and addressed her in a cheery voice, trying to conceal the -pain which racked him. - - - -“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You find me in a queer -way, but better off than ever I expected to be again when I was hanging against -the face of that tower. It is very good of you to come to see me, and I hope -that the news of my mishap has not upset my father.” - - - -“My poor boy,” said Lady Graves, bending over him and kissing him, -“I am afraid that you must suffer a great deal of pain.” - - - -“Nothing to speak of,” he answered, “but I am pretty well -smashed up, and expect that I shall be on my back here for some weeks. Queer -old place, isn’t it? This good lady tells me that it is her niece’s -room. It’s a very jolly one anyhow. Just look at the oak panelling and -that old mantelpiece. By the way, I hope that Miss Joan—I think that she -said her name was Joan—is not much hurt. She is a brave girl, I can tell -you, mother. Had it not been that she caught me when I fell, I must have gone -face first on to that spiked tomb, and then——” - - - -“Had it not been for her you would never have climbed the tower,” -answered Lady Graves with a shudder. “I can’t think what induced -you to be so foolish, at your age, my dear boy.” - - - -“I think it was because she is so pretty, and I wanted to oblige -her,” he answered, with the candour of a mind excited by suffering. -“I say, I hope that somebody has written to the Levingers, or they will -be wondering what on earth has become of me.” - - - -“Yes, yes, dear; they are here, and everything has been explained to -them.” - - - -“Oh, indeed. Make them my excuses, will you? When I am a bit better I -should like to see them, but I don’t feel quite up to it just now.” - - - -Henry made this last remark in a weaker voice; and, taking the hint, Dr. Childs -touched Lady Graves on the shoulder and nodded towards the door. - - - -“Well, dear, I must be going,” said his mother; “but Ellen or -I will come over to-morrow to see how you are getting on. By the way, should -you like us to send for a trained nurse to look after you?” - - - -“Most certainly not,” Henry answered, with vigour; “I hate -the sight of hospital nurses—they always remind me of Haslar, where I was -laid up with jaundice. There are two doctors and this good lady taking care of -me here, and if that isn’t enough for me, nothing will be.” - - - -“Well, dear, we will see how you get on,” said his mother -doubtfully. Then she kissed him and went; but the doctor stopped behind, and -having taken his patient’s temperature, ordered him another sleeping -draught. - - - -So soon as Lady Graves had left the parlour, Joan followed her example, -murmuring with truth that she felt a little faint. - - - -“What a beautiful girl, father!” said Emma to Mr. Levinger. -“Who is she? Somebody said the other day that there was a mystery about -her.” - - - -“How on earth should I know?” he answered. “She is Mrs. -Gillingwater’s niece and I believe that her parents are dead; that is the -only mystery I ever heard.” - - - -“I think that there must be something odd, all the same,” said -Emma. “If you notice, her manners are quite different from those of most -village girls, and she speaks almost like a lady.” - - - -“Been educated above her station in life, I fancy,” her father -answered snappishly. “That is the way girls of this kind are ruined, and -taught to believe that nothing in their own surroundings is good enough for -them. Anyhow, she has led poor Graves into this mess, for which I shall not -forgive her in a hurry.” - - - -“At least she did her best to save him, and at great risk to -herself,” said Emma gently. “I don’t see what more she could -have done.” - - - -“That’s woman’s logic all over,” replied the father. -“First get a man who is worth two of you into some terrible scrape, -physical or otherwise, and then do your ‘best to save him,’ and -pose as a heroine. It would be kinder to leave him alone altogether in nine -cases out of ten, only then it is impossible to play the guardian angel, as -every woman loves to do. Just to gratify her whim—for that is the plain -English of it—this girl sends poor Graves up that tower; and because, -when he falls off it, she tries to throw her arms round him, everybody talks of -her wonderful courage. Bother her and her courage! The net result is that he -will never be the same man again.” - - - -Her father spoke with so much suppressed energy that Emma looked at him in -astonishment, for of late years, at any rate, he had been accustomed to act -calmly and to speak temperately. - - - -“Is Captain Graves’s case so serious?” she asked. - - - -“From what young Salter tells me I gather that it is about as bad as it -can be of its kind. He has fractured his leg in a very awkward place, there is -some haemorrhage, and he lay exposed for nearly five hours, and had to be -carried several miles.” - - - -“What will happen to him, then?” asked Emma in alarm. “I -thought that the worst of it was over.” - - - -“I can’t tell you. It depends on Providence and his constitution; -but what seems likely is that they will be forced to amputate his leg and make -him a hopeless cripple for life.” - - - -“Oh!” said Emma, catching her breath like one in pain; “I had -no idea that it was so bad. This is terrible.” And for a moment she leant -on the back of a chair to support herself. - - - -“Yes, it is black enough; but we cannot help by stopping here, so we may -as well drive home. I will send to inquire for him this evening.” - - - -So they went, and never had Emma a more unhappy drive. She was looking forward -so much to Captain Graves’s visit, and now he lay -wounded—dangerously ill. The thought wrung her heart, and she could -almost find it in her gentle breast to detest the girl who, however innocently, -had been the cause of all the trouble. - - - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -AZRAEL’S WING - - - - -For the next two days, notwithstanding the serious condition of his broken leg, -Henry seemed to go on well, till even his mother and Emma Levinger, both of -whom were kept accurately informed of his state, ceased to feel any particular -alarm about him. On the second day Mrs. Gillingwater, being called away to -attend to some other matter, sent for Joan who, although her arm was still in a -sling, had now almost recovered to watch in the sick room during her absence. -She came and took her seat by the bed, for at the time Henry was asleep. -Shortly afterwards he awoke and saw her. - - - -“Is that you, Miss Haste?” he said. “I did not know that you -cared for nursing.” - - - -“Yes, sir,” answered Joan. “My aunt was obliged to go out for -a little while, and, as you are doing so nicely, she said that she thought I -might be trusted to look after you till she came back.” - - - -“It is very kind of you, I am sure,” said Henry. “Sick rooms -are not pleasant places. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me some of that -horrid stuff—barley-water I think it is. I am thirsty.” - - - -Joan handed him the glass and supported his head while he drank. When he had -satisfied his thirst he said: - - - -“I have never thanked you yet for your bravery. I do thank you sincerely, -Miss Haste, for if I had fallen on to those spikes there would have been an end -of me. I saw them as I was hanging, and thought that my hour had come.” - - - -“And yet he told me to ‘stand clear‘!” reflected Joan; -but aloud she said: - - - -“Oh! pray, pray don’t thank me, sir. It is all my fault that you -have met with this dreadful accident, and it breaks my heart to think of -it.” And as she spoke a great tear ran down her beautiful face. - - - -“Come, please don’t cry: it upsets me; if the smash was -anybody’s fault, it was my own. I ought to have known better.” - - - -“I will try not, sir,” answered Joan, in a choking voice; -“but aunt said that you weren’t to talk, and you are talking a -great deal.” - - - -“All right,” he replied: “you stop crying and I’ll stop -talking.” - - - -As may be guessed after this beginning, from that hour till the end of his long -and dangerous illness, Joan was Henry’s most constant attendant. Her aunt -did the rougher work of the sick room, indeed, but for everything else he -depended upon her; clinging to her with a strange obstinacy that baffled all -attempts to replace her by a more highly trained nurse. On one occasion, when -an effort of the sort was made, the results upon the patient were so -unfavourable that, to her secret satisfaction, Joan was at once reinstalled. - - - -After some days Henry took a decided turn for the worse. His temperature rose -alarmingly, and he became delirious, with short coherent intervals. Blood -poisoning, which the doctors feared, declared itself, and in the upshot he fell -a victim to a dreadful fever that nearly cost him his life. At one time the -doctors were of opinion that his only chance lay in amputation of the fractured -limb; but in the end they gave up this idea, being convinced that, in his -present state, he would certainly die of the shock were they to attempt the -operation. - - - -Then followed three terrible days, while Henry lay between life and death. For -the greater part of those days Lady Graves and Ellen sat in the bar-parlour, -the former lost in stony silence, the latter pale and anxious enough, but still -calm and collected. Even now Ellen did not lose her head, and this was well, -for the others were almost distracted by anxiety and grief. Distrusting the -capacities of Joan, a young person whom she regarded with disfavour as being -the cause of her brother’s accident, it was Ellen who insisted upon the -introduction of the trained nurses, with consequences that have been described. -When the doctors hesitated as to the possibility of an operation, it was Ellen -also who gave her voice against it, and persuaded her mother to do the same. - - - -“I know nothing of surgery,” she said, with conviction, “and -it seems probable that poor Henry will die; but I feel sure that if you try to -cut off his leg he will certainly die.” - - - -“I think that you are right, Miss Graves,” said the eminent surgeon -who had been brought down in consultation, and with whom the final word lay. -“My opinion is that the only course to follow with your brother is to -leave him alone, in the hope that his constitution will pull him through.” - - - -So it came about that Henry escaped the knife. - - - -Emma Levinger and her father also haunted the inn, and it was during those dark -days that the state of the former’s affections became clear both to -herself and to every one about her. Before this she had never confessed even to -her own heart that she was attached to Henry Graves; but now, in the agony of -her suspense, this love of hers arose in strength, and she knew that, whether -he stayed or was called away, it must always be the nearest and most constant -companion of her life. Why she loved him Emma could not tell, nor even when she -began to do so; and indeed these things are difficult to define. But the fact -remained, hard, palpable, staring: a fact which she had no longer any care to -conceal or ignore, seeing that the conditions of the case caused her to set -aside those considerations of womanly reserve that doubtless would otherwise -have induced her to veil the secret of her heart for ever, or until -circumstances gave opportunity for its legitimate expression. - - - -At length on a certain afternoon there came a crisis to which there was but one -probable issue. The doctors and nurses were in Henry’s room doing their -best to ward off the fate that seemed to be approaching, whilst Lady Graves, -Mr. Levinger, Ellen and Emma sat in the parlour awaiting tidings, and striving -to hope against hope. An hour passed, and Emma could bear the uncertainty no -longer. Slipping out unobserved, she stole towards the sick room and listened -at a little distance from it. Within she could hear the voice of a man raving -in delirium, and the cautious tread of those who tended him. Presently the door -opened and Joan appeared, walking towards her with ashen face and shaking limbs. - - - -“How is he?” asked Emma in an intense whisper, catching at her -dress as she passed. - - - -Joan looked at her and shook her head: speak she could not. Emma watched her go -with vacant eyes, and a jealousy smote her, which made itself felt even through -the pain that tore her heart in two. Why should this woman be free to come and -go about the bedside of the man who was everything to her—to hold his -dying hand and to lift his dying head—while she was shut outside his -door? Emma wondered bitterly. Surely that should be her place, not the village -girl’s who had been the cause of all this sorrow. Then she turned, and, -creeping back to the parlour, she flung herself into a chair and covered her -face with her hands. - - - -“Have you heard anything?” asked Lady Graves. - - - -Emma made no reply but her despair broke from her in a low moaning that was -very sad to hear. - - - -“Do not grieve so, dear,” said Ellen kindly. - - - -“Let me grieve,” she answered, lifting her white face; “let -me grieve now and always. I know that Faith should give me comfort, but it -fails me. I have a right to grieve,” she went on passionately, “for -I love him. I do not care who knows it now: though I am nothing to him, I love -him, and if he dies it will break my heart.” - - - -So great was the tension of suspense that Emma’s announcement, startling -as it was, excited no surprise. Perhaps they all knew how things were with her; -at any rate Lady Graves answered only, “We all love him, dear,” and -for a time no more was said. - - - -Meanwhile, could she have seen into the little room behind her, Emma might have -witnessed the throes of a grief as deep as her own, and even more abandoned; -for there, face downwards on her bed, lay Joan Haste, the girl whom she had -envied. Sharp sobs shook her frame, notwithstanding that she had thrust her -handkerchief between her teeth to check them, and she clutched nervously at the -bedclothes with her outstretched hands. Hitherto she had been calm and silent; -now, at length, when she was of no more service, she broke down, and Nature -took its way with her. - - - -“My God!” she muttered between her strangling sobs, “spare -him and kill me, for it was my fault, and I am his murderess my God! my God! -What have I done that I should suffer so? What makes me suffer so? Oh! spare -him, spare him!” - - - -Another half-hour passed, and the twilight began to gather in the parlour. - - - -“It is very long,” murmured Lady Graves. - - - -“While they do not come to call us there is hope,” answered Ellen, -striving to keep up a show of courage. - - - -Once more there was silence, and the time went on and the darkness gathered. - - - -At length a step was heard approaching, and they knew it for that of Dr. -Childs. Instinctively they all rose, expecting the last dread summons. He was -among them now, but they could not see his face because of the shadows. - - - -“Is Lady Graves there?” he asked. - - - -“Yes,” whispered the poor woman. - - - -“Lady Graves, I have come to tell you that by the mercy of Heaven your -son’s constitution has triumphed, and, so far as my skill and knowledge -go, I believe that he will live.” - - - -For a second the silence continued; then, with a short sharp cry, Emma Levinger -went down upon the floor as suddenly as though she had been shot through the -heart. - - - -Joan also had heard Dr. Childs’s footstep, and, rising swiftly from her -bed, she followed him to the door of the parlour, where she stood listening to -his fateful words for her anxiety was so intense that the idea of intrusion did -not even cross her mind. - - - -Joan heard the words, and she believed that they were an answer to her prayer; -for her suffering had been too fierce and personal to admit of her dissociating -herself from the issue, at any rate at present. She forgot that she was not -concerned alone in this matter of the life or death of Henry Graves—she -who, although as yet she did not know it, was already wrapped with the wings -and lost in the shadow of a great and tragic passion. She had prayed, and she -had been answered. His life had been given back to _her._ - - - -Thus she thought for a moment; the next she heard Emma’s cry, and saw her -fall, and was undeceived. Now she was assured of what before she had suspected, -that this sweet and beautiful lady loved the man who lay yonder; and, in the -assurance of that love, she learned her own. It became clear to her in an -instant, as at night the sudden lightning makes clear the landscape to some -lost wanderer among mountains. As in the darkness such a wanderer may believe -that his feet are set upon a trodden road, and in that baleful glare discover -himself to be surrounded by dangers, amid desolate wastes; so at this sight -Joan understood whither her heart had strayed, and was affrighted, for truly -the place seemed perilous and from it there was no retreat. Before her lay many -a chasm and precipice, around her was darkness, and a blind mist blew upon her -face, a mist wet as though with tears. - - - -Somebody in the parlour called for a light, and the voice brought her back from -her vision, her hopeless vision of what was, had been, and might be. What had -chanced or could chance to her mattered little, she thought to herself, as she -turned to seek the lamp. He would live, and that was what she had desired, what -she had prayed for while as yet she did not know why she prayed it, offering -her own life in payment. She understood now that her prayer had been answered -more fully than she deemed; for she had given her life, her true life, for him -and to him, though he might never learn the price that had been exacted of her. -Well, he would live—to be happy with Miss Levinger—and though her -heart must die because of him, Joan could be glad of it even in those miserable -moments of revelation. - - - -She returned with the lamp, and assisted in loosening the collar of -Emma’s dress and in sprinkling her white face with water. Nobody took any -notice of her. Why should they, who were overcome by the first joy of hope -renewed, and moved with pity at the sight of the fainting girl? They even spoke -openly before her, ignoring her presence. - - - -“Do not be afraid,” said Dr. Childs: “I have never known -happiness to kill people. But she must have suffered a great deal from -suspense.” - - - -“I did not know that it had gone so far with her,” said her father -in a low voice to Lady Graves. “I believe that if the verdict had been -the other way it would have killed her also.” - - - -“She must be very fond of him,” answered Lady Graves; “and I -am thankful for it, for now I have seen how sweet she is. Well, if it pleases -God that Henry should recover, I hope that it will all come right in the end. -Indeed, he will be a strange man if it does not.” - - - -Just then Ellen, who was watching and listening, seemed to become aware of -Joan’s presence. - - - -“Thank you,” she said to her; “you can go now.” So Joan -went, humbly enough, suffering a sharper misery than she had dreamed that her -heart could hold, and yet vaguely happy through her wretchedness. “At -least,” she thought to herself, with a flash of defiant feeling, “I -am his nurse, and they can’t send me away from him yet, because he -won’t let them. It made him worse when they tried before. When he is well -again Miss Levinger will take him, but till then he is mine—mine. Oh! I -wish I had known that she was engaged to him from the beginning: no, it would -have made no difference. It may be wicked, but I should have loved him anyhow. -It is my doom that I should love him, and I would rather love him and be -wretched, than not love him and be happy. I suppose that it began when I first -saw him, though I did not understand it then—I only wondered why he -seemed so different to any other man that I had seen. Well, it is done now, and -there is no use crying over it, so I may as well laugh, if one can laugh with a -heart like a lump of ice.” - - - -Once out of danger, Henry’s progress towards recovery was sure, if slow. -Three weeks passed before he learned how near he had been to death. It was Joan -who told him, for as yet he had been allowed only the briefest of interviews -with his mother and Ellen, and on these occasions, by the doctor’s -orders, their past anxieties were not even alluded to. Now, however, all danger -was done with, and that afternoon Joan had been informed by Dr. Childs that she -might read to her patient if he wished it, or talk to him upon any subject in -which he seemed to take interest. - - - -It was a lovely July day, and Joan was seated sewing in Henry’s, or -rather in her own room, by the open window, through which floated the scent of -flowers and a murmuring sound of the sea. Henry had been dozing, and she laid -her work upon her knee and watched him while he slept. Presently she saw that -his eyes were open and that he was looking at her. - - - -“Do you want anything, sir?” she said, hastily resuming her sewing. -“Are you comfortable?” - - - -“Quite, thank you; and I want nothing except to go on looking at you. You -make a very pretty picture in that old window place, I assure you.” - - - -She coloured faintly and did not answer. Presently he spoke again. - - - -“Joan,” he said—he always called her Joan -now—“was I very bad at any time?” - - - -“Yes, sir; they almost gave you up three weeks ago—indeed, they -said the chances were ten to one against your living.” - - - -“It is strange: I remember nothing about it. Do you know, it gives me -rather a turn. I have been too busy a man and too occupied with life to think -much of death, and I don’t quite like the sensation of having been so -near to it; though perhaps it is not so bad as one thinks, and Heaven knows it -would have saved me plenty of worry here below,” and Henry sighed. - - - -“I am very grateful to you all,” he went on after a moment’s -pause, “for taking so much trouble about me— especially to you, -Joan, for somehow or other I realised your presence even when I was off my -head. I don’t know how you occupy yourself generally, but I am sure you -are fond of fresh air. It is uncommonly good of you to mew yourself up here -just to look after me.” - - - -“Don’t talk like that, sir. It is my business.” - - - -“Your business! Why is it your business? You are not a professional -nurse, are you?” - - - -“No, sir, though they offered to pay me to-day,” and she flushed -with indignation as she said it. - - - -“Well, don’t be angry if they did. Why shouldn’t you have a -week’s wage for a week’s work? I suppose you like to earn -something, like the rest of us.” - - - -“Because I don’t choose to,” answered Joan, tapping the floor -with her foot: “I’d rather starve. It is my fault that you got into -this trouble, and it is an insult to offer me money because I am helping to -nurse you out of it.” - - - -“Well, there is no need to excite yourself about it. I have no doubt they -thought that you would take a different view, and really I cannot see why you -should not. Tell me what happened on the night that they gave me up: it -interests me.” - - - -Then in a few graphic words Joan sketched the scene so vividly, that Henry -seemed to see himself lying unconscious on the bed, and sinking fast into death -while the doctors watched and whispered round him. - - - -“Were you there all the time?” he asked curiously. - - - -“Most of it, till I was of no further use and could bear no more.” - - - -“What did you do then?” - - - -“I went to my room.” - - - -“And what did you do there? Go to sleep?” - - - -“Go to sleep! I—I—cried my heart out. I mean— that I -said my prayers.” - - - -“It is very kind of you to take so much interest in me,” he -answered, in a half bantering voice; then, seeming to understand that she was -very much in earnest, he changed the subject, asking “And what did the -others do?” - - - -“They were all in the bar-parlour; they waited there till it grew dark, -and then they waited on in the dark, for they thought that presently they would -be called in to see you die. At last the change came, and Dr. Childs left you -to tell them when he was sure. I heard his step, and followed him. I had no -business to do it, but I could not help myself. He went into the room and stood -still, trying to make out who was in it, and you might have heard a pin drop. -Then he spoke to your mother, and said that through the mercy of Heaven he -believed that you would live.” - - - -“Yes,” said Henry; “and what did they say then?” - - - -“Nobody said anything, so far as I could hear; only Miss Levinger -screamed and dropped on the floor in a faint.” - - - -“Why did she do that?” asked Henry. “I suppose that they had -been keeping her there without any dinner, and her nerves were upset.” - - - -“Perhaps they were, sir,” said Joan sarcastically: “most -women’s nerves would be upset when they learned that the man they were -engaged to was coming back to them from the door of the dead.” - - - -“Possibly; but I don’t exactly see how the case applies.” - - - -Joan rose slowly, and the work upon which she had been employed fell from her -hand to the floor. - - - -“I do not quite understand you, sir,” she said. “Do you mean -to say that you are not engaged to Miss Levinger?” - - - -“Engaged to Miss Levinger! Certainly not. Whatever may happen to me if I -get out of this, at the present moment I am under no obligations of that sort -to any human creature.” - - - -“Then I am sorry that I said so much,” answered Joan. “Please -forget my silly talk: I have made a mistake. I—think that I hear my aunt -coming, and—if you will excuse me, I will go out and get a little -air.” - - - -“All this is Greek to me,” thought Henry, looking after her. -“Surely Ellen cannot have been right! Oh, it is stuff and nonsense, and I -will think no more about it.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -ELLEN GROWS ALARMED. - - - - -On the morrow Henry had his first long interview with his mother and Ellen, who -again detailed to him those particulars of his illness of which he had no -memory, speaking more especially of the events of the afternoon and evening -when he was supposed to be dying. To these Ellen added her version of the -incident of Emma’s fainting fit, which, although it was more ample, did -not differ materially from that given him by Joan. - - - -“I have heard about this,” said Henry, when she paused; “and -I am sorry that my illness should have pained Miss Levinger so much.” - - - -“You have heard about it? Who told you—Dr. Childs?” - - - -“No; Joan Haste, who is nursing me.” - - - -“Then I can only say that she had no business to do so. It is bad enough -that this young woman, to whom we certainly owe no gratitude, should have -thrust herself upon us at such a terrible moment; but it is worse that, after -acting the spy on poor Emma’s grief, she should have the hardihood to -come and tell you that she had done so, and to describe what passed.” - - - -“You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered; -“but I for one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste— indeed, -had it not been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful -to-day. Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some -interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but to hear -what the doctor had to say.” - - - -“A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said -Ellen drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her -daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation. - - - -A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs. -Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone. - - - -“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen -presently. “I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is -not good for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little -put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly, and -also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.” - - - -“I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I am -sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional -temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness threatening -the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a strain upon her -nerves.” - - - -“A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows. - - - -“Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so. -Really, Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly. - - - -“Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered. -“Either you are the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance -out of sheer contrariness.” - - - -“Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters, -Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church tower has -not improved my wits.” - - - -“Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told -you when you came home?” - - - -“You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or less -disagreeable.” - - - -“I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.” - - - -“Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.” - - - -“Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly in -love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.” - - - -“No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to -contradict, but I must decline to believe that.” - - - -“Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not -satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger, ask the -girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate confession -that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you believe -me?” she said. - - - -“It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I -think it quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her -excitement, and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen, -that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what slipped from -her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in a false position. -Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to tell you every foolish thing -which I may have uttered during my delirium, what would you think of them, I -wonder? Still, I dare say that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after -this I am sure I do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the -face. And now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or -some one?” - - - -Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not the -less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her _coup_ had not -come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of better. She had -calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched, that at least his -vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s dramatic exhibition of -feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or both of these conjectures might -be correct; but she was obliged to confess that he had given no sign by which -she could interpret his mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other -way, indeed, for he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of -confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved. In truth, -she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage as soon as -possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away, with the result, as -she now saw, of hindering her own object. - - - -Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character. She -believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter head she set -down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages that chanced to be -satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not enter into her estimate of -him to presume that he might possess a delicacy of feeling which was lacking in -her own nature; that the idea of being thrust into marriage with any woman in -order to relieve the pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to -the extent of causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to -become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the -premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the part of the -lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might produce a somewhat -similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration of the principles of human -nature would have taught her that this was likely to be the case. - - - -These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest themselves -to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them contemptuously in her search for -a more plausible explanation. Soon she found one which seemed to explain -everything: Joan was the explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes, -and she had noticed that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She -had marked, moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her -even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she knew how -often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness. - - - -Now, although she did not like Joan Haste, and resented as an impertinence, or -worse, her conduct in following Dr. Childs to the parlour and reporting what -took place there to Henry, Ellen could not deny that she was handsome, indeed -beautiful, or that her manners were refined beyond what was to be expected of -one in her station, and her bearing both gracious and dignified. Was it not -possible, Ellen reflected, that these charms had produced an effect even upon -her puritan brother, who already expressed his gratitude with such unnecessary -warmth? - - - -The thought filled her with alarm, for if once Henry became entangled with this -village beauty, she knew enough of him to be sure that there would be an end of -any prospect of his engagement to Emma—at least for the present. -Meanwhile the girl was about him all day and every day, and never had a woman a -better opportunity of carrying her nefarious schemes to a successful issue; for -that Joan had schemes she soon ceased to doubt. - - - -In this dilemma Ellen took counsel with her _fiancé,_ whom she knew -to possess a certain shrewdness; for she preferred to say nothing to her -mother, and Sir Reginald was so unwell that he could not be troubled with such -matters. By this time Edward Milward was aware that the Graves family desired -greatly to bring about a match between Henry and Emma, though he was not aware -how pressing were the money difficulties which led them to be anxious for this -alliance. He listened with interest to Ellen’s tale, then chuckled and -said,— - - - -“Depend upon it you have knocked the right nail on the head as usual, -Ellen. Those sanctimonious fellows like your brother are always the deepest, -and of course he is playing his little game.” - - - -“I don’t know what you mean by ‘his little game,’ -Edward, and I wish that you would not use such vulgar expressions to me; nor -can I see how Henry can be playing anything, considering that he never saw this -person till the day of his accident, and that he has been laid up in bed ever -since.” - - - -“Oh, well, he is getting ready to play it, which is much the same thing, -and of course it puts him off the other girl. I am sure I don’t blame him -either, for I think that Joan— what’s her name—is about the -loveliest woman I ever saw, and one can’t wonder that he prefers her to -that—thin ghost of a Miss Levinger with her die-away airs and graces. -After all flesh and blood is the thing, and you may depend upon it Henry thinks -so.” - - - -In this speech, had he but known it, Edward contrived to offend his betrothed -in at least three separate ways, but she thought it prudent to suppress her -resentment, at any rate for the moment. - - - -“Do you think, dear,” Ellen said blandly, “that you could -manage to remember that you are not in a club smoking-room? I did not ask for -these reflections; I asked you to give me your advice as to the best way to -deal with a difficulty.” - - - -“All right, love: please don’t look so superior; and save up your -sarcasm for the wicked Henry. As for my advice, here it is in a nutshell: get -the girl out of his way, and then perhaps he will begin to think of the other -one, to whom you are so anxious to tie him up, though I can’t say that I -consider the connection desirable myself.” - - - -Having delivered himself thus, Edward put his hands into his pockets and -strolled off in a huff. Although he was not thin-skinned, to tell the truth -Ellen’s slings and arrows sometimes irritated this young man. - - - -“I wonder if she will always go on like this after we are married?” -he thought to himself. “Perhaps she’ll get worse. What’s that -about a green and a dry tree? She’s dry enough anyway when she likes, and -sometimes I think that I am pretty green. By George! if I believed that she -always meant to keep up this game of snubs and sharp answers, fond as I am of -her, I think I would cut the show before it is too late. There are a good many -things that I don’t like about it; I sometimes suspect that the whole set -of them are pretty well broke, and I don’t want to marry into a bankrupt -family. Then that fellow Henry is an infernal prig, not but what I would be -careful to see precious little of him. I wonder why Ellen is so anxious that he -should take up with the Levinger girl? From all I can find out the father is a -disreputable old customer, who made a low marriage, and whom everybody declines -to know. It is shady, deuced shady,” and, filled with these gloomy -musings, Edward made his way into the dining-room to lunch. - - - -Here Ellen, who in the interval had bethought herself that she was showing a -little too much of the iron hand, received him graciously enough: indeed, she -was so affectionate and pleasant in her manner, that before the afternoon was -over Edward’s doubts were dispelled, and he forgot that he had that -morning contemplated a step so serious as the breaking off of his engagement. - - - -However coarsely he might express himself, Ellen had wit enough to see that -Edward’s advice was of the soundest. Certainly it was desirable that Joan -Haste should be got rid of, but how was this to be brought about? She could not -tell her to go, nor could she desire Mrs. Gillingwater to order her out of the -house. Ellen pondered the question deeply, and after sleeping a night over it -she came to the conclusion that she would take Mr. Levinger into her counsel. -She knew him to be a shrewd and resourceful man; she knew, moreover—for -her father had repeated the gist of the conversation between them—that he -was bent upon the marriage of Henry with his daughter; and lastly she knew that -he was the landlord of the Crown and Mitre, in which the Gillingwaters lived. -Surely, therefore, if anyone could get rid of Joan, Mr. Levinger would be able -to do so. - - - -As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in the -dog-cart to lunch at Monk’s Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre on her -way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of Henry. This programme -she carried out, only stopping long enough at the inn, however, to run to her -brother’s room for a minute while the cart waited at the door. Here she -discovered him propped up with pillows, while by his side was seated Joan, -engaged in reading, to him, and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for -poetry in the abstract Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale -of Paolo and Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found -reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very much in -sympathy. - - - -“Good morning, Henry,” said Ellen. “Good gracious, my dear! -what are you doing?” - - - -“Good morning, Ellen,” he answered. “I am enjoying myself -listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very -nicely indeed.” - - - -Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood -book in hand. - - - -“I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially -so early in the morning,” she said, glancing round, “when I see -that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only -came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the -Levingers. Have you any message for them?” - - - -“Nothing particular,” he said precisely, and with a slight -hardening of his face, “except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her -note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.” - - - -“Very well, then; I will go on, as I don’t want to keep the mare -standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.” And -she went without waiting for an answer. - - - -“I wished to ask her how my father was,” said Henry, “but she -never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, -Joan.” - - - -“No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don’t think that I will read any -more poetry.” - - - -“Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years -since I have seen a line of Lancelot and Elaine.” And he looked at her, -waiting for an answer. - - - -“Because,” blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, “because -Miss Graves doesn’t wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is -right, and it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say -that the room wasn’t dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it -yourself after aunt left.” - - - -“My dear girl, don’t distress yourself,” Henry answered, with -more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. “I really -am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who -should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite -unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise -on the _Times._” - - - -Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards -Monk’s Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour. - - - -Monk’s Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was -surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however, -stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a -hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an -uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which -were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of -firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly -gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not -allow of their growth. - - - -Descending from the dog-cart, Ellen was shown through the house into the -garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the -shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still. - - - -“How good of you to come, Ellen!” she said, springing -up,—“and so early too.” - - - -“I can’t take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my -dear,” Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; “it is pleasant -to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have -been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things, -my life at home is one long worry just now.” - - - -“It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,” said Emma -interrogatively. - - - -“Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one -day,” she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Edward -is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is -too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an -independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me -like a nurse with a child.” - - - -“Perhaps he will give up that when you are married,” said Emma -doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable -friend—for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she was -rather formidable— as the constant object and recipient of _petits -soins_ and sweet murmured nothings. - - - -“Possibly he will,” answered Ellen decisively. “By the way, I -just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the -note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards, -and to say that he was much touched by your thought of him.” - - - -“They were lilies, not roses,” answered Emma, looking down. - - - -“I meant lilies,—did I say roses?” said Ellen innocently. -“And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.” - - - -“I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried -lately.” - - - -“Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?” - - - -“Nobody. It is—my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt -worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.” - - - -Ellen shook her head. “I am not clever, like you,” she said, -smiling, “and I don’t understand parables. If you want my advice -you must come down to my level and speak plainly.” - - - -Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into the -golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel path, that was -bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as though to admire some -particular flower. - - - -“She looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of -hers,” thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; “and really -it would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot out -there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has something to say, -and will come back presently.” - - - -She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path, Emma -turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar tree. - - - -“I will speak plainly,” she said, “though I could not make up -my mind to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellen—so bitterly -ashamed that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be -seen again.” - - - -“And why, my dear?” asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. “What -dreadful crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?” - - - -“No crime, but a folly, which they say is worse,—an unpardonable -folly. You know what I mean,—those words that I said when your brother -was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them.” - - - -“Yes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more -than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my dearest wish -that things should come about between Henry and you as I am sure that they will -come about, now that I know your mind towards him.” - - - -“If they please you, the memory of them tortures me,” Emma -answered, passionately clenching her slim white hands. “Oh! how could I -be so shameless as to declare my— my love for a man who has never spoken -a single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter -indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it is I -cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense uttered in a moment -of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the dreadful truth, that broke -from me, and which I had no power to withhold. I do love him; I have loved him -from the day when I first saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love -him; and that is why I am disgraced.” - - - -“Really, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming -fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has -happened.” - - - -“No, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept it -secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could guide my life; but now -that I have blurted it, it is dishonoured, and I am dishonoured with it. That I -was myself half dead with the agony of suspense is no excuse: I say that I am -dishonoured.” - - - -To the listening Ellen all these sentiments, natural as they might be to a girl -of Emma’s exalted temperament and spotless purity of mind, were as -speeches made in the Hebrew tongue indeed, within herself she did not hesitate -to characterise her friend as “a high-flown little idiot.” But, as -she could not quite see what would be the best line to take in answering her, -she satisfied herself with shaking her head as though in dissent, and looking -sympathetic. - - - -“What torments me most,” went on Emma, who by now was thoroughly -worked up—“I can say it to you, for you are a woman and will -understand—is the thought that those shameless words might possibly come -to your brother’s ears. Three people heard them,—Lady Graves, -yourself and my father. Of course I know that neither you nor your mother would -betray me, for, as I say, you are women and will feel for me; but, oh! I cannot -be sure of my father. I know what he desires; and if he thought that he could -advance his object, I am not certain that I could trust him no, although he has -promised to be silent: though, indeed, to tell your brother would be the surest -way to defeat himself; for, did he learn the truth, such a man would despise me -for ever.” - - - -“My dear girl,” said Ellen boldly, for she felt that the situation -required courage, “do calm yourself. Of course no one would dream of -betraying to Henry what you insist upon calling an indiscretion, but what I -thought a very beautiful avowal made under touching circumstances.” Then -she paused, and added reflectively, “I only see one danger.” - - - -“What danger?” asked Emma. - - - -“Well, it has to do with that girl—Joan somebody— who brought -about all this trouble, and who is nursing Henry, very much against my wish. I -happen to have found out that she was listening at the door when Dr. Childs -came into the room that night, just before you fainted, and it is impossible to -say how long she had been there, and equally impossible to answer for her -discretion.” - - - -“Joan Haste—that lovely woman! Of course she heard, and of course -she will tell him. I was afraid of her the moment that I saw her, and now I -begin to see why, though I believe that this is only the beginning of the evils -which she will bring upon me. I am sure of it: I feel it in my heart.” - - - -“I think that you are alarming yourself quite unnecessarily, Emma. It is -possible that this girl may repeat anything that she chances to overhear, and -it is probable that she will do her best to strike up a flirtation with Henry, -if he is foolish enough to allow it; for persons of this kind always avail -themselves of such an opportunity—generally with a view to future -compensation. But Henry is a cautious individual, who has never been known to -commit himself in that fashion, and I don’t see why he should begin now -though I do think it would be a good thing if that young lady could be sent -about her business. At the worst, however, there would only be some temporary -entanglement, such as happens every day, and means nothing serious.” - - - -“Nothing serious? I am sure it would be serious enough if that girl had -to do with it: she is not a flirt—she looks too strong and earnest for -that kind of thing; and if once she made him fond of her, she would never let -him go.” - - - -“Perhaps,” answered Ellen; “but first of all she has to make -him fond of her, and I have reasons for knowing, even if she wishes to do this, -that she will find it a little difficult.” - - - -“What reasons?” asked Emma. - - - -“Only that a man like Henry does not generally fall in love with two -women at the same time,” Ellen answered drily. - - - -“Is he—is he already in love, then?” - - - -“Yes, dear; unless I am very much mistaken, he is already in -love—with you.” - - - -“I doubt it,” Emma answered, shaking her head. “But even if -it should be so, there will be an end of it if he hears of my behaviour on that -night. And he is sure to hear: I know that he will hear.” - - - -And, as though overcome by the bitterness of her position, Emma put her hands -before her eyes, then turned suddenly and walked into the house. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -ELLEN FINDS A REMEDY. - - - - -When Emma had gone Ellen settled herself comfortably in a garden chair, sighed, -and began to fan her face with a newspaper which lay at hand. Her mind was -agitated, for it had become obvious to her that the position was full of -complications, which at present her well-meant efforts had increased rather -than diminished. - - - -“I only hope that I may be forgiven for all the white lies I have been -forced to tell this morning,” she reflected. Ellen did not consider her -various embellishments of the truth as deserving of any harsher name, since it -seemed to her not too sensitive conscience, that if Jove laughs at -lovers’ perjuries, he must dismiss with a casual smile the prevarications -of those who wish to help other people to become lovers. - - - -Still Ellen felt aggrieved, foreseeing the possibility of being found out and -placed in awkward positions. Oh, what fools they were, and how angry she was -with both of them—with Emma for her school-girlish sentiment, and with -Henry for his idiotic pride and his headstrong obstinacy! Surely the man must -be mad to wish to fling away such a girl as Emma and her fortune, to say -nothing of the romantic devotion that she cherished for him, little as he -deserved it a devotion which Ellen imagined would have been flattering to the -self-conceit of any male. It was hard on her that she should be obliged to -struggle against such rank and wrong-headed stupidity, and even driven to -condescend to plots and falsehoods. After all, it was not for her own benefit -that she did this, or only remotely so, since she was well provided for; though -it was true that, should she become involved in an immediate financial scandal, -her matrimonial prospects might be affected. - - - -No, it was for the benefit of her family, the interests of which to do her -justice, Ellen had more at heart than any other earthly thing, her own welfare -of course excepted. Should this marriage fall through, ruin must overtake their -house, and their name would be lost, in all probability never to be heard -again. It seemed impossible to her that her brother should wish to reject the -salvation which was so freely proffered to him; and yet, maddening as the -thought might be, she could not deny that she saw signs of such a desire. Well, -she would not give up the game; tired as she was of it, she would fight to the -last ditch. Were she to draw back now, she felt that she should fail in her -most sacred duty. - - - -As Ellen came to this determination she saw Mr. Levinger walking towards her. -He was leaning on his stick, as usual, and looked particularly refined in his -summer suit and grey wide-awake hat. - - - -“How do you do, Miss Graves?” he said, in his gentle voice: -“I heard that you were here, but did not come out because I thought you -might wish to have a chat with Emma. Where has she gone?” - - - -“I don’t know,” Ellen answered, as they shook hands. - - - -“Well, I dare say that she will be back presently. How hot it is here! -Would you like to come and sit in my study till luncheon is ready?” And -he led the way to a French window that opened on to the lawn. - - - -Mr. Levinger’s study was a very comfortable room, and its walls were -lined with books almost to the ceiling. Books also lay about on the desk. -Evidently he had risen from reading one of them, and Ellen noticed with -surprise that it was Jeremy Taylor’s “Holy Living.” - - - -“How is your brother to-day?” he asked, when they were seated. - - - -Ellen reflected a moment, and determined to take advantage of the opportunity -to unbosom herself. - - - -“He is doing as well as possible, thank you. Still I am anxious about -him.” - - - -“Why? I thought that he was clear of all complications except the chance -of a limp like mine.” - - - -“I did not mean that I was anxious about his health, Mr. Levinger. I am -sure that you will forgive me if I am frank with you, so I will speak -out.” - - - -He bowed expectantly, and Ellen went on: - - - -“My father has told me, and indeed I know it from what you have said to -me at different times, that for various reasons you would be glad if Henry and -Emma—made a match of it.” - - - -Again Mr. Levinger bowed. - - - -“I need not say that our family would be equally glad; and that Emma -herself would be glad we learned from what she said the other day. There -remains therefore only one person who could object—Henry himself. As you -know, he is a curiously sensitive man, especially where money matters are -concerned, and I believe firmly that the fact of this marriage being so greatly -to his advantage, and to that of his family, is the one thing which makes him -hesitate, for I am sure, from the way in which he has spoken of her, that he is -much attracted by Emma. Had he come here to stay, however, I fancy that all -this would have passed off, and by now they might have been happily engaged, or -on the verge of it; but you see, this accident happened, and he is laid -up—unfortunately, not here.” - - - -“He will not be laid up for ever, Miss Graves. As you say, I am anxious -for this marriage, and I hope that it will come about in due course.” - - - -“No, he will not be laid up for ever; but what I fear is, that it may be -too long for Emma’s and his own welfare.” - - - -“You must pardon me, but I do not quite understand.” - - - -“Then you must pardon me if I speak to you without reserve. You may have -noticed that there is a singularly handsome girl at the Bradmouth inn. I mean -Joan Haste.” - - - -At the mention of this name Mr. Levinger rose suddenly from his chair and -walked to the end of the room, where he appeared to lose himself in the -contemplation of the morocco backs of an encyclopedia. Presently he turned, and -it struck Ellen that his face was strangely agitated, though at this distance -she could not be sure. - - - -“Yes, I know the girl,” he said in his usual voice—“the -one who brought about the accident. What of her?” - - - -“Only this: I fear that, unless something is done to prevent it, she may -bring about another and a greater accident. Listen, Mr. Levinger. I have no -facts to go on, or at least very few, but I have my eyes and my instinct. If I -am not mistaken, Joan Haste is in love with Henry, and doing her best to make -him in love with her—an effort in which, considering her opportunities, -her great personal advantages, and the fact that men generally do become fond -of their nurses, she is likely enough to succeed, for he is just the kind of -person to make a fool of himself in this way.” - - - -“What makes you think so?” asked Mr. Levinger, with evident anxiety. - - - -“A hundred things: when he was not himself he would scarcely allow her -out of his sight, and now it is much the same. But I go more by what I saw upon -her face during all that day of the crisis, and the way in which she looks at -him when she fancies that no one is observing her. Of course I may be wrong, -and a passing flirtation with a village beauty is not such a very serious -matter, or would not be in the case of most men; but, on the other hand, -perhaps I am right, and where an obstinate person like my brother Henry is -concerned, the consequences might prove fatal to all our hopes.” - - - -Mr. Levinger seemed to see the force of this contention, and indeed Ellen had -put the case very sensibly and clearly. At any rate he did not try to combat it. - - - -“What do you suggest?” he asked. “You are a woman of -experience and common sense, and I am sure that you have thought of a remedy -before speaking to me.” - - - -“My suggestion is, that Joan should be got out of the way as quickly as -possible; and I have consulted you, Mr. Levinger, because your interest in the -matter is as strong as my own, and you are the only person who can get rid of -her.” - - - -“Why do you say that?” he asked, rising for the second time. -“The girl is of age, and I cannot control her movements.” - - - -“Is she? I was not aware of her precise age,” answered Ellen; -“but I have noticed, Mr. Levinger, that you seem to have a great deal of -authority in all sorts of unsuspected places, and perhaps if you think it over -a little you may find that you have some here. For instance, I believe that you -own the Crown and Mitre, and I should fancy, from what I have seen of her, that -Mrs. Gillingwater, the aunt, is a kind of person who might be approached with -some success. There goes the bell for luncheon, and as I think I have said -everything that occurs to me, I will run up to Emma’s room and wash my -hands.” - - - -“The bell for luncheon,” mused Mr. Levinger, looking after her. -“Well, I have not often been more glad to hear it. That woman has an -alarming way of putting things; and I wonder how much she knows, or if she was -merely stabbing in the dark? Gone to wash her hands, has she? Yes, I see, and -left me to wash mine, if I can. Anyway, she is sharp as a needle, and she is -right. The man will have no chance with that girl if she chooses to lay siege -to him. Her mother before her was fascinating enough, and she was nothing -compared to Joan, either in looks or mind. She must be got rid of: but -how?” and he looked round as though searching for a clue, till his eye -fell upon the book that lay open before him. - - - -“’Holy Living’,” he said, shutting it impatiently: -“no more of that for me to-day, or for some time to come. I have other -things to think of now, things that I hoped I had done with. Well, there goes -the bell for luncheon, and I must go too, but without washing my hands,” -and he stared at his delicate fingers. “After all, they do not look so -very dirty; even Ellen Graves will scarcely notice them;” and laughing -bitterly at his own jest he left the room. - - - -That afternoon Mr. Levinger had a long conversation with Mrs. Gillingwater, -whom he sent for to see him after Ellen had gone. - - - -With the particulars of this interview we need not concern ourselves, but the -name of Samuel Rock was mentioned in it. - - - - -On the following morning it chanced that Mr. Samuel Rock received a letter from -Mr. Levinger referring to the erection of a cattle-shed upon some fifty acres -of grass land which he held as that gentleman’s tenant. This cattle-shed -Samuel had long desired; indeed, it is not too much to say that he had -clamoured for it, for he did not belong to that class of tenant which considers -the landlord’s pocket, or makes shift without improvements when they can -be had by importunity. Consequently, as was suggested in the letter, he -hastened to present himself at Monk’s Lodge on that very afternoon, -adorned in his shiniest black coat and his broadest-brimmed wide-awake. - - - -“The man looks more like a Methodist parson than ever,” thought Mr. -Levinger, as he watched his advent. “I wonder if she will have anything -to say to him? Well, I must try.” - - - -In due course Samuel Rock was shown in, and took the chair that was offered to -him, upon the very edge of which he seated himself in a gingerly fashion, his -broad hat resting on his knee. Mr. Rock’s manner towards his landlord was -neither defiant nor obsequious, but rather an unhappy combination of these two -styles. He did not touch his forehead according to the custom of the old-times -tenant, nor did he offer to shake hands. His greeting consisted of a jerky bow, -lacking alike dignity and politeness, a half-hearted salute which seemed to aim -at compromise between a certain respect for tradition and a proper sense of the -equality of all men in the sight of Heaven. - - - -“How do you do, Mr. Rock?” said Mr. Levinger cheerfully. “I -thought that I would ask you to have a chat with me on the matter of that -cowshed, about which you spoke at the audit last January—rather strongly, -if I remember.” - - - -“Yes, Mr. Levinger, sir,” answered Samuel, in a hesitating but -mellifluous voice. “I shall be very glad to speak about it. A shed is -needed on those marshes, sir, where we look to let the cattle lie out till late -in autumn, un-tempered to all the winds of heaven, which blow keen down there, -and also in the spring; and I hope you see your way to build one, Mr. Levinger, -else I fear that I shall have to give you notice and find others more -accommodating.” - - - -“Really! do you think so? Well, if you wish to do that, I am ready to -meet you half way and accept short service, so that you can clear out next -Michaelmas; for I don’t mind telling you that I know another party who -will be glad to take the land.” - - - -“Indeed, sir, I was not aware,” answered Samuel, running his -fingers through his straight hair uncomfortably—for the last thing that -he desired was to part with these particular marshes. “Not that I should -wish to stand between a landlord and a better offer in these times. Still, Mr. -Levinger, I don’t hold it right, as between man and man, to slip like -that behind a tenant’s back as has always paid his rent.” - - - -The conversation, which was a long one, need not be pursued further. Samuel was -of the opinion that Mr. Levinger should bear the entire cost of the shed, which -the latter declined to do. At length, however, an arrangement was effected that -proved mutually satisfactory; the “said landlord” agreeing to find -all material necessary, and to pay the skilled labour, and the “said -tenant” undertaking to dig the holes for the posts and to cut the reed -for thatch. - - - -“Ah, Mr. Rock,” said Levinger, as he signed a note of their -contract, “it is very well for you to pretend that you are hard up; but I -know well enough, notwithstanding the shocking times, that you are the warmest -man in these parts. You see you began well, with plenty of capital; and though -you rent some, you have been wise enough to keep your own land in hand, and not -trust it to the tender mercies of a tenant. That, combined with good farming, -careful living and hard work, is what has made you rich, when many others are -on the verge of ruin. You ought to be getting a wife, Mr. Rock, and starting a -family of your own, for if anything happened to you there is nowhere for the -property to go.” - - - -“We are in the Lord’s hands, sir, and man is but grass,” -answered Samuel sententiously, though it was clear from his face that he did -not altogether appreciate this allusion to his latter end. “Still, under -the mercy of Heaven, having my health, and always being careful to avoid -chills, I hope to see a good many younger men out yet. And as for getting -married, Mr. Levinger, I think it is the whole duty of man, or leastways half -of it, when he has earned enough to support a wife and additions which she may -bring with her. But the thing is to find the woman, sir, for it isn’t -every girl that a careful Christian would wish to wed.” - - - -“Quite so, Mr. Rock. Have a glass of port, won’t -you?”—and Mr. Levinger poured out some wine from a decanter which -stood on the table and pushed it towards him. Then, taking a little himself by -way of company, he added, “I should have thought that you could find a -suitable person about here.” - - - -“Your health, sir,” said Samuel, drinking off the port and setting -down the glass, which Mr. Levinger refilled. “I am not saying, -sir,” he added, “that such a girl cannot be found,—I am not -even saying that I have not found such a girl: that’s one thing, marrying -is another.” - - - -“Ah! indeed,” said Mr. Levinger. - - - -Again Samuel lifted his glass and drank half its contents. The wine was of the -nature that is known as “full-bodied,” and, not having eaten for -some hours, it began to take effect on him. Samuel grew expansive. - - - -“I wonder, sir,” he said, “if I might take a liberty? I -wonder if I might ask your advice? I should be grateful if you would give it to -me, for I know that you have the cleverest head of any gentleman in these -parts. Also, sir, you are no talker.” - - - -“I shall be delighted if I can be of any service to an old friend and -tenant like yourself,” answered Mr. Levinger airily. “What is the -difficulty?” - - - -Samuel finished the second glass of wine, and felt it go ever so little to his -head; for which he was not sorry, as it made him eloquent. - - - -“The difficulty is this, sir. Thank you—just a taste more. I -don’t drink wine myself, as a rule—it is too costly; but this is -real good stuff, and maketh glad the heart of man, as in the Bible. Well, sir, -here it is in a nutshell: I want to marry a girl; I am dead set on it; but she -won’t have me, or at least she puts me off.” - - - -“Why not try another, then?” - - - -“Because I don’t want no other, Mr. Levinger, sir,” he -answered, suddenly taking fire. The wine had done its work with him, and -moreover this was the one subject that had the power to break through the cold -cunning which was a characteristic of his nature. “I want this girl or -none, and I mean to have her if I wait half a lifetime for her.” - - - -“You are in earnest, at any rate, which is a good augury for your -success. And who may the lady be?” - - - -“Who may she be? Why, I thought you knew! There’s only one about -here that she could be. Joan Haste, of course.” - - - -“Joan Haste! Ah! Yes, she is a handsome and attractive girl.” - - - -“Handsome and attractive? Eh! she is all that. To me she is what the sun -is to the corn and the water to the fish. I can’t live without her. Look -here: I have watched her for years, ever since she was a child. I have summered -her and wintered her, as the saying is, thinking that I wouldn’t make no -mistake about her, whatever I might feel, nor give myself away in a hurry, -seeing that I wanted to keep what I earn for myself, and not to spend it on -others just because a pretty face chanced to take my fancy.” - - - -“Perhaps you have been a little too careful under the circumstances, Mr. -Rock.” - - - -“Maybe I have: anyway, it has come home to me now. A month or so back I -spoke out, because I couldn’t keep myself in no longer.” - - - -“To Joan Haste?” - - - -“Yes, to Joan Haste. Her aunt knew about it before, but she didn’t -seem able to help me much.” - - - -“And what did Joan say?” - - - -“She said that she did not love me, and that she never would love me nor -marry me; but she said also that she had no thought for any other man.” - - - -“Excuse me, Mr. Rock, but did this interview happen before Captain Graves -and Joan Haste met with their accident in Ramborough Abbey? I want to fix the -date, that’s all.” - - - -“It happened on that same afternoon, sir. The Captain must have come -along just after I left.” - - - -And Samuel paused, passing his white hands over each other uneasily, as though -he were washing them, for Mr. Levinger’s question seemed to suggest some -new and unpleasant idea to his mind. - - - -“Well?” - - - -“Well, there isn’t much more to say, sir, except that I think I was -a bit unlucky in the way I put it to her; for it slipped out of my mouth about -her father never having had a name, and that seemed to anger her.” - - - -“Perhaps it was not the best possible way to ingratiate yourself with the -young woman,” replied Mr. Levinger sweetly. “So you came to no -understanding with her?” - - - -“Well, I did and I didn’t. I found out that she is afraid for her -life of her aunt, who favours me; so I made a bargain with her that, if she -would let the matter stand open for six months, I’d promise to say -nothing to Mrs. Gillingwater.” - - - -“I see: you played upon the girl’s fears. Doubtful policy again, I -think.” - - - -“It was the best I could do, sir; for starving dogs must eat offal, as -the saying is. And now, Mr. Levinger, if you can help me, I shall be a grateful -man all my days. They do say down in Bradmouth that you know something about -Joan’s beginnings, and have charge of her in a way, and that is why I -made bold to speak to you; for I only promised to be mum to her aunt.” - - - -“Do they indeed, Mr. Rock? Truly in Bradmouth their tongues are long and -their ears open. And yet, as you are seeking to marry her, I do not mind -telling you that there is enough truth in this report to give it colour. As it -chances, I did know something of Joan’s father, though I am not at -liberty to mention his name. He was a gentleman, and has been dead many years; -but he left me, not by deed but in an informal manner, in a position of some -responsibility towards her, and entrusted me with a sum of money—small, -but sufficient to be employed for her benefit, at my entire discretion, which -was only hampered by one condition—namely, that she should not be -educated as a lady. Now, Mr. Rock, I have told you so much in order to make -matters clear; but I will add this to it: if you repeat a single word, either -to Joan herself or to anybody else, you need hope for no help from me in your -suit. You see I am perfectly frank with you. I ask no promises, but I appeal to -your interests.” - - - -“I understand, sir; but the mischief of it is, whether you wished or not, -that you have made a lady of her, and that is why she looks down on me; or -perhaps, being in her blood, it will out.” - - - -“It would be possible to suggest other reasons for her unwillingness to -accept your offer,” replied Mr. Levinger drily; “but this is -neither here nor there. On the whole I approve of your suit, provided that you -are ready to make proper settlements upon Joan, for I know you are a thriving -man, and I see that you are attached to her.” - - - -“I’ll do anything that I can, sir, for I have no mind to stint -money in this matter. But though you are so kind as to wish me well, I -don’t see how that sets me any forrarder with Joan.” - - - -“Perhaps you will in a few days’ time, though. And now I’ve -got a bit of advice to give you: don’t you bother about that six -months’ promise. You go at her again in a week, let us say. You know how -she is employed now, do you not?” - - - -“I have heard that she is helping to nurse the Captain.” - - - -“Quite so: she is helping to nurse the Captain. Now, please understand -that I make no imputations, but I don’t know if you consider this a -suitable occupation for a beautiful young woman whom you happen to wish to -marry. Captain Graves is a very fine fellow, and people sometimes grow intimate -under such circumstances. Joan told you that she cared for no man on the tenth -of June. Perhaps if you wait till the tenth of December she may not be able to -say so much.” - - - -By this time the poison of Mr. Levinger’s hints had sunk deep into his -hearer’s mind; though had he known Samuel’s character more -thoroughly, he might have thought the danger of distilling it greater than any -advantage that was to be gained thereby. Indeed, a minute later he regretted -having said so much, for, glancing at him, he saw that Rock was deeply -affected. His sallow face had become red, his quivering lips were livid, and he -was snatching at his thin beard. - - - -“Damn him!” he said, springing to his feet: “if he leads her -that way, fine fellow or not, I’ll do for him. I tell you that if he -wants to keep a whole skin, he had better leave my ewe-lamb alone.” - - - -In an instant Mr. Levinger saw that he had set fire to a jealousy fierce enough -to work endless mischief, and too late he tried to stamp out the flame. - - - -“Sit down, sir,” he said quietly, but in the tone of one who at -some time in his career had been accustomed to the command of men; “sit -down, and never dare to speak before me like that again. Now,” he added, -as Samuel obeyed him, “you will apologise to me for those words, and you -will dismiss all such thoughts from your mind. Otherwise I tell you that I take -back everything I have said, and that you shall never even speak to Joan Haste -again.” - - - -Samuel’s fit of passion had passed by now, or perhaps it had been -frightened away, for his face grew pale, paler than usual, and the constant -involuntary movement of his furtive hands was the only sign left of the storm -that shook him. - - - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a whining voice: “the -Lord knows I beg your pardon; and what’s more, I didn’t mean -nothing of what I said. It was jealousy that made me speak so, jealousy bitter -as the grave; and when I heard you talk of her getting fond of that -Captain—my Joan fond of another man, a gentleman too, who would be bound -to treat her as her mother was treated by some villain—it seemed as -though all the wickedness in the world bubbled up in my heart and spoke through -my mouth.” - - - -“There, that will do,” answered Mr. Levinger testily. “See -that you do not let such wickedness bubble again in your heart, or anywhere -else, that’s all; for at the first sign of it—and remember I shall -have my eye on you—there will be an end of your courtship. And now you -had better go. Take my advice and ask her again in a week or so; you can come -and tell me how you get on. Good-day.” - - - -Samuel picked up his broad hat, bowed, and departed, walking delicately, like -Agag, as though he expected at every moment to put his foot upon an egg. - - - -“Upon my word,” thought Mr. Levinger, “I’m half afraid -of that fellow! I wonder if it is safe to let the girl marry him. On the whole -I should think so; he has a great deal to recommend him, and this kind of thing -will pass off. She isn’t the woman to stand much of it. Anyway, it seems -necessary for everybody’s welfare, though somehow I doubt if good will -come of all this scheming.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -A MEETING BY THE MERE. - - - - -Mr. Levinger’s confidential interview with Mrs. Gillingwater was not long -in bearing fruit. Joan soon became aware that her aunt was watching her -closely, and most closely of all whenever she chanced to be in attendance on -Henry, with whom she was now left alone as little as possible. The effect of -this knowledge was to produce an intense irritation in her mind. Her conscience -was guilty, but Joan was not a woman to take warning from a guilty conscience. -Indeed, its sting only drove her faster along the downward road, much as a -high-mettled horse often rebels furiously under the punishment of the whip. -There was a vein of self-willed obstinacy and of -“devil-may-cared-ness” in Joan’s nature that, dormant -hitherto, at this crisis of her life began to assert itself with alarming -power. Come what might, she was determined to have her way and not to be -thwarted. There is this to be said in excuse for her, that now her whole being -was dominated by her passion for Henry. In the ordinary sense of the word it -was not love that possessed her, nor was it strictly what is understood by -passion, but rather, if it can be defined at all, some strange new force, some -absorbing influence that included both love and passion, and yet had mysterious -qualities of its own. Fortunately, with English women such infatuations are not -common, though they are to be found frequently enough among people of the Latin -race, where sometimes they result in blind tragedies that seem almost -inexplicable to our sober sense. But, whatever the cause, Joan had fallen a -victim to this fate, and now it mastered her, body and mind and soul. She had -never cared for any one before, and on Henry she let loose the pent-up -affections of a lifetime. No breath of passion had ever moved her, and now a -look from his eyes or a touch of his hand stirred all the fibres of her nature -as the wind stirs every leaf upon a tree. He was her darling, her desire. Till -she had learnt to love him she had not known the powers and the possibilities -of life, and if she could win his love she would even have been willing to pay -for it at the price of her own death. - - - -The approach of such an infatuation would have terrified most girls: they would -have crushed it, or put themselves beyond its reach before it took hold of -them. But then the majority of young English women, even of those who belong to -the humbler walks of life, do not stand by their own strength alone. Either -they have an inherited sense of the proprieties that amounts almost to an -instinct, or they possess strong religious principles, or there are those about -them who guide and restrain any dangerous tendency in their natures. At the -very least they are afraid of losing the respect and affection of their friends -and relatives, and of becoming a mark for the sneers and scandal of the world -in which they move. - - - -In Joan’s case these influences were for the most part lacking. From -childhood she had lived beneath the shadow of a shame that, in some degree, had -withered her moral sense; no father or mother gave her their tender guidance, -and of religion she had been taught so little that, though she conformed to its -outward ceremonies, it could not be said to have any real part in her life. -Relatives she had none except her harsh and coarse-minded aunt; her few friends -made at a middle-class school were now lost to her, for with the girls of her -own rank in the village she would not associate, and those of better standing -either did, or affected to look down upon her. In short, her character was -compounded of potentialities for good and evil; she was sweet and -strong-natured and faithful, but she had not learned that these qualities are -of little avail to bring about the happiness or moral well-being of her who -owns them, unless they are dominated by a sense of duty. Having such a sense, -the best of us are liable to error in this direction or in that; wanting it, we -must indeed be favoured if we escape disaster among the many temptations of -life. It was Joan’s misfortune rather than her fault, for she was the -victim of her circumstances and not of any innate depravity, that she lacked -this controlling power, and in this defenceless state found herself suddenly -exposed to the fiercest temptation that can assail a woman of her character and -gifts, the temptation to give way to a love which, if it did not end in empty -misery, could only bring shame upon herself and ceaseless trouble and remorse -to its object. - - - -Thus it came about that during these weeks Joan lived in a wild and fevered -dream, lived for the hour only, thinking little and caring less of what the -future might bring forth. Her purpose, so far as she can be said to have had -one, was to make Henry love her, and to the consummation of this end she -brought to bear all her beauty and every power of her mind. That success must -mean sorrow to her and to him did not affect her, though in her wildest moments -she never dreamed of Henry as her husband. She loved him to-day, and to-day he -was there for her to love: let the morrow look to itself, and the griefs that -it might bring. - - - -If such was Joan’s attitude towards Henry, it may be asked what was -Henry’s towards Joan. The girl attracted him strangely, after a fashion -in which he had never been attracted by a woman before. Her fresh and -ever-varying loveliness was a continual source of delight to him, as it must -have been to any man; but by degrees he became conscious that it was not her -beauty alone which moved him. Perhaps it was her tenderness—a tenderness -apparent in every word and gesture; or more probably it may have been the -atmosphere of love that surrounded her, of love directed towards himself, which -gradually conquered him mind and body, and broke down the barrier of his -self-control. Hitherto Henry had never cared for any woman, and if women had -cared for him he had not understood it. Now he was weak and he was worried, and -in his way he also was rebellious, and fighting against a marriage that men and -circumstances combined to thrust upon him. Under such conditions it was not -perhaps unnatural that he should shrink back from the strict path of interest, -and follow that of a spontaneous affection. Joan had taken his fancy from the -first moment that he saw her, she had won his gratitude by her bravery and her -gentle devotion, and she was a young and beautiful woman. Making some slight -allowance for the frailties of human nature, perhaps we need not seek for any -further explanation of his future conduct. - - - -For a week or more nothing of importance occurred between them. Indeed, they -were very seldom alone together, for whenever Joan’s duty took her to the -sick room Mrs. Gillingwater, whom Henry detested, made a point of being -present, or did she chance to be called away, his sister Ellen would be certain -to appear to take her place, accompanied at times by Edward Milward. - - - -At length, on a certain afternoon, Mrs. Gillingwater ordered Joan to go out -walking. Joan did not wish to go out, for the weather threatened rain, also for -her own reasons she preferred to remain where she was. But her aunt was -peremptory, and Joan started, setting her face towards Ramborough Abbey. Very -soon it came on to rain and she had no umbrella, but this accident did not -deter her. She had been sent out to walk, and walk she would. To tell the -truth, she was thinking little of the weather, for her mind was filled with -resentment against her aunt. It was unbearable that she should be interfered -with and ordered about like a child. There were a hundred things that she -wished to do in the house. Who would give Captain Graves his tea? And she was -sure that he would never remember about the medicine unless she was there to -remind him. - - - -As Joan proceeded on her walk along the edge of the cliff, she noticed the -figure of a man, standing about a quarter of a mile to her right on the crest -or hog’s back of land, beyond which lay the chain of melancholy meres, -and wondered vaguely what he could be doing there in such weather. At length it -occurred to her that it was time to return, for now she was near to Ramborough -Abbey. She was weary of the sight of the sea, that moaned sullenly beneath her, -half hidden by the curtain of the rain; so she struck across the ridge of land, -heedless of the wet saline grasses that swept against her skirt, purposing to -walk home by the little sheep-track which follows the edge of the meres in the -valley. As she was crossing the highest point of the ridge she saw the -man’s figure again. Suddenly it disappeared, and the thought struck her -that he might have been following her, keeping parallel to her path. For a -moment Joan hesitated, for the country just here was very lonely, especially in -such weather; but the next she dismissed her fears, being courageous by nature, -and passed on towards the first mere. Doubtless this person was a shepherd -looking for a lost sheep, or perhaps a gamekeeper. - - - -The aspect of the lakes was so dreary, and the path so sopping wet, that soon -Joan began to wish that she had remained upon the cliff. However, she trudged -on bravely, the rain beating in her face till her thin dress was soaked and -clung to her shape in a manner that was picturesque but uncomfortable. At the -head of the second mere the sheep-walk ran past some clumps of high reeds; and -as she approached them Joan, whose eye for natural objects was quick, observed -that something had disturbed the wild fowl which haunted the place, for a heron -and a mallard rose and circled high in the air, and a brace of curlew zigzagged -away against the wind, uttering plaintive cries that reached her for long after -they vanished into the mist. Now she had come to the first clump of reeds, when -she heard a stir behind them, and a man stepped forward and stood in the middle -of the path within three paces of her. - - - -The man was Samuel Rock, clad in a long cloak; and, recognising him, Joan -understood that she had been waylaid. She halted and said angrily—for her -first feeling was one of indignation: - - - -“What are you doing here, Mr. Rock?” - - - -“Walking, Miss Haste,” he answered nervously; “the same as -you.” - - - -“That is not true, Mr. Rock: you were hiding behind those reeds.” - - - -“I took shelter there against the rain.” - - - -“I see; you took shelter from the rain, and on the weather side of the -reeds,” she said contemptuously. “Well, do not let me keep you -standing in this wet.” And she attempted to pass him. - - - -“It is no use telling you lies,” he muttered sullenly: “I -came here to speak to you, where there ain’t none to disturb us.” -And as he spoke Samuel placed himself in such a position that it was impossible -for her to escape him without actually breaking into a run. - - - -“Why do you follow me,” she said in an indignant voice— -“after what you promised, too? Stand aside and let me go home.” - - - -Samuel made no move, but a curious light came into his blue eyes, a light that -was not pleasant to see. - - - -“I am thinking I’ve stood aside enough, Joan,” he answered, -“and I ain’t a-going to stand aside till all the mischief is done -and I am ruined. As for promises, they may go hang: I can’t keep no more -of them. So please, you’ll just stand for once, and listen to what I have -to say to you. If you are wet you can take my cloak. I don’t mind the -rain, and I seem to want some cooling.” - - - -“I’d rather drown than touch anything that belongs to you,” -she replied, for her hatred of the man mastered her courtesy and reason. -“Say what you’ve got to say and let me go on.” - - - -The remark was an unfortunate one, for it awoke in Samuel’s breast the -fury that accompanied and underlay his passion, that fury which had astonished -Mr. Levinger. - - - -“Would you, now!” he broke out, his lips turning white with rage. -“Well, if half I hear is true, there’s others whose things you -don’t mind touching.” - - - -“What do you mean, Mr. Rock?” - - - -“I mean that Captain whom you’re not ashamed to be hanging after -all day long. Oh, I know about you. I heard how you was found holding him in -your arms, the first day that you met him by the tower yonder, after -you’d been flirting with him like any street girl, till you brought him -to break his leg. Yes, holding him in those arms of yours—nothing -less.” - - - -“Oh! how dare you! How dare you!” she murmured, for no other words -would come to her. - - - -“Dare? I dare anything. You’ve worked me up to that, my beauty. Now -I dare ask you when you’ll let me make an honest woman of you, if it -isn’t too late.” - - - -By this time Joan was positively speechless, so great were the rage and -loathing with which this man and his words filled her. - - - -“Oh! Joan,” he went on, with a sudden change of tone, “do you -forgive me if I have said sharp things, for it’s you that drives me to -them with your cruelty; and I’m ready to forgive you all yours—ay! -I’d bear to hear them again, for you look so beautiful when you are like -that.” - - - -“Forgive you!” gasped Joan. - - - -But he did not seem to hear. “Let’s have done with this cat-and-dog -quarrelling,” he went on; “let’s make it up and get married, -the sooner the better—to-morrow if you like. You will never regret it; -you’ll be happier then than with that Captain who loves Miss Levinger, -not you; and I, I shall be happy too—happy, happy!” And he flung -his arms wide, in a kind of ecstasy. - - - -Of all this speech only one sentence seemed to reach Joan’s -understanding, at any rate at the time: “who loves Miss Levinger, not -you.” Oh! was it true? Did Captain Graves really love Miss Levinger as -she knew that Emma loved him? The man spoke certainly, as though he had -knowledge. Even in the midst of her unspeakable anger, the thought pierced her -like a spear and caused her face to soften and her eyes to grow troubled. - - - -Samuel saw these signs, and misinterpreted them, thinking that her resentment -was yielding beneath his entreaties. For a moment he stood searching his mind -for more words, but unable to find them; then suddenly he sought to clinch the -matter in another fashion, for, following the promptings of an instinct that -was natural enough under the circumstances, however ill-advised it might be, -suddenly he caught Joan in his long arms, and drawing her to him, kissed her -twice passionately upon the face. At first Joan scarcely seemed to understand -what had happened—indeed, it was not until Samuel, encouraged by his -success, was about to renew his embraces, that she awoke to the situation. Then -her action was prompt enough. She was a strong woman, and the emergency doubled -her strength. With a quick twisting movement of her form and a push of her -hands, she shook off Samuel so effectively, that in staggering back his foot -slipped in the greasy soil and he fell upon his side, clutching in his hand a -broad fragment from the bosom of Joan’s dress, at which he had caught to -save himself. - - - -“Now,” she said, as Samuel rose slowly from the mire, “listen -to me. You have had your say, and I will have mine. First understand this: if -ever you try to kiss me again it will be the worse for you; for your own sake I -advise you not, for I think that I should kill you if I could. I hate you, -Samuel Rock, for you have lied to me, and you have insulted me in a way that no -woman can forgive. I will never marry you I had rather beg my bread; so if you -are wise, you will forget all about me, or at the least keep out of my -way.” - - - -Samuel faced the beautiful woman, who, notwithstanding her torn and draggled -dress, looked royal in her scorn and anger. He was very white, but his passion -seemed to have left him, and he spoke in a quiet voice. - - - -“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “I’m not going to try -and kiss you again. I have kissed you twice; that is enough for me at present. -And what’s more, though you may rub your face, you can’t rub it out -of your mind. But you are wrong when you say that you won’t marry me, -because you will. I know it. And the first time I kiss you after we are -married, I will remind you of this, Joan Haste. I am not going to ask you to -have me again. I shall wait till you ask me to take you, and then I shall be -revenged upon you. That day will come, the day of your shame and need, the day -of my reward, when, as I have lain in the dirt before you, you will lie in the -dirt before me. That is all I have to say. Good-bye.” And he walked past -her, vanishing behind the reeds. - - - -Now it was for the first time that Joan felt afraid. The insult and danger had -gone by, yet she was frightened, horribly frightened; for though the thing -seemed impossible, it was borne in upon her mind that Samuel Rock’s -presentiment was true, and that an hour might come when, in some sense, she -would lie in the mire before him and seek a refuge as his wife. She could not -conceive any circumstances in which a thing so horrible might happen, for -however sore her necessity, though she shrank from death, it seemed to her that -it would be better to die rather than to suffer such a fate. Yet so deeply did -this terror shake her, that she turned and looked upon the black waters of the -mere, wondering if it would not be better to give it the lie once and for all. -Then she thought of Henry, and her mood changed, for her mind and body were too -healthy to allow her to submit herself indefinitely to such forebodings. Like -many women, Joan was an opportunist, and lived very much in the day and for it. -These things might be true, but at least they were not yet; if she was destined -to be the wife of Samuel Rock in the future, she was her own mistress in the -present, and the shadow of sorrow and bonds to come, so she argued, suggested -the strongest possible reasons for rejoicing in the light and liberty of the -fleeting hour. If she was doomed to an earthly hell, if her hands must be torn -by thorns and her eyes grow blind with tears, at least she was minded to be -able to remember that once she had walked in Paradise, gathering flowers there, -and beholding her heart’s desire. - - - -Thus she reasoned in her folly, as she tramped homewards through the rain, -heedless of the fact that no logic could be more fatal, and none more pleasing -to that tempter who as of old lurks in paradises such as her fancy painted. - - - -When she reached home Joan found her aunt awaiting her in the bar parlour. - - - -“Who has been keeping you all this time in the wet, Joan?” she -asked in a half expectant voice. - - - -Joan lit a candle before she answered, for the place was gloomy. - - - -“Do you wish to know?” she said: “then I will tell you. Your -friend, Mr. Samuel Rock, whom you set after me.” - - - -“My friend? And what if he is my friend? I’d be glad if I had a few -more such.” By this time the light had burnt up, and Mrs. Gillingwater -saw the condition of her niece’s attire. “Good gracious! girl, what -have you been doing?” she asked. “Ain’t you ashamed to walk -about half stripped like that?” - - - -“People must do what they can’t help, aunt. That’s the work -of the friend you are so proud of. I may as well tell you at once, for if I -don’t, he will. He came making love to me again, as he has before, and -finished up by kissing me, the coward, and when I threw him off he tore my -dress.” - - - -“And why couldn’t you let him kiss you quietly, you silly -girl?” asked her aunt with indignation. “Now I dare say that you -have offended him so that he won’t come forward again, to say nothing of -spoiling your new dress. It ain’t a crime for a man to kiss the girl he -wants to marry, is it?” - - - -“Why? Because I would rather kiss a rat that’s all. I hate the very -sight of him; and as for coming forward again, I only hope that he won’t, -for my sake and for his too.” - - - -Now Mrs. Gillingwater arose in her wrath; her coarse face became red and her -voice grew shrill. - - - -“You good-for-nothing baggage!” she said; “so that is your -game, is it? To go turning up your nose and chucking your impudence in the face -of a man like Mr. Rock, who is worth twenty of you, and does you honour by -wishing to make a wife of you, you that haven’t a decent name to your -back, and he rich enough to marry a lady if he liked, or half a dozen of them -for the matter of that. Well, I tell you that you shall have him, or I will -know the reason why—ay, and so will others too.” - - - -“I can’t be violent, like you, aunt,” answered Joan, who -began to feel as though this second scene would be too much for her; “it -isn’t in my nature, and I hate it. But whether I have a name or -not—and it is no fault of mine if I have none, though folk don’t -seem inclined to let me forget it—I say that I will not marry Samuel -Rock. I am a woman full grown and of age; and I know this, that there is no law -in the land which can force me to take a husband whom I don’t want. And -so perhaps, as we have got to live together, you’ll stop talking about -him.” - - - -“Stop talking about him? Never for one hour, till I see you signing your -name in the book with him, miss. And as for living together, it won’t be -long that we shall do that, unless you drop these tantrums and become sensible. -Else you may just tramp it for your living, or go and slave as a housemaid if -any one will take you, which I doubt they won’t without a character, for -nobody here will say a good word for you, you wilful, stuck-up thing, for all -your fine looks that you are so proud of, and that’ll be the ruin of you -yet if you’re not careful, as they were of your mother before you.” - - - -Joan sank into a chair and made no answer. The woman’s violence beat her -down and was hateful to her. Almost rather would she have faced Samuel Rock, -for with him her sex gave her a certain advantage. - - - -“I know what you are after,” went on Mrs. Gillingwater, with -gathering vehemence. “Do you suppose that I have not seen through you all -these weeks, though you are so cunning? You are making up to him, you are; not -that I have a word to say against him, for he is a nice gentleman enough, only, -like the rest of them, so soft that he’ll let a pretty face fool him for -all his seafaring in foreign parts. Well, look here, Joan: I’ll speak to -you plain and plump. We never were mother and daughter, so it is no use -pretending what we don’t feel, and I won’t put up with that from -you which I might perhaps from my own child, if I had one. You’ve given -me lots of truck with your contrary ways, ever since you were a little one, and -I’m not minded to stand much more of it, for the profit don’t run -to the worry. What I want you to understand is, that I am set on your pulling -it off with Samuel Rock like a broody hen on a nest egg, and I mean to see that -chick hatch out; never you mind for why—that’s my affair. If you -can’t see your way to that, then off you go, and pretty sharp too. There, -I have said my say, and you can think it over. Now you had best change your -clothes and go and look after the Captain, for I have got business abroad -to-night. If you don’t mend your manners, it will be for the last time, I -can tell you.” - - - -Joan rose and obeyed without a word. - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater watched her pass, and fell into a reflective mood. - - - -“She is a beauty and no mistake,” she thought to herself; “I -never saw such another in all my born days. Her mother was well enough, but she -wasn’t in it with Joan; and what’s more, I like her pride. Why -should she take that canting chap if she don’t want to? I’m paid to -back him, and a day’s work for a day’s wage, that’s my motto. -But I’d rather see her marry the Captain, and sit in the church a lady, -with a fur round her neck and a carriage waiting outside, than snuffle in a -chapel praising the Lord with a pack of oily-faced children. If she had the go -of a heifer calf, she would marry him though; he is bound to be a baronet, and -it would make a ladyship of her, which with a little teaching is just what she -is fit to be; for if he ain’t almost as sweet on her and small wonder -after all that nursing as she is on him, I was born in the Flegg Hundred, -that’s all. But go is just what Joan ain’t got, not when she can -make anything for herself out of it anyway; she’d do what you like for -love, but she wouldn’t turn her finger round a teacup to crown herself a -queen. Well, there is no helping them as won’t help themselves, so I am -all for Samuel Rock and a hundred pounds in my pocket, especially as I dare say -that I can screw another hundred out of him if I square Joan, to say nothing of -a trifle from the Captain over and above the board for holding my tongue. I -suppose he will marry old Levinger’s girl, the Captain will; a pale, -puling-faced thing she is, and full of soft words as a boiled potato with -flour, but she’s got plenty of that as will make her look rosy to any -landlord in these times. Still, hang me, if I was a man, if I wouldn’t -rather take Joan and those brown eyes of hers, and snap my fingers at the -world, the flesh, and the devil.” - - - -Who or what Mrs. Gillingwater meant by “the world, the flesh, and the -devil” is not quite evident, but certainly they symbolised persons or -conveyed some image to her mind in this connection, for, suiting the action to -the word, she snapped her fingers thrice at the empty air, and then sought her -bonnet prior to some private expedition in pursuance of pleasure, or more -probably of profit. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -SOWING THE WIND. - - - - -Joan went to her room and took off her wet things, for she was soaked to the -skin, clothing herself anew in her Sunday dress a soft grey garment, with -little frills about the neck and wrists. Then she brushed her waving brown -hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the back of her head; and, though she -did not think of it, no style could have been more becoming to her. Her toilet -completed, a few minutes after her aunt had left the house, she went to the -parlour to get herself some tea, of which she drank two or three cups, for she -felt unusually thirsty, but she could scarcely swallow a mouthful. The food -seemed to choke her, and when she attempted to eat the effort brought on a -feeling of dizziness and a tingling sensation in her limbs. - - - -“I wonder what is the matter with me?” she said to herself. -“I feel as though my veins were on fire. I suppose that these scenes have -upset me; or perhaps that tea was too strong. Well, I must go and look after -Captain Graves. Aunt won’t be back till twelve o’clock or so, and -it’s my last night, so I had better make the most of it. I dare say that -they will turn me out of the house to-morrow.” And, with a bitter little -laugh, she took up the candle preparatory to going to Henry’s room. - - - -Near the door Joan paused, and, whether by chance or by design, turned to look -at herself in an oak-framed mirror that hung upon the wall, whither doubtless -it had been brought from some old house in the neighbourhood, for it was costly -and massive in make. Her first glance was cursory, then she held up the candle -and began to examine herself more attentively, since, perhaps for the first -time in her life, her appearance fascinated her, and she became fully aware of -her own loveliness. Indeed, in that moment she was lovely as lovely as we may -imagine the ancient Helen to have been, or any of those women who have set the -world aflame. Her brown eyes were filled with a strange light beneath their -curving lashes and the clear-cut heavy lids; her sweet mouth drooped a little, -like that of a sleeping child, showing the ivory of her teeth between the -parted lips; her cheeks glowed like the bloom on a peach; and above, the masses -of her gold-brown hair shone faintly in the candlelight. Perhaps it was that -the grey dress set it off more perfectly than usual at least it seemed to Joan, -considering herself critically, that her form was worthy of the face above it; -and, in truth, it would have been hard to find a woman cast in a more perfect -mould. Tall, and somewhat slender for her height, her every movement was full -of grace, and revealed some delicacy of limb or neck or carriage. - - - -Seeing herself thus, a new light broke upon Joan’s mind, and she -understood how it came about that Samuel Rock worshipped her so madly. Well, if -mere beauty could move one man thus, why should not beauty and tenderness and -love—ah! love that could not be measured—suffice to move another? -She smiled at the thought—a slow, sweet smile; and with the smile a sense -of her own power entered into her, a power that she had never learned until -this moment. - - - -Except for the occasional visits of Mrs. Gillingwater, bringing him his tea or -dinner, Henry had been alone that day since one o’clock. Nearly nine -weeks had passed from the date of his accident, and although he did not dare as -yet to set his injured limb to the ground, in all other respects he was -perfectly well, but thinner in the face, which was blanched by confinement and -adorned with a short chestnut-coloured beard. So well was he, indeed, that he -had been allowed to leave his bed and to take exercise on crutches in the room, -though the doctor considered that it would not be wise for him to risk the -shaking of a journey home, or even to venture out at present. In this view -Henry had acquiesced, although his sister Ellen pooh-poohed it, saying that she -was certain that he could be brought back safely. The truth was that at the -time he had no yearning for the society of his family, or indeed for any other -society than that in which he found himself. He was glad to be away from Rosham -and the carking care that brooded on the place; he was glad to escape from -Ellen and the obnoxious Edward. - - - -Nor did he wish to visit Mr. Levinger at present, for he knew that then he -would be expected to propose to his daughter, which for many reasons he did not -desire to do. Although she had exaggerated its effects—for, in fact, the -matter had almost slipped from his memory—Emma, poor girl, had been right -to some extent in her forebodings as to the results of her passionate outburst -upon Henry’s mind, should he ever hear the story of it. Not that he -thought the worse of her: no man thinks the worse of a woman because she either -is, or pretends to be, in love with him; but the incident irritated him in that -it gave a new twist to a tangled skein. How could he remain on terms of -ordinary friendship with a girl who had made such an avowal? It seemed to him -difficult, if not impossible. Surely he must either place himself in regard to -her upon the footing which she appeared to desire, or he must adopt the easier -alternative and keep away from her altogether. - - - -No, he wanted none of their company, and he was glad that it was still unsafe -for him to travel, though he longed for the fresh air. But that he did wish for -some company became evident to him this afternoon, although he had received -with a certain amount of resignation a note in which Ellen informed him that -their father seemed so fidgety and unwell that she could not drive over to -Bradmouth that day. He could no longer disguise the truth from himself, it was -the society of Joan that he desired; and of Joan he had seen less and less -during the last fortnight. Neither she nor anybody else had said anything to -that effect, but he was convinced that she was being kept out of his way. Why -should she be kept out of his way? A guilty conscience gave him the answer -readily enough: because it was not desirable that they should remain upon terms -of such intimacy. Alas! it was so. He had fought against the fact, ridiculing -and denying it up to this very hour, but now that fact had become too strong -for him, and as he sat a prey to loneliness and uncomfortable thoughts, he was -fain to acknowledge before the tribunal of his own heart that, if he was not in -love with Joan, he did not know what was the matter with him. At the least it -had come to this: her presence seemed necessary to him, and the prospective -pain of parting from her absolutely intolerable. - - - -It is not too much to say that this revelation of his sad plight dismayed -Henry. For a moment, indeed, his faculties and judgment were paralysed. To -begin with, for him it was a new experience, and therefore the more dangerous -and crushing. If this were not a mere momentary madness, and if the girl cared -for him as it would appear that he cared for her, what could be the issue? He -had no great regard for the prejudice and conventions of caste, but, -circumstanced as he was, it seemed absolutely impossible that he should marry -her. Had he been independent, provided always that she did care for him, he -would have done it gladly enough. But he was not independent, and such an act -would mean the utter ruin of his family. More, indeed: if he could bring -himself to sacrifice _them,_ he had now no profession and no income. And -how would a man hampered and dragged down by a glaring -_mésalliance_ be able to find fresh employment by means of which he -could support a wife? - - - -No, there was an end of it. The thing could not possibly be done. What, then, -was the alternative? Clearly one only. To go, and at once. Some men so placed -might have found a third solution, but Henry did not belong to this class. His -character and sense of right rebelled against any such notion, and the habits -of self-restraint in which he had trained himself for years afforded what he -believed to be an impregnable rampart, however frail might be the citadel -within. - - - -So thought Henry, who as yet had never matched himself in earnest in such a -war. There he sat, strong in his rectitude and consciousness of virtue, however -much his heart might ache, making mental preparations for his departure on the -morrow, till at last he grew tired of them, and found himself wishing that Joan -would come to help him to get ready. - - - -He was lying with his back to the door on a sofa placed between the bed and the -wide hearth, upon which a small fire had been lighted, for the night was damp -and chilly; and just as this last vagrant wish flitted through his mind, a -sound attracted his attention, and he turned to discover that it had been -realized as swiftly as though he were the owner of Aladdin’s lamp. For -there, the candle still in her hand, stood Joan, looking at him from the -farther side of the hearth. - - - -It has been said that she was struck by her own appearance as she passed -towards his room; and that the change she saw in herself cannot have been -altogether fancy is evident from the exclamation which burst from Henry as his -eyes fell upon her, an exclamation so involuntary that he scarcely knew what he -was saying until the words had passed his lips: - - - -“Great Heaven! Joan, how lovely you are to-night! What have you been -doing to yourself?” - - - -Next second he could have bitten out his tongue: he had hardly ever paid her a -compliment before, and this was the moment that he had chosen to begin! His -only excuse was that he could not help himself; the sudden effect of her -beauty, which was so strangely transfigured, had drawn the words from him as -the sun draws mist. - - - -“Am I?” she asked dreamily; “I am glad if it pleases -you.” - - - -Here was a strange beginning to his pending announcement of departure, thought -Henry. Clearly, he must recover the situation before he made it. - - - -“Where have you been all this afternoon?” he asked in an -indifferent voice. - - - -“I have been out walking.” - - - -“What, alone, and in the rain?” - - - -“I did not say that I was alone.” - - - -“Whom were you with, then? It can’t have been your aunt.” - - - -“I was with Mr. Samuel Rock: I mean that he met me.” - - - -“What, that farmer who Mrs. Gillingwater told me admires you so -much?” - - - -“Yes. And what else did she tell you?” - - - -“Well, I think she said she hoped that he would propose to you; but I -didn’t pay much attention, it seemed too odd.” - - - -“Well, however odd it may be, that is just what he has been doing,” -answered Joan deliberately. - - - -Now Henry understood it all: Joan had accepted this man, and it was love for -him that made her breast heave and her eyes shine like stars. He ought to have -been delighted—the difficulty was done with, and no trouble could -possibly ensue—and behold, instead he was furious. He ought to have -congratulated her, to have said the right thing in the right way; but instead -of congratulation the only words that passed his lips were such as might have -been uttered by a madly jealous and would-be sarcastic boy. - - - -“He proposed to you, did he, and in the rain? How charming! I suppose he -kissed you too?” - - - -“Yes,” replied Joan, “twice.” And slowly she raised her -eyes and fixed them upon his face. - - - -What Henry said immediately after that announcement he was never quite able to -remember, but it was something strong and almost incoherent. Set on fire by his -smouldering jealousy, suddenly his passion flamed up in the magnetised -atmosphere of her presence, for on that night her every word and look seemed to -be magnetic and to pierce him through and through. For a minute or more he -denounced her, and all the while Joan stood silent, watching him with her wide -eyes, the light shining on her face. At last he ceased and she spoke. - - - -“I do not understand you,” she said. “Why are you angry with -me? What do you mean?” - - - -“I don’t know,” he gasped. “I have no right to be -angry. I think I must be mad, for I can’t even recollect what I have been -saying. I suppose that I was astonished to hear that you were engaged to Mr. -Rock, that’s all. Please forgive me and forget my words. And, if you -don’t mind, perhaps you had better go away.” - - - -“I don’t wish to forget them, although I dare say that they mean -nothing; and I am not engaged to Mr. Rock—I hate him,” answered -Joan in the same slow voice; adding, “If you have patience, will you -listen to a story? I should like to tell it you before we part, for I think -that we have been good friends, and friends should know each other, so that -they may remember one another truly when their affection has become nothing but -a memory.” - - - -Henry nodded; and still very deliberately, as though she wished to avoid all -appearance of haste or of excitement, Joan sat herself down upon a footstool in -front of the dying fire and began to speak, always keeping her sad eyes fixed -upon his face. - - - -“It is not such a very long story,” she said, “and the only -part of it that has any interest began on that day when we met. I suppose they -have told you that I am nobody, and worse than nobody. I do not know who my -father was, though I think”—and she smiled as though some -coincidence had struck her—“that he was a gentleman whom my mother -fell in love with. Mr. Levinger has to do with me in some way; I believe that -he paid for my education when I went to school, but I am not sure even about -this, and why he should have done so I can’t tell. Mr. Samuel Rock is a -dissenter and a farmer; they say that he is the richest man in Bradmouth. I -don’t know why it was no fault of mine, for I always disliked him very -much but he took a fancy to me years ago, although he said nothing about it at -the time. After I came back from school my aunt urged me continually to accept -his attentions, but I kept out of his way until that afternoon when I met you. -Then he found me sitting under the tower at Ramborough Abbey, where I had gone -to be alone because I was cross and worried; and he proposed to me, and was so -strange and violent in his manner that he frightened me. What I was most afraid -of, however, was that he would tell my aunt that I had refused him for I did -refuse him and that she would make my life more of a misery to me than it is -already, for you see I have no friends here, where everybody looks down upon -me, and nothing to do. So in the end I struck a bargain with him, that he -should leave me alone for six months, and that then I would give him a final -answer, provided that he promised to say nothing of what had happened to my -aunt. He has not kept his promise, for to-day he waylaid me and was very -insolent and brutal, so much so that at last he caught hold of me and kissed me -against my will, tearing my dress half off me, and I pushed him away and told -him what I thought of him. The end of it was that he swore that he would marry -me yet, and left me. Then I came back home, and an hour ago I told my aunt what -had happened, and there was a scene. She said that either I should marry Samuel -Rock or be turned out of the house in a day or two, so I suppose that I must -go. And that is all my story.” - - - -“The brute!” muttered Henry. “I wish I had him on board a -man-of-war: I’d teach him manners. And what are you going to do, -Joan?” - - - -“I don’t know. Work if I can, and starve if I can’t. It -doesn’t matter; nobody will miss me, or care what happens to me.” - - - -“Don’t say that, Joan,” he answered huskily; “I—I -care, for one.” - - - -“It is very good of you to say so, but you see you have others to care -for besides me. There is Miss Levinger, for instance.” - - - -“I have told you once already that I am not engaged to Miss -Levinger.” - - - -“Yes, but a time will come when you will tell me, or others, that you -are; and I think that you will be right—she is a sweet girl. And now, -sir,” she added, with a total change of manner, “I think that I had -better tidy up and bid you good night, and good-bye, for I dare say that I -shall come back here no more. I can’t wait to be driven out like a -strange dog.” And she began to perform her various sick-room duties with -a mechanical precision. - - - -Henry watched her for a while, until at length all was done and she made ready -to go. Then the heart which he had striven to repress burst its bonds, and he -sat up and said to her, in a voice that was almost a cry,— - - - -“Oh! Joan, I don’t know what has come to me, but I can’t bear -to part with you, though it is best that you should go, for I cannot offer to -marry you. I wish to Heaven that I could.” - - - -She came and stood beside him. - - - -“I will remember those words as long as I live,” she said, -“because I know that they are true. I know also why you could not marry -me; for we hear all the gossip, and putting that aside it would be your ruin, -though for me it might be heaven.” - - - -“Do you really care about me, then, Joan?” he asked anxiously, -“and so much as that? You must forgive me, but I am ignorant in these -things. I didn’t quite understand. I feel that I have become a bit -foolish, but I didn’t know that you had caught the disease.” - - - -“Care about you! Anyway, I care enough not to let you marry me even if -you would. I think that to bring ruin and disgrace upon a man and all his -family would be a poor way to show one’s love for him. You see, you have -everything to lose. You are not like me who have nothing, not even a name. Care -about you!” she went on, with a strange, almost unnatural -energy—and her low, caressing voice seemed to thrill every fibre of his -heart and leave them trembling, as harp-strings thrill and tremble beneath the -hand of the player—“I wonder if there are any words in the world -that could make you understand how much I care. Listen. When first I saw you -yonder by the Abbey, a change crept over me; and when you lay there senseless -in my arms, I became a new woman, as though I were born again—a woman -whose mind I could not read, for it was different from my own. Afterwards I -read it; it was when they thought that you were dying, and suddenly I learned -that you would live. When I heard Miss Levinger cry out and saw her fall, then -I read it, and knew that I also loved you. I should have gone; but I -didn’t go, for I could not tear myself away from you. Oh! pity me, and do -not think too hardly of me; for remember who and what I am—a woman who -has never had any one to love, father or mother or sister or friend, and yet -who desires love above everything. And now it had come to me at last; and that -one love of mine made up for all that I had missed, and was greater and -stronger in itself than the hundred different loves of happier girls can be. I -loved you, and I loved you, and I love you. Yes, I wish you to know it before -we part, and I hope that you will never quite forget it, for none will ever -love you so much again as I have, and do, and shall do till I die. And now it -is all done with, and of it there will remain nothing except some pain for you, -and for me my memories and a broken heart. What is that you say again about -marrying me? Have I not told you that you shall not do it? though I shall never -forget that you have even thought of such a thing.” - - - -“I say that I _will_ marry you, Joan,” broke in Henry, in a -hoarse voice. “Why should I spoil your life and mine for the sake of -others?” - - - -“No, no, you will not. Why should you spoil Emma Levinger’s life, -and your sister’s, and your mother’s, and bring yourself to -disgrace and ruin for the sake of a girl like me? No, you will not. You will -bid me farewell, now and for ever.” And she held out her hand to him, -while two great tears ran slowly down her face. - - - -He saw the tears, and his heart melted, for they moved him more than all her -words. - - - -“My darling!” he whispered, drawing her towards him. - - - -“Yes,” she answered: “kiss away my tears this once, that, -remembering it, whatever befalls me, I may weep no more for ever.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -THE FIRSTFRUITS. - - - - -Some days had passed since this night of avowal when, very early one morning, -Henry was awakened from sleep by the sound of wheels and of knocking at the inn -door. A strange apprehension took hold of him, and he rose from his bed and -limped to the window. Then he saw that the carriage which had arrived was the -old Rosham shooting brake, a long plain vehicle with deal seats running down -its length on either side, constructed to carry eight or nine sportsmen to and -from the more distant beats. Knocking at the door was none other than Edward -Milward, and Henry guessed at once that he must have come to fetch him. - - - -“Well, perhaps it is as well,” he thought to himself grimly; then -again his heart was filled with fear. What had happened? Why did Milward come -thus, and at such an hour? - - - -In another minute Edward had entered the room, followed by Mrs. Gillingwater. - - - -“Your father is dying, Graves,” he blurted out. “I -don’t know what it is; he collapsed suddenly in the middle of the night. -If you want to see him alive—and you had better, if you can, while he has -got his senses—you must make shift to come along with me at once. I have -brought the brake, so that you can lie in it at full length. That was -Ellen’s idea: I should never have thought of it.” - - - -“Great Heaven!” said Henry. Then, assisted by Mrs. Gillingwater, he -began to get into his clothes. - - - -In ten minutes they were off, Henry lying flat upon a mattress at the bottom of -the brake. Once he lifted his head and looked through the open rails of the -vehicle towards the door of the house. Mrs. Gillingwater, who was a shrewd -woman, interpreted the glance. - - - -“If you are looking for Joan, sir, to say good-bye to her, it is no use, -for she’s in her room there sleeping like the dead, and I couldn’t -wake her. I don’t think she is quite herself, somehow; but she’ll -be sorry to miss you, and so shall I, for the matter of that; but I’ll -tell her.” - - - -“Thank you, thank you—for everything,” he answered hastily, -and they started. - - - -The drive was long and the road rough, having been much washed by recent rains; -but after a fashion Henry enjoyed it, so far as his pressing troubles of mind -would allow him to enjoy anything, for it was a lovely morning, and the breath -of the open air, the first that he had tasted for many weeks, was like wine to -him. On the way he learned from his companion all that there was to be told -about his father. It appeared, as Henry had heard already, that he had been -unwell for the last two months—not in a way to give alarm, though -sufficiently to prevent him from leaving the house except on the finest days, -or at times his room. On the previous day, however, he seemed much better, and -dined downstairs. About ten o’clock he went to bed, and slept soundly -till a little past midnight, when the household was aroused by the violent -ringing of Lady Graves’s bell, and they rushed upstairs to find that Sir -Reginald had been seized with a fit. Dr. Childs was sent for at once, and gave -an opinion that death might occur at any moment. His treatment restored the -patient’s consciousness; and Sir Reginald’s first words expressed -the belief that he was dying, and an earnest wish to see his son, whereupon -Edward, who chanced to be spending the night at Rosham, was despatched with the -brake to Bradmouth. - - - -At length they reached the Hall, and Henry was helped from the vehicle; but in -ascending the stone steps, which he insisted upon doing by himself, one of his -crutches slipped, causing the foot of his injured limb to come down with some -force upon the edge of the step. The accident gave him considerable pain, but -he saved himself from falling, and thought little more of it at the time. - - - -In the dining-room he found Ellen, who looked pale, and seemed relieved to see -him. - - - -“How is my father?” he asked. - - - -“Insensible again just now. But I am so glad that you have come, Henry, -for he has been asking for you continually. All this business about the -property seems to weigh more upon his mind now than it has done for years, and -he wants to speak to you on the subject.” - - - -Then his mother came down, and her eyes were red with weeping. - - - -“You have returned to a sad home, Henry,” she said kissing him. -“We are an unlucky family: death and misfortune are always at our doors. -You look very white, my dear boy, and no wonder. You had better try to eat -something, since it is useless for you to attempt to see your poor father at -present.” - - - -So Henry ate, or made a pretence of doing so, and afterwards was helped -upstairs to a room opposite to that in which his father lay dying, where he -settled himself in an invalid chair which Sir Reginald had used on the few -occasions when he had been outside the house during the past weeks, and waited. -All that day and all the next night he waited, and still his father did not -recover consciousness—indeed, Dr. Childs now appeared to be of opinion -that he would pass from coma to death. Much as he wished to bid a last farewell -to his father, Henry could not repress a certain sense of relief when he heard -that this was likely to be the case, for an instinct, coupled with some words -which Ellen had let fall, warned him that Sir Reginald wished to speak to him -upon the subject of Miss Levinger. - - - -But the doctor was mistaken; for about six o’clock in the morning, nearly -twenty-four hours after he had reached the house, Henry was awakened by Ellen, -who came to tell him that their father was fully conscious and wished to see -him at once. Seating himself in the invalid chair, he was wheeled across the -passage to the red bedroom, in which he had himself been born. The top halves -of some of the window-shutters were partly open, and by the light that streamed -through them into the dim death-chamber, he saw his father’s gaunt but -still stately form propped up with pillows in the great four-post bed, of which -the red curtains had been drawn back to admit the air. - - - -“Here comes Henry,” whispered Lady Graves. - - - -The old man turned his head, and, shaking back his snowy hair, he peered round -the room. - - - -“Is that you, my son?” he said in a low voice, stretching out a -trembling hand, which Henry took and kissed. “You find me in a bad way: -on the verge of death, where you have so lately been.” - - - -“Yes, it is I, father.” - - - -“God bless you, my boy! and God be thanked that you have been able to -come to listen to my last words, and that I have recovered my senses so that I -can speak to you! Do not go away, my dear, or you, Ellen, for I want you all to -hear what I have to say. You know, Henry, the state of this property. -Mismanagement and bad times have ruined it. I have been to blame, and your dear -brother, whom I hope soon to see, was to blame also. It has come to this, that -I am leaving you beggars, and worse than beggars, since for the first time in -the history of our family we cannot pay our debts.” - - - -Here he stopped and groaned, and Lady Graves whispered to him to rest awhile. - - - -“No, no,” he answered. “Give me some brandy; I will go on; it -does not matter if I use myself up, and my brain may fail me at any moment. -Henry, I am dying here, on this spot of earth where so many of our forefathers -have lived and died before me; and more than the thought of leaving you all, -more than the memory of my sins, or than the fear of the judgment of the -Almighty, Whose mercy is my refuge, the thought crushes me that I have failed -in my trust, that my children must be beggared, my name dishonoured, and my -home—yes, and my very grave—sold to strangers. Henry, I have but -one hope now, and it is in you. I think that I have sometimes been unjust to -you in the past; but I know you for an upright and self-denying man, who, -unlike some of us, has always set his duty before his pleasure. It is to you, -then, that I appeal with my last breath, feeling sure that it will not be in -vain, since, even should you have other wishes, you will sacrifice them to my -prayer, to your mother’s welfare, and to the honour of our name. You know -that there is only one way of escape from all our liabilities for I believe you -have been spoken to on the subject; indeed, I myself alluded to it by a -marriage between yourself and Emma Levinger, who holds the mortgages on this -property, and has other means. Her father desires this, and I have been told -that the girl herself, who is a good and a sweet woman, has declared her -affection for you; therefore it all rests with you. Do you understand me?” - - - -“Say yes, and that you will marry her on the first opportunity,” -whispered Ellen into Henry’s ear. “He will kill himself with -talking so much.” Then she saw her brother’s face, and drew back -her head in horror. Heavens! could it be that he was going to refuse? - - - -“I will try to make myself plain,” went on Sir Reginald after a -pause, and swallowing another sip of brandy. “I want you to promise, -Henry, before us all, that nothing, except the death of one of you, shall -prevent you from marrying Emma Levinger so soon as may be possible after my -funeral. When I have heard you say that, I shall be able to die in peace. -Promise, then, my son, quickly; for I wish to turn my mind to other -matters.” - - - -Now all eyes were bent upon Henry’s face, and it was rigid and ashen. -Twice he tried to speak and failed; the third time the words came, and they -sounded like a groan. - - - -“Father, I _cannot!_” - - - -Ellen gasped, and Lady Graves murmured, “! cruel, cruel!” As for -the dying man, his head sank back upon the pillow, and he lay there bewildered. -Presently he lifted it and spoke again. - - - -“I do not think—my hearing—I must have misunderstood. Did you -say you could not promise, Henry? Why not? With everything at stake, and my -dying prayer—mine, your father’s. Oh! why not? Are you married, -then?” - - - -The sweat broke from Henry’s brow and rolled down his face in large -drops, as he answered, always in the voice that sounded like a groan,— - - - -“I am not married, father; and, before God, sooner than be forced to -refuse you I would lie as you lie now. Have pity, I beseech you, on my cruel -strait, between my honour and the denial of your wish. I cannot promise that I -will marry Emma Levinger, because I am bound to another woman by ties that may -not be broken, and I cannot be so base as to desert her.” - - - -“Another woman? I am too late, then?” murmured his father more and -more feebly. “But stay: there is still hope. Who is she? At least you -will not refuse to tell me her name.” - - - -“Her name is Joan Haste.” - - - -“Joan Haste? What! the girl at the inn? The bastard! My son, my only -remaining son, denies his dying father, and brings his mother and his name to -disgrace and ruin, because he is bound in honour to a village bastard!” -he screamed. “Oh, my God! that I should have lived to hear this! Oh, my -God! my God!” - - - -And suddenly the old man flung his arms wide and fell back. Lady Graves and -Ellen ran to him. Presently the former came away from the bed. - - - -“Your father is dead, Henry,” she said. “Perhaps, after what -has passed, you will feel that this is no fit place for you. I will ring for -some one to take you to your room.” - - - -But the last bitterness of these words, so awful from a mother’s lips, -was spared to Henry, for he had swooned. As he sank into unconsciousness a -solemn voice seemed to speak within his tortured brain, and it said, -“Behold the firstfruits of iniquity.” - - - -Henry did not attend his father’s funeral, for the good reason that he -was ill in bed. In the first place, though he made light of it at the time, -that slip of his on the stone steps had so severely affected his broken limb as -to necessitate his lying by for at least another month; and in the second he -had received a shock to his nerves, healthy as they were, from which he could -not hope to recover for many a month. He was kept informed of all that went on -by Thomson, the old butler, for neither his mother nor Ellen came near him -during those dark days. He heard the footsteps of the carpenter who measured -his father’s body, he heard the coffin being brought upstairs; and the -day afterwards he heard the shuffling tramp of the tenants, who, according to -ancient custom, bore down the corpse of the dead owner of Rosham to lie in -state in the great hall. He heard the workmen nailing the hatchment of the -departed baronet beneath his window; and then at last a day came when he heard -a noise of the rolling wheels of carriages, and the sound of a church bell -tolling, as his father was laid to rest among the bones of his ancestors. - - - -So bitter was the resentment against him, that none had asked Henry to look his -last upon his father’s face. For a while he thought it better that he -should not do so, but on the second night after the death nature grew too -strong for him, and he determined to do that alone which, under happier -circumstances, it should have been his duty to do with his widowed mother and -his sister at his side. Painfully he dragged himself from the bed, and, placing -a candle and a box of matches in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he limped -upon his crutches across the silent corridor and into the death-chamber, where -the atmosphere was so heavy with the scent of flowers that for a moment it -brought back his faintness. Recovering himself, he closed the door and made -shift to light his candle. Then by its solitary light he approached the bed on -which his father’s corpse was lying, half hidden by wreaths and covered -with a sheet. With a trembling hand he drew down the wrapping and exposed the -dead man’s face. It was calm enough now: there was no trace there of the -tormenting grief that had been upon it in the moment of dissolution; it bore -the seal of perfect peace, and, notwithstanding the snowy hair, a more youthful -aspect than Henry could remember it to have worn, even in the days of his -childhood. - - - -In sad and solemn silence Henry gazed upon the clay that had given him life, -and great bitterness and sorrow took hold of him. He covered his eyes with his -hand, and prayed that God might forgive him for the pain which he had caused -his father in his last hour, and that his father might forgive him too in the -land where all things are understood, for there he would learn that he could -not have spoken otherwise. Well, he was reaping as he had sown, and there -remained nothing to him except to make amendment as best he could. Then with a -great effort he dragged himself up upon the bed, and kissed his father’s -forehead. - - - -Having replaced the sheet, he extinguished the candle and turned to leave the -room. As he opened the door he saw a figure draped in black, who stood in the -passage listening. It was his mother. She advanced towards him with a cold, sad -mien, and opened her lips as though to speak. Then the light fell upon his -face, and she saw that it was torn by grief and stained with tears, and her -look softened, for now she understood something of what her son’s -sufferings must be. Still she did not speak, and in silence, except for the -tapping of his crutches on the polished floor, Henry passed her with bowed -head, and reached his room again. - - - -In due course the family returned from the funeral, and, outwardly at any rate, -a break occurred in the conspiracy of silence and neglect of which Henry was -the object, for it was necessary that he should be present at the reading of -the will. This ceremony took place in the bedroom of the new baronet, and -gathered there were a representative from the London firm of lawyers that had -managed, or mismanaged, the Graves’s affairs for several generations, the -widow, Ellen, and Edward Milward. Bowing gravely to Sir Henry, the lawyer broke -the seals of the document and began the farce for a farce it was, seeing that -the will had been signed nearly five-and-twenty years before, when the position -of the family was very different. After reciting the provisions of the entail -that, by the way, had long been cut under which his deceased brother Reginald -should have entered into the enjoyment of all the land and hereditaments and -the real property generally, with remainder to his children, or, in the event -of his death without issue, to Henry, the testator went on to deal with the -jointure of the widow, which was fixed at eight hundred a year in addition to -the income arising from her own fortune, that, alas! had long since been lost -or muddled away. Then it made provision for the younger children,—ten -thousand to Henry and eight thousand to Ellen,—to be paid out of the -personalty, or, should this prove insufficient, to be raised by way of -rent-charge on the estate, as provided for under the marriage settlement of Sir -Reginald and his wife; and, after various legacies and directions as to the -disposal of heirlooms, ended by constituting Reginald, or, in the event of his -death without issue, Henry, residuary legatee. - - - -When he had finished reading this lengthy document, which he well knew not to -be worth the paper on which it was written, the lawyer solemnly exhibited the -signatures of the testator and of the attesting witnesses, and laid it down -with a sigh. Three of the listeners were aware that the will might as well have -affected to dispose of the crown of England as to devise to them these various -moneys, lands and chattels; but the fourth, Edward Milward, who had never been -admitted to full confidence as to the family position, was vastly pleased to -learn that his future wife inherited so considerable a sum, to say nothing of -her chance of succeeding to the entire estate should Henry die without issue. -That there had been embarrassments and mortgage charges he knew, but these, he -concluded, were provided for by life insurances, and had rolled off the back of -the property on the death of the late owner. Indeed, he showed his pleasure so -plainly in his face that the lawyer, guessing he was labouring under some such -delusion, hesitated and looked at him pointedly before he proceeded to make -remarks upon the document. Ellen, always on the watch, took the hint, and, -laying her hand affectionately on Milward’s shoulder, said in a low voice: - - - -“Perhaps you will not mind leaving us for a few moments, Edward: I fancy -there are one or two matters that my mother would not like to be discussed -outside her own family at present.” - - - -“Certainly,” answered Edward, who, having learned all he wished to -know, rejoiced at the chance of escape, seeing that funerals and will-reading -exercised a depressing effect upon his spirits. - - - -Lady Graves was at the other end of the room and looking out of an open window, -so that she did not overhear these remarks. Henry, however, did hear them, and -spoke for the first time. - - - -“I think that you had better stay, Milward,” he said: “there -is nothing to conceal,” and he smiled grimly at his own -_double-entendre._ - - - -“No, thanks,” answered Edward airily: “I have heard all I -want to know, so I will go into the garden and smoke a cigarette.” And -before Henry could speak again he was gone. - - - -“You are probably aware, Sir Henry,” began the lawyer, “that -all the main provisions of this document”—and he tapped the will -with his knuckle—“fall to the ground, for the reason that the -capital sums with which they dealt were exhausted some years since; though I am -bound to tell you that, in my opinion, the legality of the methods by which -some of those sums were brought into possession might even now be -contested.” - - - -“Yes,” answered Henry, “and good money thrown after -bad.” - - - -“Of course,” went on the lawyer, “you succeed to the estates, -which have been little, if at all, diminished in acreage; but they are, I -believe, mortgaged to more than their present value in favour of a Mr. -Levinger, who holds the securities in trust for his daughter, and to whom there -is a large sum due by way of back interest.” - - - -“Yes, I am aware of it.” - - - -“Hem,” said the lawyer. “Then I am afraid that there is not -much more to say, is there? I trust that you may be able—to find means to -meet—these various liabilities, in which case we shall be most happy to -act for you in the matter. By the way, we still have a small sum in our hands -that was sent to us by our late esteemed client to pay a debt of your late -brother’s, which on enquiry was found not to be owing. This we propose to -remit to you, after deducting the amount of our account current.” - - - -“By all means deduct the account current,” said Henry; “for, -you see, you may not get another chance of paying yourselves. Well, the -carriage is waiting for you. Good afternoon.” - - - -The lawyer gathered up his papers, shook hands all round, bowed and went. - - - -“Well,” he thought to himself as he drove towards the station, -“I am glad to be clear of this business: somehow it was more depressing -than most funerals. I suppose that there’s an end of a connection that -has lasted a hundred years, though there will be some pickings when the estate -is foreclosed on. I am glad it didn’t happen in Sir Reginald’s -time, for I had a liking for the old man and his grand last-century manners. -The new baronet seems a roughish fellow, with a sharp edge to his tongue; but I -dare say he has a deal to worry him, and he looks very ill. What fools they -were to cut the entail! They can’t blame us about it, anyway, for we -remonstrated with them strongly enough. Sir Reginald was under the thumb of -that dead son of his—that’s the fact, and he was a scamp, or -something like it. Now they are beggared, absolutely beggared: they won’t -even be able to pay their debts. It’s not one man’s funeral that I -have been assisting at—it is that of a whole ancient family, without -benefit of clergy or hope of resurrection. The girl is going to marry a rich -man: she knows which side her bread is buttered, and has a good head on her -shoulders—that’s one comfort. Well, they are bankrupt and done -with, and it is no good distressing myself over what can’t be helped. -Here’s the station. I wonder if I need tip the coachman. I remember he -drove me when I came down to the elder boy’s christening; we were both -young then. Not necessary, I think: I sha’n’t be likely to see him -again.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -FORTITER IN RE. - - - - -When the lawyer had gone, for a while there was silence in Henry’s room. -Everybody seemed to wish to speak, and yet no one could find any words to say. -Of course Henry was aware that the subject which had been discussed at the last -dreadful scene of his father’s life would be renewed on the first -opportunity, but he was nervously anxious that it should not be now, when he -did not feel able to cope with the bitter arguments which he was sure Ellen was -preparing for him, and still less with the pleadings of his mother, should she -condescend to plead. After all it was he who spoke the first. - - - -“Perhaps, Ellen,” he said, “you will tell me who were present -at our father’s funeral.” - - - -“Everybody,” she answered; adding, with meaning, “You see, -the truth about us has not yet come out. We are still supposed to be people of -honour and position.” - - - -Her mother turned and made a gesture with her hand, as though to express -disapproval of the tone in which she spoke; and, taking the hint, Ellen went on -in a dry, clear voice, like that of one who reads an inventory, to give the -names of the neighbours who attended the burial, and of more distant friends -who had sent wreaths, saying in conclusion: - - - -“Mr. Levinger of course was there, but Emma did not come. She sent a -lovely wreath of eucharist lilies and stephanotis.” - - - -At this moment the old butler came in, his face stained with grief—for he -had dearly loved Sir Reginald, who was his foster-brother—and announced -that Dr. Childs was waiting to see Sir Henry. - - - -“Show him up,” said Henry, devoutly thankful for the interruption. - - - -“How do you do, Captain I mean Sir Henry Graves?” said the doctor, -in his quiet voice, when Lady Graves and Ellen had left the room. “I -attended your poor father’s funeral, and then went on to see a patient, -thinking that I would give you a look on my way back. However, don’t let -us talk of these things, but show me your leg if you will. Yes, I thought so: -you have given it a nasty jar; you should never have tried to walk up those -steps without help. Well, you will have to stop quiet for a month or so, that -is all; and I think that it will be a good thing for you in more ways than one, -for you seem very much shaken, my dear fellow, and no wonder, with all this -trouble after a dangerous illness.” - - - -Henry thanked him; and then followed a little general conversation, in which -Dr. Childs was careful not to let him know that he was aware of the scene that -had occurred at his father’s death, though as a matter of fact the -wildest rumours were floating up and down the country side, based upon hints -that had fallen from Lady Graves in her first grief, and on what had been -overheard by listeners at the door. Presently he rose to go, saying that he -would call again on the morrow. - - - -“By the way,” he added, “I have got to see another patient -to-night—your late nurse, Joan Haste.” - - - -“What is the matter with her?” asked Henry, flushing suddenly red, -a symptom of interest or distress that did not escape the doctor’s -practised eye. - - - -“So the talk is true,” he thought to himself. “Well, I -guessed as much; indeed, I expected it all along: the girl has been in love -with him for weeks. A pity, a sad pity!” - - - -“Oh! nothing at all serious,” he answered: “a chill and a -touch of fever. It has been smouldering in her system for some time, I think. -It seems she got soaked about ten days ago, and stood in her wet things. She is -shaking it off now, however.” - - - -“Indeed; I am glad to hear that,” Henry answered, in a tone of -relief which he could not quite conceal. “Will you remember me to Miss -Haste when you see her, and tell her that——” - - - -“Yes?” said the doctor, his hand on the door. - - - -“That I am glad she has recovered, and—that—I was sorry not -to be able to say good-bye to her,” he added hurriedly. - - - -“Certainly,” answered Dr. Childs, and went. - - - -Henry saw no more of his mother or his sister that evening, which was a -sorrowful one for him. He grieved alone in his room, comforted only by the -butler Thomson, who came to visit him, and told him tales of his father’s -boyhood and youth; and they grieved elsewhere, each according to her own -nature. On the morrow the doctor called early and reported favourably of -Henry’s condition. He told him that Joan was doing even better than he -had expected, that she sent him her duty and thanked him kindly for his -message, and with this Henry was fain to be content. Indeed, what other message -could she have sent him, unless she had written? and something told him that -she would not write. Any words that could be put on paper would express both -too much and too little. - - - -Henry was not the only person at Rosham whose rest was troubled this night, -seeing that Ellen also did not sleep well. She had loved her father in her own -way and sorrowed for him, but she loved her family better than any individual -member of it, and mourned still more bitterly for its sad fate. Also she had -her own particular troubles to overcome, for she was well aware that Edward -imagined her to possess the portion of eight thousand pounds which had been -allotted to her under the will, and it was necessary that he should be -undeceived and enlightened on various other points in connection with the -Rosham affairs, which could no longer be concealed from him. On the morrow he -rode over from Upcott, and very soon gave Ellen a chance of explanation, by -congratulating her upon the prospective receipt of the eight thousand. Like a -bold woman she took her opportunity at once, though she did not care about this -task and had some fears for the issue. - - - -“Don’t congratulate me, Edward,” she said, “for I must -tell you I have discovered that this eight thousand pounds is very much in the -clouds.” - - - -Edward whistled. “Meaning——?” he said. - - - -“Meaning, my dear, that after you left the lawyer explained our financial -position. To put it shortly, the entail has been cut, the estate has been -mortgaged for more than its value, and there is not a farthing for -anybody.” - - - -“Indeed!” answered Edward: “that’s jolly good news. -Might I ask what is going to happen then?” - - - -“It all depends upon Henry. If he is not a fool, and marries Miss -Levinger, everything will come right, except my eight thousand pounds of -course, for she holds the mortgages, or her father does for her. If he -_is_ a fool—which I have reason to believe is the case—and -declines to marry Miss Levinger, then I suppose that the estate will be made -bankrupt and that my mother will be left to starve.” - - - -At this announcement Edward uttered an indignant grunt. - - - -“Look here, Ellen,” he said; “it is all very fine, but you -have been playing it pretty low down upon me. I never heard a word of this -mess, although, of course, I knew that you were embarrassed, like most people -nowadays. What I did not know—to say nothing of your not having a -penny— was that I am to have the honour of marrying into a family of -bankrupts; and, to tell you the truth, I am half inclined to reconsider my -position, for I don’t wish to be mixed up with this sort of thing.” - - - -“About that you must do as you like, Edward,” she answered, with -dignity; “but let me tell you that this state of affairs is not my fault. -In the first place, it is the fault of those who are dead and gone, and still -more is it the fault of my brother Henry, whose wickedness and folly threaten -to plunge us all into ruin.” - - - -“What do you mean by his ‘wickedness and folly’?” - - - -“I mean that matter of which I spoke to you before—the matter of -this wretched girl, Joan Haste. It seems that he has become involved in some -miserable intrigue with her, after the disgusting fashion of you men, and on -this account he refuses to marry Emma Levinger. Yes, although my father prayed -him to do so with his dying breath, he still refuses, when he knows that it -would be his own salvation and that of his family also.” - - - -“He must be mad,” said Edward—“stark, staring mad: -it’s no such great wonder about the girl, but that he should decline to -marry Miss Levinger is sheer insanity; for, although I don’t think much -of her, and the connection is a bad one, it is clear that she has got the -dollars. What does he mean to do, then? Marry the other one?” - - - -“Very possibly, for all I know to the contrary. It would be quite in -keeping with his conduct.” - - - -“Oh, hang it, Ellen!—that I could not stand. It is not to be -expected of any man that he should come into a family of which the head will be -a bankrupt, who insists upon marrying a barmaid.” - - - -“Again I say that you must please yourself, Edward; but if you feel so -strongly about Henry’s conduct—and I admit that it is quite natural -that you should do so—perhaps you had better speak to him yourself.” - - - -“All right: I will,” he answered. “Although I don’t -like meddling with other people’s love affairs, for I have quite enough -to do to manage my own, I will give him my mind pretty straight. He’s a -nasty customer to tackle; but if he doesn’t know before he is an hour -older that there are other people to be considered in the world besides -himself, it sha’n’t be my fault, that’s all.” - - - -“I am sure it is very brave of you, dear,” said Ellen, with veiled -sarcasm. “But, if I may venture to advise, I would suggest what my poor -father used to call the _suaviter in modo_ in preference to the -_fortiter in re._” - - - -“Oh, bother your Latin!” said Edward. “Please speak -English.” - - - -“I mean that were I you I should go fair and softly; for, as you remarked -just now in your own classic tongue, Henry is a ‘nasty customer to -tackle.’ Well, I happen to know that he is up and alone just now, so you -cannot have a better opportunity.” Then she rang the bell, which was -almost immediately answered by the butler, and added, “Will you be so -good, Thomson, as to show Mr. Milward to Sir Henry’s room?” - - - -Edward hesitated, for, like another hero, he felt his courage oozing out of his -finger-tips. Looking up, he saw Ellen watching him with a little smile, and -remembered that to draw back now would mean that for many a long day to come he -must be the target of the bitter arrows of her irony. So he set his teeth and -went as to a forlorn hope. - - - -In another minute he was in the presence of the man whom he came to annihilate. -Henry was seated in a chair, against which his crutches were resting, looking -out of the window, with an open book upon his knee, and it cannot be said that -he appeared pleased on hearing the name of his visitor. Indeed, he was about to -tell Thomson that he was engaged, when Edward blundered in behind him, leaving -him no option but to shake hands and ask his visitor to sit down. Then ensued -this conversation. - - - -“How do you do, Graves? I have come to see you on business.” - - - -“As well as I can expect, thank you.” - - - -A pause. - - - -“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” - - - -“It seems fine; but as you have been out, you will know more about it -than I do.” - - - -Another pause. - - - -“The pheasants ought to do well this year; they have had a wonderful fine -time for hatching.” - - - -“Indeed. I think you said that you wished to speak to me about some -business.” - - - -“You are not rearing any this season, are you?” - - - -“No: I am sorry to say that I have other chicks to hatch at present. But -about the business?” - - - -“All right, Graves; I am coming to that. The pheasants lead up to it. -_Fortiter in modo,_ as Ellen says.” - - - -“Does she? Well, it is not a bad motto for her, though it’s wrong. -Well, if we have done with the pheasants——” - - - -There was yet another pause, and then Edward said suddenly, and with effort: - - - -“You are not rearing any pheasants, Graves, because you can’t -afford to; in fact, I have just found out that you are bankrupt, and the whole -thing is a swindle, and that Ellen won’t have a farthing of her eight -thousand pounds. She has sent me up here to talk to you about it.” - - - -“Has she? That is _fortiter in modo_ and no mistake. Well, talk on, -Mr. Milward. But, before you begin, let me remind you that I asked you to stop -and hear what passed after the reading of the will yesterday, and you would -not.” - - - -“Oh, bother the will! It is a fraud, like everything else in this place. -I tell you, Graves——” - - - -“One moment. Pray lower your voice, keep your temper, and remember that -you are speaking to a gentleman.” - - - -“Speaking to a gentleman? A nice sort of gentleman! You mean an -uncertificated bankrupt, who won’t do the right thing by his family and -marry the girl who could set them on their legs again; a pious humbug who -preaches to everybody else, but isn’t above carrying on a low intrigue -with a barmaid, and then having the impudence to say that he means to disgrace -us by marrying her.” - - - -“I have asked you to lower your voice, Mr. Milward.” - - - -“Lower my voice? I think it is high time to raise it when I find myself -let in for an engagement with the sister of a man who does such things. You -needn’t look at _me,_ Sir Henry Graves,—Sir Henry indeed! I -repeat, ‘let in.’ However, you must mend your manners, or Ellen -will suffer for it, that is all; for I shall throw her over and wash my hands -of the whole show. The bankruptcy is bad enough, but I’m hanged if I will -stand the barmaid. Edward Milward of Upcott with a barmaid for a sister-in-law! -Not if he knows it.” - - - -Then Henry answered, in a quiet and ominous voice: “You have been so -good, Mr. Milward, doubtless more in kindness than in anger, as to point out to -me with great directness the errors, or assumed errors, of my ways. Allow me, -before I say anything further, to point out to you an error in yours, about -which there is no possibility of doubt. You say that you propose ‘to -throw over’ my sister, not on account of anything that she has done, but -because of acts which I am supposed to have done. In my judgment it will indeed -be fortunate for her should you take this course. But not the less do I feel -bound to tell you, that the man who behaves thus towards a woman, having no -cause of offence against her, is not what is usually understood by the term -gentleman. So much for my sister: now for myself. It seems to me that there is -only one answer possible to conduct and language such as you have thought fit -to make use of; and were I well, much as I dislike violence, I should not -hesitate to apply it. I should, Mr. Milward, kick you out of this room and down -yonder stairs, and, should my strength not fail me, across that garden. Being -crippled at present, I am unable to advance this argument. I must, therefore, -do the best I can.” And, taking up the crutch that stood by his chair, -Henry hurled it straight at him. “Now go!” he thundered; and Mr. -Milward went. - - - -“I hope that Ellen will feel pleased with the effect of her -embassy,” thought Henry; then suddenly he turned white, and, choking with -wrath, said aloud, “Great Heaven! to think that I should have come so low -as to be forced to suffer such insults from a cur like that! What will be the -end of it? One thing is clear: I can’t stand much more. I’m done -for in the Service; but I dare say that I could get a billet as mate on a -liner, or even a command of some vessel in the Canadian or Australian waters -where I am known. Unless there is a change soon, that is what I’ll do, -and take Joan with me. Nobody will sneer at her there, anyway —at least, -nobody who sees her.” - - - -Meanwhile Ellen was standing in the hall making pretence to arrange some -flowers, but in reality waiting, not without a certain sense of anxiety, to -learn the result of the interview which she had been instrumental in bringing -about. She hoped that Henry would snub her _fiancé_ in payment of -sundry remarks that Edward had made to her, and which she had by no means -forgotten, although she was not at present in a position to resent them. She -hoped also, with some lack of perspicuity, that Henry would be impressed by -Edward’s remonstrances, and that, when he came to understand that her -future was imperilled, he would hasten to sacrifice his own. But here she make -her great mistake, not foreseeing that a man of Milward’s moral fibre -could not by any possibility neglect to push a fancied vantage home, any more -than he could refrain from being insolent and brutal towards one whom he -thought at his mercy; for, even in the upper walks of life, individuals do -exist who take pleasure in grinding the heads of the fallen deeper into the -mire. - - - -Presently Ellen was alarmed to hear Henry’s words “Now go” -echo through the house, followed by the sound of a banging door. Next instant -Edward appeared upon the stairs, and the expression of his features betrayed a -wondrous mixture of astonishment, fear and indignation. - - - -“What have you been doing, Edward?” she said, as he approached. -“You do not mean to tell me that you have been brawling, and in this -house?” - - - -“Brawling? Oh yes, say that I have been brawling,” gasped Edward, -when at last he managed to speak. “That infernal brother of yours has -thrown a crutch at me; but by all means say that I have been brawling.” - - - -“Thrown a crutch? And what had you been doing to make him throw a -crutch?” - - - -“Doing? Why, nothing, except tell him that he was a fraud and a bankrupt. -He took it all quite quietly till the end, then suddenly he said that if he -wasn’t a cripple he would kick me downstairs, and threw a crutch at my -head; and, by George! I believe from the look of him that if he could he would -have done it too!” - - - -“It is very possible,” said Ellen, “if you were foolish -enough to use such language towards him. You have had an escape. Henry has a -fearful temper when roused.” - - - -“Then why on earth didn’t you say so before you sent me up there? -Do you suppose that I enjoy being pelted with crutches by a mad sailor? -Possible! Yes, it seems that anything is possible in this house; but I will -tell you one thing that isn’t, and it is that I should stay here any -longer. I scratch, now, on the spot. Do you understand, Ellen? The game is up, -and you can marry whom you like.” - - - -At this point Ellen touched him on the shoulder, and said, in a cold voice: - - - -“Perhaps you are not aware that there are at least two servants listening -to you? Will you be so kind as to follow me into the drawing-room?” - - - -Edward obeyed. When Ellen put on her coldest and most imperious manner he -always did obey, and it is probable that he will always continue to do so. He -was infuriated, and he was humbled, still he could not resist that invitation -into the drawing-room. It was a large apartment, and by some oversight the -shutters that were closed for the funeral had never been reopened, therefore -its aspect could not be called cheerful, though there was sufficient light to -see by. - - - -“Now, Mr. Milward,” said Ellen, stationing herself in the centre of -a wide expanse of floor, for there were no little tables and knickknacks at -Rosham, “I will ask you to be so good as to repeat what you were -saying.” - - - -Thus adjured, Edward looked around him, and his spirits sank. He could be -vociferous enough in the sunlit hall, but here in this darkened chamber, that -reminded him unpleasantly of corpses and funerals, with Ellen, of whom he was -secretly afraid, standing cool and collected before him, a sudden humility fell -upon him. - - - -“Why do you call me Mr. Milward?” he asked: “it doesn’t -sound right; and as for what I was saying, I was saying that I could not stand -this sort of thing any more, and I think that we had better shut up the -shop.” - - - -“If you mean by ‘shutting up the shop’ that our engagement is -at an end, Mr. Milward, so be it. But unfortunately, as you must understand, -questions will be asked, and I shall be glad to know what explanation you -propose to furnish.” - - - -“Oh! you can settle that.” - - - -“Very well; I presume you admit that I am not to blame, therefore we must -fall back upon the cause which you have given: that you insulted my brother, -who—notwithstanding his crippled condition—inflicted a physical -punishment upon you. Indeed, unless I can succeed in stopping it, thanks to -your own indiscretion, the story will be all over the place before to-morrow, -and I must leave you to judge what will be thought of it in the county, or let -us say at the militia mess, which I believe you join next Wednesday.” - - - -Edward heard and quailed. He was excessively sensitive to public opinion, and -more especially to the chaff of his brother-officers in the militia, among whom -he was something of a butt. If it became known there that Sir Henry Graves, a -man with a broken leg, had driven him out of the room by throwing crutches at -his head, he felt that his life would speedily become a burden to him. - - - -“You wouldn’t be so mean as that, Ellen,” he said. - - - -“So mean as what? To some people it might seem that the meanness is on -the other side. There are difficulties here, and you have quarrelled with my -brother; therefore, as I understand, you wish to desert me after being publicly -engaged to me for some months, and to leave me in an utterly false position. Do -so if you will, but you must not be surprised if you find your conduct called -by strong names. For my part I am indifferent, but for your own sake I think -that you would do well to pause. Do not suppose that I shall sit still under -such an affront. You know that I can be a good friend; you have yet to learn -that I can be a good enemy. Possibly, though I do not like to think it of you, -you believe that we are ruined and of no account. You will find your mistake. -There are troubles here, but they can be overcome, and very soon you will live -to regret that you dared to put such a deadly affront upon me and my family. -You foolish man!” she went on, with gathering vehemence, “have you -not yet realized the difference between us? Have you not learned that with all -your wealth you are nobody and I am somebody—that though I can stand -without you, without me you will fall? Now I am tired of talking: choose, -Edward Milward, choose whether you will jilt me and incur an enmity that shall -follow you to your death, or whether you will bide by me and be placed where of -late it has been the object of my life to set you.” - - - -If Edward had quailed before, now he positively trembled, for he knew that -Ellen spoke truth. Hers was the master mind, and to a great extent he had -become dependent on her. Moreover he had ambitions, for the most part of a -social and personal nature—which included, however, his entry into -Parliament, where he hoped that his power of the purse would ultimately earn -him some sort of title—and these ambitions he felt sure would never be -gratified without the help of Ellen. Lastly, he was in his own way sincerely -attached to her, and quite appreciated the force of her threats to make of him -an object of ridicule among his neighbours and brother-officers. Smarting -though he was under a sense of moral and physical injury, the sum of these -considerations turned the balance in favour of the continuance of his -engagement. Perhaps Ellen was right, and her family would ride out this -trouble; but whether they did so or not, he was convinced that without Ellen he -should sink below his present level, and what was more, that she would help him -on his downward career. So Edward gave in; indeed, it would not be too much to -say that he collapsed. - - - -“You shouldn’t speak so harshly, dear,” he said, “for -you know that I did not really mean what I told you about breaking off our -engagement. The fact is that, what between one thing and another, I scarcely -knew what I was saying.” - - - -“Indeed!” answered Ellen. “Well, I hope that you know what -you are saying now. If our engagement is to be continued, there must be no -further talk of breaking it off on the next occasion that you happen to have a -quarrel with my brother, or to be angry about the mortgages on this -property.” - - - -“The only thing that I bargain about your brother is, that I shall not be -asked to see him, or have anything to do with him. He can go to the deuce his -own way so far as I am concerned, and we can cut him when we are -married—that is, if he becomes bankrupt and the rest of it. I am sorry if -I have behaved badly, Ellen; but really and truly I do mean what I say about -our engagement, and I tell you what, I will go home and put it on paper if you -like, and bring you the letter this afternoon.” - - - -“That is as you like, Edward,” she answered, with a perceptible -softening of her manner. “But after what has happened, you may think -yourself fortunate that I ever consent to see you again.” - - - -Edward attempted no reply, at least in words, for he was crushed; but, bending -down, he imprinted a chaste salute upon Ellen’s smooth forehead, which -she acknowledged by touching him frostily on the cheek with her lips. - - - -This, then, is the history of the great quarrel between these lovers, and of -their reconciliation. - - - -“Upon my word,” said Ellen to herself, as she watched him depart, -“I am by no means certain that Henry’s obstinacy and violence have -not done me a good turn for once. They have brought things to a crisis, there -has been a struggle, and I have won the day. Whatever happens, I do not think -it likely that Edward will try to match himself against me again, and I am -quite certain that he will never talk any more of breaking off our -engagement.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -BETWEEN DUTY AND DUTY. - - - - -For a while Ellen stood silent, enjoying the luxury of a well-earned victory; -then she turned and went upstairs to Henry’s room. The first thing that -she saw was the crutch which her brother had used as a missile of war with such -effect, still lying where it had fallen on the carpet. She picked it up and -placed it by his chair. - - - -“How do you do, Henry?” she said blandly. “I hear that you -have surpassed yourself this morning.” - - - -“Now, look here, Ellen,” he answered, in a voice that was almost -savage in its energy, “if you have come to bait me, I advise you to give -it up, for I am in no mood to stand much more. You sent Mr. Milward up here to -insult me, and I treated him as he deserved; though now I regret that under -intolerable provocation I forgot myself so far as to condescend to violence. I -am very sorry if I have interfered with your matrimonial projects, though there -is a certain justice about it, seeing how constantly you attempt to interfere -with mine; but I could not help it. No man of honour could have borne the -things that fellow thought fit to say, and it is your own fault for encouraging -him to say them.” - - - -“Oh, pray, my dear Henry, let us leave this cant about that after all -that has happened and is happening, the less said of honour the better. It is -quite useless for you to look angry, since I presume that you will not try to -silence me by throwing things in my face. And now let me tell you that, -although you have done your best, you have not succeeded in ‘interfering -with my matrimonial projects’ which, in fact, were never so firmly -established as they are at this moment.” - - - -“Do you mean to say,” asked Henry in astonishment, “that the -man has put up with—well, with what I was obliged to inflict upon him, -and that you still contemplate marrying him after the way in which he has -threatened to jilt you?” - - - -“Certainly I mean to say it. We have set the one thing against the other -and cried quits, though of course he has bargained that he shall have nothing -more to do with you, and also that, should you persist in your present conduct, -he shall not be forced to receive you at his house after our marriage.” - - - -“Really he need not have troubled to make that stipulation.” - - - -“We are not all fools, Henry,” Ellen went on; “and I did not -feel called upon to break an engagement that in many ways suits me very well -because you have chosen to quarrel with Edward and to use violence towards him. -Do not be afraid, Henry: I have not come here to lecture you; I come to say -that I wash my hands of you. In the interests of the family, of which you are -the head, I still venture to hope that you will repent of the past and that -better counsels may prevail as to the future. I hope, for instance, that you -will come to see that your own prosperity and good name should not be -sacrificed in order to gratify a low passion. But this is merely a pious wish -and by the way. You are a middle-aged man, and must take your own course in -life; only I decline to be involved in your ruin. If in the future I should -however be able to do anything to mitigate its consequences so far as this -property is concerned, I will do it; for I at least think more of my family -than of myself, and most of all of the dying wishes of our father. And now, -Henry, as a sister to a brother I say good-bye to you for so long as you -persist in your present courses. Henceforth when we meet it will be as -acquaintances and no more. Good-bye, Henry.” And she left the room. - - - -“That is a pleasant speech to have to listen to,” reflected Henry -as the door closed behind her. “Of the two I really think that I prefer -Mr. Milward’s mode of address, for he can be answered, or at any rate -dealt with; but it is difficult to answer Ellen, seeing that to a great extent -she has the right on her side. What a position for a man! If I had tried, I -could not have invented a worse one. I shall never laugh again at the agonies -of a heroine placed between love and duty, for it is my own case. Or rather let -us leave the love out of it, and say that I stand between duty and duty, the -delicate problem to decide being: Which is the higher of these duties and who -shall be sacrificed?” - - - -As he thought thus, sadly enough, there was a knock upon his door, and Lady -Graves entered the room, looking very sorrowful and dignified in her -widow’s robe. - - - -“So I haven’t seen the worst of it,” Henry muttered. -“Well, I may as well get it over.” Then he added aloud, “Will -you sit down, mother? I am sorry that I cannot rise to receive you.” - - - -“My boy,” she said in a low voice, “I have been thinking a -great deal of the sad scene which took place in connection with your dear -father’s death, and of my subsequent conduct towards you, and I have come -to apologise to you. I do not know the exact circumstances that led you to act -as you have done,—I may even say that I scarcely wish to know them; but -on reflection I feel that nothing but the strongest reasons or considerations -of honour would have induced you to refuse your father’s last request, -and that I have therefore no right to judge you harshly. This came home to me -when I saw you leaving the room yonder a few nights since, and your face showed -me what you were suffering. But at that time my heart was too frozen with -grief, and, I fear, also too much filled with resentment against you to allow -me to speak. If you can tell me anything that will give me a better -understanding of the causes of all this dreadful trouble, I shall be grateful -to you; for then we may perhaps consult together and find some way out of it. -But I repeat that I do not come to force your confidence. I come, Henry, to -express my regret, and to mourn with you over a husband and a father whom we -both loved dearly,”—and, moved by a sudden impulse of affection, -she bent down and kissed her son upon the forehead. - - - -He returned the embrace, and said, “Mother, those are the first kind -words that I have heard for a long while from any member of my family; and I -can assure you that I am grateful for them, and shall not forget them, for I -thought that you had come here to revile me like everybody else. You say that -you do not ask my confidence, but fortunately a man can speak out to his mother -without shame, even when he has cause to be ashamed of what he must tell her. -Now listen, mother: as you know, I never was a favourite in this house; I dare -say through my own fault, but so it is. From boyhood everybody more or less -looked down upon me, and, with the exception of yourself, I doubt if anybody -cared for me much. Well, I determined to make my own way in the world and to -show you all that there was something in me, and to a certain extent I -succeeded. I worked hard to succeed too; I denied myself in many ways, and -above all I kept myself clear from the vices that most young men fall into in -one shape or another. Then came this dreadful business of my brother’s -death, and just as I was beginning really to get on I was asked to leave the -profession which was everything to me. From the letters that reached me I -gathered that in some mysterious way it lay in my power, and in mine alone, to -pull the family affairs out of the mire if I returned home. So I retired from -the Service and I came, because I thought that it was my duty, for hitherto I -have tried to do my duty when I could see my way to it. On the first night of -my arrival here I learned the true state of affairs from Ellen, and I learned -also what it was expected that I should do to remedy it—namely, that I -should marry a young lady with whom I had but a slight acquaintance, but who, -as it chances, is the owner of the mortgages on this estate.” - - - -“It was most indiscreet of Ellen to put the matter like that,” said -Lady Graves. - - - -“Ellen is frequently indiscreet, mother; but doubtless it never occurred -to her that I should object to doing what she is so ready to do for -herself—marry for money. I am glad you see, however, that her method was -not exactly calculated to prepossess any man in favour of a marriage, of which -he did not happen to have thought for himself. Still the young lady came, and I -liked her exceedingly; I liked her more than any woman that I had met before, -the one inexplicable thing about her to my mind—being why on earth she -should wish to marry me, as I understand is, or was, the case.” - - - -“You foolish boy!” said Lady Graves, smiling a little; “do -you not understand that she had become fond of you during that week when you -were here together the year before last?” - - - -“I can’t say that I understand it, mother, for I had not much to do -with her. But even if it is so, it does not satisfactorily explain why her -father should be equally anxious for this match. Of course I know that he has -given lots of reasons, but I cannot help thinking that there is something -behind them all. However, that is neither here nor there.” - - - -“I fancy, Henry, that the only thing behind Mr. Levinger’s reasons -is an earnest desire for the happiness of a daughter to whom he is much -attached.” - - - -“Well, mother, as I was saying, I took a great fancy to the girl, and -though I did not at all like the idea of making advances to a lady to whom we -are under such obligations, I determined to put my pride in my pocket, and, if -I still continued to admire her after further acquaintance, to ask her if she -would allow me to share her fortune, for I think that is an accurate way of -putting it. So I went off to stay at Monk’s Lodge, and the chapter of -troubles began. The girl who indirectly was the cause of my accident became my -nurse, and it seems that she grew attached to me, and—I grew attached to -her. It was not wonderful: you know her; she is very beautiful, she has a good -heart, and in most ways she is a lady. In short, she is a woman who in any less -prejudiced country would certainly be received into society if she had the -means to enter it. Well, so things went on without anything remarkable -happening, until recently.” And he repeated to her fairly and fully all -that had passed between himself and Joan. - - - -“Now, mother,” he said, “I have made my confession to you, -and perhaps you will understand how it came about that, fresh from such scenes, -and taken as I was utterly by surprise, I was unable to promise what my father -asked. I do not know what your judgment of my conduct may be; probably you -cannot think of it more harshly than I do myself, and in excuse of it I can -only say that the circumstances were strange, and, as I have discovered, I love -the woman. What, therefore, is my duty towards her?” “Did you ever -promise to marry her, Henry?” “Promise? Yes, I said that I would; -for, as you know, I am a bit of a puritan, although I have little right to that -title now, and it seemed to me that marriage was the only way out of the -trouble.” - - - -“Does she expect you to marry her, then?” - - - -“Certainly not. She declares that she would not allow it on any -consideration. But this goes for nothing, for how can I take advantage of her -inexperience and self-sacrificing folly? You have the whole facts: what do you -think that I should do?” - - - -“Henry, I am older than you are; I have seen a great deal of life, and -perhaps you, who are curiously unworldly, may think me the reverse. I accept -your story as it stands, well knowing that you have told me the exact truth, -without hiding anything which would weigh against yourself; and on the face of -that story, I cannot say that I consider it to be your duty to marry this poor -girl, with whom, through your own weakness and folly, you have placed yourself -in such false relations though undoubtedly it is your duty to do everything in -your power to provide for her. If you had deliberately set yourself to lead her -astray, the case might be different; only, were you capable of such -conduct—which I know that you are not—you would not now be -tormented by doubts as to your duty towards her. You talk of Joan Haste’s -‘inexperience.’ Are you sure that this is so? The whole history of -her conduct seems to show experience, and even art, or at any rate a knowledge, -very unusual in a girl of her age and position, of how best to work upon a -man’s tenderness and to move his feelings. That art may have been -unconscious, an art which Nature gave her; and that knowledge may have been -intuitive, for of course all things are possible, and I can only judge of what -is probable. At least it is clear that she never expected that you would marry -her, because she knew that such an act would bring you to ruin, and I respect -her for her honesty in this particular.” - - - -“Should a man shrink from his duty because duty means disaster, -mother?” - - - -“Not if it _is_ his duty, perhaps, Henry; but in the present case -that, to say the least of it, is not proved. I will answer your question by -another: Should a man neglect many undoubted duties, among them that of obeying -the dying petition of his father, in order to indulge his conscience with the -sense that he has fulfilled one which is open to doubt? Henry, I do not wish to -push you about this matter, for I see that, even if you do not love Joan Haste -so much as you think, at the least you are strongly attracted to her; also I -see that your self-questionings are honest, and that you are anxious to do what -is right, independently of the possible consequences to yourself. But I do pray -of you not to be led away, and, if you can avoid it, not to see this girl again -at present. Take time to consider: one month, two, three, as you like; and in -the meanwhile do not commit yourself beyond redemption. Remember all that is at -stake; remember that a man in your position is not entirely his own master. Of -myself I will not speak. Why should I? I am old, and my day is done; such years -as remain to me I can drag out in obscurity without repining, for my memories -are enough for me, and I have little care left for any earthly advantage. But -of your family I do not venture to speak. It has been here so long, and your -father loved this place so well, that it breaks my heart to think of its going -to the hammer—after three centuries,”—and the old lady turned -her head and wiped her eyes furtively, then added: “And it will go to the -hammer—it must. I know Mr. Levinger well; he is a curious man, and -whatever his real reasons may be, his mind is set upon this marriage. If he is -disappointed about it, he will certainly take his remedy; indeed, he is bound -to do so, for the money at stake is not his, but his daughter’s.” - - - -“You tell me to take three months to consider, mother; but, looking at -the matter from the family point of view, how am I to do this? It seems that we -have scarcely a sixpence in the world, and a heavy accumulation of debt. Where -is the money to come from to enable us to carry on for another three -months?” - - - -“Beyond the overdue interest there are not many floating liabilities, -Henry, for I have always made it a practice to pay cash. Of course, when the -farms come on hand at Michaelmas the case will be different, for then, unless -they can be let in the meantime, a large sum of money must be found to pay the -covenants and take them over, or they must go out of cultivation. Till then, -however, you need have no anxiety, for, as it chances, at the moment I have -ample funds at command.” - - - -“Ample funds! Where do they come from?” - - - -“Of all my fortune, Henry, there remained to me my jewels, the diamonds -and sapphires that my grandmother left me, which she inherited from her -grandmother. They should have gone to Ellen, but when our need was pressing, -rather than trouble your poor father any more, I sold them secretly. They -realized between two and three thousand pounds—about half their value, I -believe—of which I have a clear two thousand left. Do not tell Ellen of -this, I pray you, for she would be very angry, and I do not feel fit to bear -any scenes at present. And now, my dear, it is luncheon time, so I think that I -will leave you, hoping that you will consider the advice which I have ventured -to give you.” And again she kissed him affectionately and left the room. - - - -“Sold her jewels!” thought Henry, “the jewels that she valued -above any possession in the world! My poor mother! And if I marry this girl, or -do not marry the other, what will her end be? The workhouse, I suppose, unless -Milward gives her a home out of charity, or I can earn sufficient to keep her, -of which I see no prospect. Indeed, I begin to think that she is right, and -that my first duty is owing to my family. And yet how can I abandon Joan? Or if -I do, how can I marry Emma Levinger with this affair upon my hands, begun since -I became acquainted with her? Oh! what an unhappy man am I! Well, there is one -thing to be said,—my evil doing is being repaid to me full measure, -pressed down and running over. It is not often that punishment follows so hard -upon the heels of error.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -CONGRATULATIONS. - - - - -Joan was not really ill: she had contracted a chill, accompanied by a certain -amount of fever, but this was all. Indeed, the fever had already taken her on -the night of her love scene with Henry, and to its influence upon her nerves -may be attributed a good deal of the conduct which to Lady Graves had seemed to -give evidence of art and experienced design. Nothing further was said by her -aunt as to her leaving the house, and things went on as usual till the morning -when she woke up and learned that her lover had gone under such sad -circumstances. It was a shock to her, but she grieved more for him than for -herself. Indeed, she thought it best that he should be gone; it even seemed to -her that she had anticipated it, that she had always known he must go and that -she would see him no more. The curtain was down for ever; her short tragedy had -culminated and was played out, so Joan believed, unaware that its most moving -acts were yet to come. It was terrible, and henceforth her life must be a -desolation; but it cannot be said that as yet her conscience caused her to -grieve for what had been: sorrow and repentance were to overtake her when she -learned all the trouble and ruin which her conduct had caused. - - - -No, at present she was glad to have met him and to have loved him, winning some -share of his love in return; and she thought then that she would rather go -broken-hearted through the remainder of her days than sponge out those memories -and be placid and prosperous without them. Whatever might be her natural -longings, she had no intention of carrying the matter any further, least of all -had she any intention of persuading or even of allowing Henry to marry her, for -she had been quite earnest and truthful in her declarations to him upon this -point. She did not even desire that his life should be burdened with her in any -way, or that she should occupy his mind to the detriment of other persons and -affairs; though of course she hoped that he would always think of her with -affection, or perhaps with love, and she would have been no true woman had she -not done so. Curiously enough, Joan seemed to expect that Henry would adopt the -same passive attitude towards herself which she contemplated adopting towards -him. She knew that men are for the most part desirous of burying their dead -loves out of sight—sometimes, in their minds, marking the graves with a -secret monument visible to themselves alone, be it a headstone with initials -and a date, or only a withered wreath of flowers; but more often suffering the -naked earth of oblivion to be trodden hard upon them, as though fearful lest -their poor ghosts should rise again, and, taking flesh and form, come back to -haunt a future in which they have no place. - - - -She did not understand that Henry was not of this class, that in many respects -his past life had been different to the lives of the majority of men, or that -she was absolutely the first woman who had ever touched his heart. Therefore -she came to the conclusion, sadly enough, and with an aching jealousy which she -could not smother, but with resignation, that the next important piece of news -she was likely to hear about her lover would be that of his engagement to Miss -Levinger. - - - -As it chanced, tidings of a totally different nature reached her on the -following day, though whether they were true or false she could not tell. It -was her aunt who brought them, when she came in with her supper, for Joan was -still confined to her room. - - - -“There are nice doings up there at Rosham,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, -eyeing her niece curiously. - - - -Joan’s heart gave a leap. - - - -“What’s the matter?” she asked, trying not to look too -interested. - - - -“Well, the old baronet is gone for one thing, as was expected that he -must; and they say that he slipped off while he was cursing and swearing at his -son, the Captain, which don’t seem a right kind of way to die, to my -mind.” - - - -“Died cursing and swearing at Captain Graves? Why?” murmured Joan -faintly. - - - -“I can’t tell you rightly. All I know about it came to me from -Lucilla Smith, who is own sister to Mary Roberts, the cook up there, who, it -seems, was listening at the door, or, as she puts it, waiting to be called in -to say good-bye to her master, and she had it from the gardener’s -boy.” - - - -“She? Who had it, aunt?” - - - -“Why, Lucilla Smith had, of course. Can’t you understand plain -English? I tell you that old Sir Reginald sat up in bed and cursed and swore at -the Captain till he was black in the face. Then he screeched out loud and -died.” - - - -“How dreadful!” said Joan. “But what was he cursing -about?” - - - -“About? Why, because the Captain wouldn’t promise to marry Miss -Levinger, who’s got bonds on all the property, down to the plate in the -pantry, in her pocket. That old fox of a father of hers stole them when he was -agent there, I expect——” Here Mrs. Gillingwater checked -herself, and added hastily, “But that’s neither here nor there; at -any rate she’s got them, and can sell the Graves’s up to-morrow if -she likes, which being so, it ain’t wonderful that old Sir Reginald -cursed when he heard his son turn round coolly and say that he wouldn’t -marry her at any price.” - - - -“Did he tell why he wouldn’t marry her?” asked Joan, with a -desperate effort to look unconcerned beneath her aunt’s searching gaze. - - - -“I don’t know that he did. If so, Lucilla doesn’t know, so I -suppose that Mary Roberts couldn’t hear. She did hear one thing, however: -she heard your name, miss, twice, so there wasn’t no mistake about -it.” - - - -“My name? Oh! my name!” gasped Joan. - - - -“Yes, yours, unless there is another Joan Haste in these parts, which I -haven’t heard on. And now, perhaps, you will tell me what it was doing -there.” - - - -“How can I tell you when I don’t know, aunt?” - - - -“How can you tell me when you won’t say, miss? That’s what -you mean. Look here, Joan: do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose that I -haven’t seen through your little game? Why, I have watched it all along, -and I’m bound to say that you don’t play half so bad for a young -hand. Well, it seems that you pulled it off this time, and I’m not saying -but what I am proud of you, though I still hold that you would have done better -to have married Samuel; for I believe, when all is said and finished, he will -be the richer man of the two. It’s very nice to be a baronet’s -lady, no doubt; but if you have nothing to live on—and I don’t -fancy that there are many pickings left up there at Rosham—I can’t -see that it helps you much forrarder.” - - - -“What do you mean, aunt?” - - - -“Mean? Now, Joan, don’t you begin trying your humbug on me: keep -that for the men. You’re not going to pretend that you haven’t been -making love to the Captain—I beg his pardon, Sir Henry he is now—as -hard as you know how. Well, it seems that you have bamboozled him finely, and -have made him so sweet on your pretty face that he’s going to throw over -marrying the Levinger girl in order to marry you, for that’s what it -comes to, and you may very well be proud of it. But don’t you be carried -away; you wouldn’t take my advice about Samuel Rock, and I spoke to you -rough that night on purpose, for I wanted you to make sure of one or the other. -Well, take my advice about Sir Henry. Remember there is many a slip between the -cup and the lip, and that out of sight is apt to be out of mind. Don’t -you keep out of sight too long. You strike while the iron is hot, and marry -him; on the quiet if you like, but marry him. Of course there will be a row, -but all the rows under heaven can’t unmake a wife and a ladyship. Now -listen to me. I have gone out of my way to talk to you like this, because you -are a fine girl and I’m fond of you, which is more than you are of me, -and I should like to see you get on in the world; and perhaps when you’re -up you will not forget your old aunt who is down. I tell you I have gone out of -my way to give you this tip, for there’s some as won’t be pleased -to see you turned into Lady Graves. Yes, there’s some who’d give a -good deal to stop it: Samuel Rock, for instance; he don’t like parting, -but he’d lay down something handsome, and I doubt if I’ll ever see -the coin out of you that I might out of him and others, for after all you -won’t be a rich woman at best. However, we must sacrifice ourselves at -times, and that’s what I am doing on your account, Joan. And now, if you -want to get a note up to Rosham, I will manage it for you. But perhaps you had -better wait and go yourself.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘“My name? Oh! my -name!” gasped Joan.’ - - - - -Joan listened to this long address in amazement mingled with scorn. It would be -hard to say which of its qualities disgusted her the most—its coarseness, -its cunning, or its avarice. Above all these, however, it revolted her to learn -that her aunt thought her capable of conceiving and carrying out so disgraceful -a plot. What must the woman’s mind be like, that she could imagine such -evil in others? And what had she, Joan, ever done, that she should be so -misunderstood? - - - -“I don’t understand you, aunt: I don’t wish to marry Captain -Graves,” she said simply. - - - -“Do you mean to tell me that you ain’t blind gone on him, and that -he’s not gone on you, Joan?” - - - -“I said that I did not wish to marry him,” she answered, evading -the question. “To marry a girl like me would be the ruin of him.” - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater stared at her niece as she lay on the bed before her; then -she burst into a loud laugh. - - - -“Oho! you’re a simple one, you are,” she said, pointing her -finger at her. “You’re downright innocent, if ever a girl was, with -your hands folded and your hair hanging about your face, like a half-blown -angel, more fit for a marble monument than for this wicked world. You -couldn’t give anybody a kiss on the quiet, could you? Your lips would -blush themselves off first, wouldn’t they? And as for marrying him if his -ma didn’t like it, that you’d never, never do. I’ll tell you -what it is, Joan: I’m getting a better opinion of you every day; you -ain’t half the fool I thought you, after all. You remember what I said to -you about Samuel, and you think that I’ve got his money in my pocket and -other people’s too perhaps, and that I’m just setting a trap for -you and going to give you away. Well, as a matter of fact I wasn’t this -time, so you might just as well have been open with me. But there you are, -girl: go about your own business in your own fashion. I see that you can be -trusted to look after yourself, and I won’t spoil sport. I’ve been -blind and deaf and dumb before now—yes, blinder than you think, perhaps, -for all your psalm-singing air—and I can be again. And now I’m off; -only I tell you fair I won’t work for nothing, so don’t you begin -to whine about poor relations when once you’re married, else I may find a -way to make it hot for you yet, seeing that there’s things you -mightn’t like spoken of when you’re ‘my lady’ and -respectable.” And with this jocular threat on her lips Mrs. Gillingwater -vanished. - - - -When her aunt had gone, Joan drew the sheet over her face as though she sought -to hide herself, and wept in the bitterness of her shame. She was what she was; -but did she deserve to be spoken to like this? She would rather a hundred times -have borne her aunt’s worst violence than be made the object of her -loathly compliments. How much did this woman know? Surely everything, or she -would not dare to address her as she had done. She had no longer any respect -for her, and that must be the reason of her odious assumption that there was -nothing to choose between them, that they were equal in evil. She would not -believe her when she said that she had no wish to marry Henry—she thought -that the speech was dictated by a low cunning like her own. Well, perhaps it -was fortunate that she did not believe her; for, if she had, what would have -happened? - - - -Very soon it became clear to Joan that on this point it would be best not to -undeceive her aunt, since to do so might provoke some terrible catastrophe of -which she could not foresee the consequences. After further reflection, another -thing became clear to her: that she must vanish from Bradmouth. What was truth -and what was falsehood in Mrs. Gillingwater’s story, she could not say, -but obviously it contained an alloy of fact. There had been some quarrel -between Henry and his dying father, and in that quarrel her name had been -mentioned. Strange as it seemed, it might even be that he had declared an -intention of marrying her. Now that she thought of it, she remembered that he -had spoken of such a thing several times. The idea opened new possibilities to -her—possibilities of a happiness of which she had not dared to dream; -but, to her honour be it said, she never allowed them to take root in her -mind—no, not for a single hour. She knew well what such a marriage would -mean for Henry, and that was enough. She must disappear; but whither? She had -no means and no occupation. Where, then, could she go? - - - -For two or three days she stayed in her room, keeping her aunt as much at a -distance as possible, and pondering on these matters, but without attaining to -any feasible solution of them. - - - -On the day of Sir Reginald’s funeral, which Mrs. Gillingwater attended, -and of which she gave her a full account, she received Henry’s message -brought to her by the doctor, and returned a general answer to it. Next morning -her uncle Gillingwater, who chanced to be sober, brought her word that Mr. -Levinger had called, and asked that she would favour him with a visit at -Monk’s Lodge so soon as she was about again. Joan wondered for what -possible reason Mr. Levinger could wish to see her, and her conscience answered -that it had to do with Henry. Well, if he was not her guardian, he took an -undefined interest in her, and it occurred to her that he might be able to help -her to escape from Bradmouth, so for this reason, if for no other, she -determined to comply with his wish. - - - -Two days later, accordingly, Joan started for Monk’s Lodge, having -arranged with the local grocer to give her a lift to the house, whither his van -was bound to deliver some parcels; for, after being laid up, she did not feel -equal to walking both ways. About two o’clock, arrayed in her best grey -dress, she went to the grocer’s shop and waited outside. Presently she -heard a shrill voice calling to her from the stable-yard, that joined the shop, -and a red-haired boy poked his head through the open door. - - - -“Sorry to keep you waiting, Joan Haste,” said the boy, who was none -other than Willie Hood; “but I’ve been cleaning up the old -horse’s bit in honour of having such a swell as you to drive. Stand clear -now; here we come.” And he led out the van, to which a broken-kneed -animal was harnessed, that evidently had seen better days. - - - -“Why, you’re never going to drive me, Willie, are you?” asked -Joan in alarm, for she remembered the tale of that youth’s equestrian -efforts. - - - -“Yes, I am, though. Don’t you be skeered. I know what you’re -thinking of; but I’ve been grocer’s boy for a month now, and have -learned all about hosses and how to ride and drive them. Come, up you get, -unless you’d rather walk behind.” - - - -Thus adjured, Joan did get up, and they started. Soon she perceived that her -fears as to Willie Hood’s powers of driving were not ill-founded; but, -fortunately, the animal that drew them was so reduced in spirit that it did not -greatly matter whether any one was guiding him or no. - - - -“Is _he_ all right again?” said Willie presently, as, leaving -the village, they began to travel along the dusty road that lay like a ribbon -upon the green crest of the cliff. - - - -“Do you mean Captain Graves?” - - - -“Yes: who else? I saw him as they carried him into the Crown and Mitre -that night. My word! he did look bad, and his trouser was all bloody too. I -never seed any one so bloody before; though, now I come to think of it, you -were bloody also, just like people in a story-book. That was a bad beginning -for you both, they say.” - - - -“He is better; but he is not all right,” answered Joan, with a -sigh. Why would every one talk to her about Henry? “Captain Graves is not -here now, you know.” - - - -“No; he’s up at the Hall. And the old Squire is dead and buried. I -went to see his funeral, I did. It was a grand sight—such lots of -carriages, and such a beautiful polished coffin, with a brass cross and a plate -with red letters on it. I’d like to be buried like that myself some -day.” - - - -Joan smiled, but made no answer; and there was silence for a little time, while -Willie thrashed the horse till his face was the colour of his hair. - - - -“I say, Joan,” he said, when at last that long-suffering animal -broke into a shuffling trot, which caused the dust to rise in clouds, “is -it true that you are going to marry him?” - - - -“Marry Sir Henry Graves! Of course not. What put that idea into your -head, you silly boy?” - - - -“I don’t know; it’s what folks say, that’s all. At -least, they say that if you don’t you ought to—though I don’t -rightly understand what they mean by that, unless it is that you are pretty -enough to marry anybody, which I can see for myself.” - - - -Joan blushed crimson, and then turned pale as the dust. - - - -“No need to pink up because I pay you a compliment, Joan,” said -Willie complacently. - - - -“Folks say?” she gasped. “Who are the folks that say such -things?” - - - -“Everybody mostly—mother for one. But she says that you’re -like to find yourself left on the sand with the tide going out, like a dogfish -that’s been too greedy after sprats, for all that you think yourself so -clever, and are so stuck-up about your looks. But then mother never did like a -pretty girl, and I don’t pay no attention to her—not a mite; and if -I was you, Joan, I’d just marry him to spite them.” - - - -“Look here, Willie,” answered Joan, who by now was almost beside -herself: “if you say another word about me and Sir Henry Graves, -I’ll get out and walk.” - - - -“Well, I dare say the old horse would thank you if you did. But I -don’t see why you should take on so just because I’ve been -answering your questions. I expect it’s all true, and that you do want to -marry him, or else you’re left on the beach like the dogfish. But if you -are, it’s no reason why you should be cross with me.” - - - -“I’m not cross, Willie, I am not indeed; but you don’t -understand that I can’t bear this kind of gossip.” - - - -“Then you’d better get out of Bradmouth as fast as you can, Joan, -for you’ll have lots of it to bear there, I can tell you. Why, I’m -downright sick of it myself,” answered the merciless Willie. Then he -lapsed into a dignified silence, that for the rest of the journey was only -broken by his exhortations to the sweating horse, and the sound of the whacks -which he rained upon its back. - - - -At length they reached Monk’s Lodge, and drove round to the side -entrance, where Joan got down hurriedly and walked to the servants’ door. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION. - - - - -On the day before Sir Reginald’s funeral Mr. Samuel Rock presented -himself at Monk’s Lodge, and was shown into the study. As he entered Mr. -Levinger noticed that his mien was morose, and that dejection beamed from his -pale blue eyes, if indeed dejection can be said to beam. - - - -“I fancy that my friend’s love affairs have gone wrong,” he -thought to himself; “he would scarcely look so sulky about a cow -shed.” Yet it was of this useful building that he began to speak. - - - -“Well, Mr. Rock,” he said cheerfully, “have they dug out the -foundations of that shed yet?” - - - -“Shed, sir?” answered Samuel (he pronounced it _shodd_): -“I haven’t come to speak to you about no sheds. I have come to -speak to you about the advice you gave me as to Joan Haste.” - - - -“Oh! yes, I remember: you wanted to marry her, didn’t you? Well, -did you take it?” - - - -“I took it, sir, to my sorrow, for she wouldn’t have nothing to do -with me. I went so far as to try and kiss her.” - - - -“Yes. And then?” - - - -“And then, sir, she pushed me off, that’s all, and stood there -saying things that I would rather forget. But here’s the story, -sir.” And with a certain amount of glozing and omission, he told the tale -of his repulse. - - - -“Your case does not seem very promising,” said Mr. Levinger -lightly, for he did not wish to show his vexation; “but perhaps the lady -will still change her mind. As you know, it is often darkest before the -dawn.” - - - -“Oh yes, sir,” answered Samuel, with a kind of sullen confidence, -“sooner or later she will change her mind, never fear, and I shall marry -her, I am sure of it; but she won’t change her heart, that’s the -point, for she’s given that to another.” - - - -“Well, perhaps, if you get the rest of her, Mr. Rock, you may leave the -heart to the other, for that organ is not of very much practical use by itself, -is it? Might I ask who the other is?” - - - -Samuel shook his head gloomily, and answered: - - - -“It’s all very well for you to joke about hearts, sir, as -haven’t got one—I mean, as don’t take no interest in them; -but they’re everything to me—at least Joan’s is. And as for -who it is, sir, if half I hear is true, it’s that Captain, I mean Sir -Henry Graves. You warned me against him, you remember, and you spoke strong -because I grew angry. Well, sir, I did right to be angry, for it’s him -she loves, Mr. Levinger, and that’s why she hates me. They’re -talking about them all over Bradmouth.” - - - -“Indeed. Well, Bradmouth always was a great place for scandal, and I -should not pay much attention to their tongues, were I you, Mr. Rock. Girls -will have their fancies, you know, and I do not think it is necessary to hunt -round for explanations because this one happens to flout you. I dare say it -will all come right in time, if you have a little patience. Anyway there will -be no more gossip about Joan Haste and Sir Henry Graves, for he has gone home, -where he will find plenty of other things to occupy him, poor fellow. And now I -have a plan of the shed here: perhaps you can explain it to me.” - - - -Samuel expounded his plan and went away, this time without the offer of any -port wine, for it seemed to his host that he was already quite sufficiently -excited. - - - -When he had gone, Mr. Levinger rose from his chair and began to limp up and -down the room, as was his custom when thinking deeply. To Samuel he had made -light of the talk about Sir Henry Graves and Joan Haste, but he knew well that -this was no light matter. He had been kept informed of the progress of their -intimacy by his paid spy, Mrs. Gillingwater, but at the time he could find no -pretext that would enable him to interfere without exposing himself to the risk -of questions, which he preferred should be left unasked. On the previous day -only, Mrs. Gillingwater had come to see him, and given him her version of the -rumours which were flying about as to the scene that occurred at the death-bed -of Sir Reginald. Discount these rumours as he would, he could not doubt but -that they had a basis in fact. That Henry had declined to bind himself to marry -his daughter Emma was clear; and it seemed probable that this refusal, made in -so solemn an hour, had something to do with the girl Joan. And now, on the top -of it, came Samuel Rock with the story of his angry and ignominious rejection -by this same Joan, a rejection that he unhesitatingly attributed to her -intimacy or intrigue with Henry Graves. - - - -The upshot of these reflections was the message received by Joan summoning her -to Monk’s Lodge. - - - -Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover her -equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr. Levinger. -Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her straight to the study, -where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook hands with her courteously, and -invited her to be seated. - - - -“You sent for me, sir,” she began nervously. - - - -“Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little -matter.” And he went to the window and stood with his face to the light, -so that she could only see the back of his head. - - - -“Yes, sir.” - - - -“I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by -alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not wish to -pain you.” - - - -“I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir,” -answered Joan, with some warmth, “that it really cannot matter who speaks -to me about them. I know what I am, though I don’t know any particulars; -and such people should have no feelings.” - - - -Mr. Levinger’s shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still -addressing the window-pane, “I fear I can give you no particulars now, -Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people are -responsible for your—unfortunate—position.” - - - -“The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,” -answered Joan aptly enough. “Not that I have a right to judge -anybody,” and she sighed. - - - -“As I have said,” went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her -interruption, “I am not in a position to give you any details about those -circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so would be to -violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise.” - - - -“What confidence and what promise, sir?” - - - -Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, “Your dead father’s -confidence, and my promise to him.” - - - -“So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of -every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even after he -was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think worse of him than -ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have been a coward—yes, -such a coward that I can hardly believe it.” - - - -“The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such -assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from the fact -that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not have been difficult -to invent a false name for your father.” - - - -“No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later I -should have found out that it was false.” - - - -“Without entering into argument on the question of the morality of his -decision, which is a matter for which he alone was responsible,” said Mr. -Levinger, in an irritated voice, “as I have told you, your father decided -that it would be best that you should never know his name, or anything about -him, except that he was of gentle birth. I believe that it was not cowardice, -as you suggest, which made him take this course, but a regard for the rights -and feelings of others whom he left behind him.” - - - -“And have I no rights and feelings, sir, and did he not leave me behind -him?” Joan answered bitterly. “Is it wonderful that I, who have no -mother, should wish to know who my father was? and could he not have foreseen -that I should wish it? Was it not enough that he should desert me to be brought -up in a public-house by a man who drinks, and a rough woman who hates me and -would like to see me as bad as herself, with no one even to teach me my prayers -when I was little, or to keep me from going to the bad when I grew older? Why -should he also refuse to let me know his name, or the kin from which I come? -Perhaps I am no judge of such matters, sir; but it seems to me that if ever a -man behaved wickedly to a poor girl, my father has done so to me, and, dead or -living, I believe that he will have to answer for it one day, since there is -justice for us all somewhere.” - - - -Suddenly Mr. Levinger wheeled round, and Joan saw that his face was white, as -though with fear or anger, and that his quick eyes gleamed. - - - -“You wicked girl!” he said in a low voice, “are you not -ashamed to call down curses upon your own father, your dead father? Do you not -know that your words may be heard—yes, even outside this earth, and -perhaps bring endless sorrow on him? If he has wronged you, you should still -honour him, for he gave you life.” - - - -“Honour him, sir? Honour the man who deserted me and left me in the mud -without a name? It isn’t such fathers as this that the Prayer-book tells -us to honour. He is dead, you say, and beyond me; and how can my words touch -the dead? But even if they can, could they do him more harm, wherever he is, -than he has done to me here? Oh! you do not understand. I could forgive him -everything, but I can’t forgive that he should make me go through my life -without even knowing his name, or who he was. Had he only left me a kind word, -or a letter, I dare say that I could even have loved him, though I never saw -him. As it is, I think I hate him, and I hope that one day he will know -it.” - - - -As she said these words, Mr. Levinger slowly turned his back upon her and began -to look out of the window again, as though he felt himself unable to face the -righteous indignation that shone in her splendid eyes. - - - -“Joan Haste,” he said, speaking quietly but with effort, “if -you are going to talk in this way I think that we had better bring our -interview to an end, as the conversation is painful to me. Once and for all I -tell you, that if you are trying to get further information out of me you will -fail.” - - - -“I have said my say, sir, and I shall ask you no more questions, except -one; but none the less I believe that the truth will come out some time, for -others must have known what you know, and perhaps after all my father had a -conscience. I’m told that people often see things differently when they -come to die, and he may have done so. The question that I want to ask, sir, if -you will be so kind as to answer it, is: You knew my father, so I suppose that -you knew my mother also, though she’s been dead these twenty years. How -did she come by her death, sir? I have heard say that she was drowned, but -nobody seems able to tell me any more about it.” - - - -“I believe that your mother was found dead beneath the cliff opposite the -meres. How she came there is not known, but it is supposed that she missed her -footing in the dark and fell over. The story of her drowning arose from her -being found at high tide in the shallow water; but the medical evidence at the -inquest showed that death had resulted from a fall, and not from -suffocation.” - - - -“My poor mother!” said Joan, with a sigh. “She was unlucky -all her life, it seems, so I dare say that she was well rid of it, and her -death must have been good news to some. There’s only one thing I’m -sorry for—that I wasn’t in her arms when she went over the edge of -that cliff. And now, sir, about the business.” - - - -“Yes, about the business,” replied Mr. Levinger, with a hard little -laugh; “after so much sentiment it is quite refreshing to come to -business, although unfortunately this has its sentimental side also. You must -understand, Joan, that the parent whom you are so hard on, and whose agent I -chanced to be in bygone years, left me more or less in a fiduciary position as -regards yourself—that is to say, he entrusted me with a certain sum of -money to be devoted to your education, and generally to your advancement in -life, making the proviso that you were not to be brought up as a lady, since, -rightly or wrongly, he did not think that this would conduce to your happiness. -Well, I have strained the letter of my instructions, and you have had a kind of -half-and-half education. Now I think that I should have done better to have -held closer to them; for so far as I can judge, the result has been to make you -dissatisfied with your position and surroundings. However, that is neither here -nor there. You are now of age; the funds at my disposal are practically -exhausted; and I desire to wind up my trust by settling you happily in life, if -I can do so. You will wonder what I am driving at. I will tell you. I -understand that a very worthy farmer, a tenant of mine, who is also a large -freeholder—I mean Mr. Samuel Rock—wishes to make you his wife. Is -this so?” - - - -“Yes, sir.” - - - -“Very well. Don’t think me rude; but I should be glad to know if -you are inclined to fall in with his views.” - - - -“On the whole, sir,” answered Joan composedly, “I think that -I would rather follow my mother’s example and walk over the cliff at high -tide.” - - - -“That statement seems pretty comprehensive,” said Mr. Levinger, -after a pause; “and, to be frank, I don’t see any way round it. I -am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline -to have anything to do with him?” - - - -“Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any -circumstances under which I would consent to marry him.” - - - -“Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have -been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity—a -great pity—especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty -roughly handled of late;—in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring -disgrace upon it.” - - - -“You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or -leave undone, can matter to nobody. I have only myself to think of.” - - - -“Really this is a most unfortunate tone for any young woman to adopt; -still, I did hope that, if you considered nobody else, you would at least -consider your own reputation. Perhaps you know to what I allude?” - - - -“Yes, sir; I know.” - - - -“Might I ask you if there is any truth in it?” - - - -Then for the first time Joan lied. So far as she was aware, she had never -before told a deliberate falsehood; but now she had entered on a path in which -falsehood of necessity becomes a weapon of self-defence, to be used at all -times and places. She did not pause to think; she knew that she must protect -herself and her lover from this keen-eyed, plausible man, who was searching out -their secret for some purpose of his own. - - - -“No, sir,” she said boldly, looking him in the face, “there -is no truth. I nursed Sir Henry Graves, and I tried to do my duty by him, and -of course people talked about us. For years past I never could speak to a man -but what they talked about me in Bradmouth.” - - - -Mr. Levinger shrugged his shoulders. - - - -“I have asked my question, and I have got my answer. Of course I believe -you; but even if the story were ever so true, I should not have expected any -other reply. Well, I am glad to hear that it is not true, for it would have -been much to the detriment of both yourself and Sir Henry -Graves—especially of Sir Henry Graves.” - - - -“Why especially of Sir Henry, sir? I have always understood that it is -the girl who suffers if there is any talk, because she is the weaker. Not that -talk matters to one like me who has nothing to lose.” - - - -“Because it might interfere with his matrimonial prospects, that is all. -As you may have heard, the affairs of this family are in such a condition that, -if Sir Henry does not marry advantageously, he will be utterly ruined. He may -as well commit suicide as attempt to take a wife without money, however fond he -might be of her, or however charming she was,” Mr. Levinger said -meaningly, watching Joan’s face. - - - -She understood him perfectly, and did not hesitate as to her answer, though it -must have cost her much to speak it. - - - -“I have heard, sir. I have a great regard and respect for Sir Henry -Graves, and I hope that he will settle himself well in life. I happen to know, -also, that there is a young lady who has fortune and is fond of him. I trust -that he will marry her, as she will make him a good wife.” - - - -Mr. Levinger nodded. - - - -“I trust so too, Joan, for everybody’s sake. Thank you for your -good wishes. I was afraid, to speak frankly, that there was some truth in these -tales; that you might selfishly, though naturally enough, adopt a course -towards Sir Henry Graves which would be prejudicial to his true interests; and -that he would possibly be so foolish as to suffer himself to be led -away—as, indeed, any man might be without much blame—by the -affection of such a woman as you are, Joan.” - - - -“I have given you my answer about it, sir. If you think for a minute you -will understand that, had there been any truth in these tales, the more reason -would there be that I should speak as I have done, seeing that no true woman -could wish to injure the man whom she dearly loves, no, not even if it broke -her heart to part with him.” - - - -And Joan turned her head, in a somewhat ineffectual attempt to hide the tears -that welled into her eyes. - - - -Mr. Levinger looked at her with admiration. He did not believe a word of her -statement with reference to herself and Henry. Indeed, he knew it to be false, -and that her denials amounted merely to a formal plea of “not -guilty.” - - - -“Of course, of course,” he said; “but all the same you are a -brave girl, Joan, and I am sure that it will be made up to you in some way or -other. And now—what do you intend to do with yourself?” - - - -“It was of this that I wished to speak to you, sir. I want to go away -from Bradmouth. I am not fit to be a governess: I don’t know enough, and -there are very few people who would care to take me. But I could do as a -shop-girl in London. I have a decent figure, and I dare say that they will -employ me to hang cloaks on for the ladies to look at, only you see I have no -money to start with.” - - - -Mr. Levinger hesitated. Her plan had great advantages from his point of view, -and yet— - - - -“I suppose that you really mean to seek honest employment, Joan? Forgive -me, but—you know you have been talking a little wildly once or twice this -afternoon as to your being without responsibilities to anybody.” - - - -“You need not be afraid, sir,” she said, with a sad smile; “I -want to earn my bread away from here, that is all. If there has been talk about -me in Bradmouth, there shall be none in London, or anywhere else I may -go.” - - - -“I am glad to hear it, Joan. Without some such assurance, an assurance in -which I put the most implicit faith, I could never have helped you in your -plan. As it is, you shall not lack for money. I will give you five-and-twenty -pounds to put in your pocket, and make you an allowance of five pounds a month -for so long as you require it. If you wish to go to London, I know a -respectable woman who takes in girls to lodge, mostly ladies in reduced -circumstances who are earning their living in one way or another. Here is the -address: Mrs. Thomas, 13, Kent Street, Paddington. By the way, you will do well -to get a certificate of character from the clergyman at Bradmouth; my name -would carry no weight, you see. But of course, if you fall into any -difficulties, you will communicate with me at once; and as I have said I -propose to allow you sixty pounds a year, which will be a sufficient sum to -keep you in comfort whether or no you succeed in obtaining employment. Now for -the money,” and he drew his cheque-book from a drawer, but replaced it, -saying, “No, perhaps gold would be more convenient.” - - - -Then he went to a small safe, and, unlocking it, extracted twenty-four pounds -in sovereigns, which, with the exception of some bank-notes, was all that it -contained. - - - -“Twenty-four,” he said, counting them. “I dare say that I can -make up the other sovereign;” and he searched his pockets, producing a -ten-shilling bit and some loose silver. - - - -“Why don’t you give me one of the notes, sir, instead of so much -money?” asked Joan innocently. - - - -“No, no. I always like to make payments in gold, which is the legal -tender, you know; though I am afraid I must give you some silver in this case. -There you are, all but threepence. I shall have to owe you the threepence. -What, you haven’t got a purse? Then tie up the money in the corner of -your pocket-handkerchief, and put it in the bosom of your dress, where it -can’t fall out. I have found that the safest way for a woman to carry -valuables.” - - - -Joan obeyed, saying, “I don’t know if I have to thank you for this -money, sir.” - - - -“Not at all, not at all. It is a portion of your trust fund.” - - - -“I thought you said that the amount was almost exhausted, sir; and if so, -how can you give me this and promise to pay me sixty pounds a year?” - - - -“No, no, you are mistaken; I did not say that—I said it was getting -rather low. But really I don’t quite know how the account stands. I must -look into it. And now, is there anything more?” - - - -“Yes, one thing, sir. I do not want anybody in Bradmouth, or anybody -anywhere, and more especially my aunt, to know whither I have gone, or what my -address is. I have done with the old life, and I wish to begin a new one.” - - - -“Certainly; I understand. Your secret will be safe with me, Joan. And now -good-bye.” - - - -“Good-bye, sir; and many thanks for all that you have done for me in the -past, and for your kindness to-day. You must not think too much of any bitter -words I may have said: at times I remember how lonely I am in the world, and I -think and speak like that, not because I mean it, but because my heart is -sore.” - - - -“It is perfectly natural, and I do not blame you,” answered Mr. -Levinger, as he showed her out of the room. “Only remember what I say: -for aught you know, even the dead may have ears to hear and hearts to feel, and -when you judge them, they, whose mouths are closed, cannot return to explain -what you believe to be their wickedness. Where are you going? To the kitchen? -No, no—the front door, if you please. Good-bye again: good luck to -you!” - - - -“Thank Heaven that she has gone!” Mr. Levinger thought to himself, -as he sat down in his chair. “It has been a trying interview, very -trying, for both of us. She is a plucky woman, and a good one according to her -lights. She lied about Henry Graves, but then it was not to be expected that -she would do anything else; and whatever terms they are on, she is riding -straight now, which shows that she must be very fond of him, poor girl.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -“LET IT REMAIN OPEN.” - - - - -Outside the door of Monk’s Lodge, Joan met Emma returning from a walk. As -usual she was dressed in white, and, to Joan’s fancy, looked pure as a -wild anemone in the April sun, and almost as frail. She would have passed her -with a little salutation that was half bow, half courtesy, but Emma held out -her hand. - - - -“How do you do, Miss Haste?” she said, with a slight nervous tremor -of her voice. “I did not know that you were up here,” and she -stopped; but her look seemed to add, “And I wonder why you have -come.” - - - -“I am going to leave Bradmouth, and I came to say good-bye to Mr. -Levinger, who has always been very kind to me,” Joan replied, with -characteristic openness, answering the look and not the words. She felt that, -in the circumstances, it was best that she should be open with Miss Levinger. - - - -Emma looked surprised. “I was not aware that you were going,” she -said; but again Joan felt that what astonished her was not the news of her -approaching departure, but the discovery that she was on intimate terms with -her father. She was right. Emma remembered that he had spoken disparagingly of -this girl, and as though he knew nothing about her. It seemed curious, then, -that he should have been “very kind” to her, and that she should -come to bid him good-bye. Here was another of those mysteries with which her -father’s life seemed to be surrounded, and which so frequently made her -feel uncomfortable and afraid of she knew not what. “Won’t you come -in and have some tea?” Emma asked kindly. - - - -“No, thank you, miss; I have to walk home, and I must not stay any -longer.” - - - -“It is a long way, and you look tired. Let me order the dog-cart for -you.” - - - -“Indeed no, thank you. I haven’t been very well—that is why I -am paler than usual. But I am quite strong again now,” and Joan made a -movement as though to start on her walk. - - - -“If you will allow me, I will come a little way with you,” said -Emma timidly. - - - -“I shall be very pleased, miss.” - - - -The two girls turned, and, for a while, walked side by side in silence, each of -them wondering about the other and the man who was dear to both. - - - -“Are you going to be a nurse?” asked Emma at length. - - - -“Oh no! What made you think that?” - - - -“Because you nursed Captain—I mean Sir Henry—Graves so -wonderfully,” Emma answered, colouring. “Dr. Childs told me he -believed that you saved his life.” - - - -“Then I have done something in the world,” said Joan, with a little -laugh; “but it is the first that I have heard of it.” - - - -“Really! Haven’t they thanked you?” - - - -“Somebody offered to pay me, if you mean that, miss.” - - - -“No, no; I didn’t mean it. I meant that we are all grateful to you, -so very grateful—at least, his family are. Then what do you intend to do -when you go away?” she asked, changing the subject suddenly. - - - -“I don’t know, miss. Earn my living as best I can—as a shop -girl probably.” - - - -“It seems rather terrible starting by oneself out into the unknown, like -this. Does it not frighten you?” - - - -“Perhaps it does,” answered Joan; “but beggars cannot be -choosers. I can’t stop here, where I have nothing to do; and, you see, I -am alone in the world.” - - - -Emma understood the allusion, and said hastily: - - - -“I am very sorry for you—I am indeed, if you won’t be angry -with me for saying so. It is cruel that you should have to suffer like this for -no fault of your own. It would kill me if I found myself in the same -position—yes, I am sure that it would.” - - - -“Luckily, or unluckily, it doesn’t kill me, miss, though sometimes -it is hard enough to bear. You see that the burden is laid upon the broadest -back, and I can carry what would crush you. Still, I thank you for your -sympathy and the kind thought which made you speak it. I have very few memories -of that sort, and I shall never forget this one.” - - - -For another five minutes or so they went on without speaking, since their fount -of conversation seemed to have dried up. At length, beginning to feel the -silence irksome, Emma stopped and held out her hand, saying that she would now -return. - - - -“Would you listen to a word or two from me before you go, miss? And would -you promise not to repeat it no, not to Mr. Levinger even?” said Joan -suddenly. - - - -“Certainly, if you wish it. What is it about?” - - - -“About you and myself and another person. Miss Levinger, I am going away -from here—I believe for good—and I think it likely that we shall -not meet again. It is this that makes me bold to speak to you. When I am gone -you will hear all sorts of tales about me and Sir Henry.” - - - -“Really—really!” said Emma, in some distress. - - - -“Listen to me, miss: there is nothing very dreadful, and I speak for your -own good. While all this sickness was on I learned something I learned that you -are fond of Sir Henry, never mind how——” - - - -“I know how,” murmured Emma. “Oh! did you tell him?” - - - -“I told him nothing; indeed, I had nothing to tell. I saw you faint, and -I guessed the rest. What I want to ask you is this: that you will believe no -stories which may be told against Sir Henry, for he is quite blameless. Now I -have only one thing more to say, and it is, that I have watched him and known -him well; and, if you do not cling to him through good and through evil, you -will be foolish indeed, for there is no better man, and you will never find -such another for a husband. I wish that it may all come about, and that you may -be happy with him through a long life, Miss Levinger.” - - - -Emma heard, and, though vaguely as yet, understood all the nobility and -self-sacrifice of her rival. She also loved this man, and she renounced him for -the sake of his own welfare. Otherwise she would never have spoken thus. - - - -“I do not know what to answer you,” she said. “I do not deny -it is true that I am attached to Sir Henry, though I have no right to be. What -am I to answer you?” - - - -“Nothing, except this: that under any circumstances you will not believe -a word against him.” - - - -“I can promise that, if it pleases you.” - - - -“It does please me; for, wherever I am, I should like to think of you and -of him as married and happy, for I know that he will make you a good husband, -as you will make him a good wife. And now again, good-bye.” - - - -Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly -she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her. - - - -“No,” said Joan, holding her back; “do not kiss me, but -remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can.” - - - -Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing -bewildered upon the road. - - - -“I have done it now,” thought Joan to herself “for good or -evil I have done it, though I don’t quite know what made me speak like -that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think -that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake, -I’d have acted very differently. I’ve been a wicked girl, and -it’s coming home to me. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it -seems I may ruin him, and that I’ll never do; I’d rather make away -with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent -must suffer with the guilty, that’s the truth of it, as I suffer to-day -because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it -is hard—very hard—to have to go away and give him up to her; to -have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know -that if it wasn’t for my being nobody’s child, and not fit to marry -an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him -that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure -that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune, -and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck -flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I -were dead, I do—I do!” - - - -Then the poor girl began to sob as she walked, and, thus sobbing and furtively -wiping away the tears that would run from her eyes, she crept back to the inn -in the twilight, thoroughly weary and broken in spirit. - - - -When Emma reached Monk’s Lodge she found her father leaning over the -front gate, as though he were waiting for her. - - - -“Where have you been, love?” he said, in that tone of tenderness -which he always adopted when speaking to his daughter. “I thought that I -saw you on the road with somebody, and began to wonder why you were so -late.” - - - -“I have been walking with Joan Haste,” she answered absently. - - - -“Why have you been walking with her?” he asked, in a quick and -suspicious voice. “She is very well in her way, but not altogether the -person for you to make a companion of.” - - - -“I don’t know about that, father. I should say that she was quite -my equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better -educated.” - - - -“Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not -become too intimate with her.” - - - -“There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from -Bradmouth.” - - - -“Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else did -she tell you?” - - - -“A good deal about herself. Of course I knew something of her story -before; but I did not know that she felt her position so bitterly. Poor girl! -she has been cruelly treated.” - - - -“I really fail to see it, Emma. Considering the unfortunate circumstances -connected with her, it seems to me that she has been very well treated.” - - - -“I don’t think so, father, and you only believe it because you are -not a woman and do not understand. Suppose, now, that I, your daughter whom you -are fond of, were in her place to-day, without a friend or home, feeling myself -a lady and yet obliged to mix with rough people and to be the mark of their -sneers, jealousy and evil-speaking, should you say that I was well treated? -Suppose that I was going to-morrow to be thrown, without help or experience, on -to the world to earn my bread there, should you——” - - - -“I absolutely decline to suppose anything of the sort, Emma,” he -answered passionately. “Bother the girl! Why does she put such ideas into -your head?” - - - -“Really, father,” she said, opening her eyes wide, “there is -no need for you to get angry with Joan Haste, especially as she told me that -you had always been so kind to her.” - - - -“I am not angry, Emma, but one way and another that girl gives me more -trouble than enough. She might make a very good marriage, and settle herself in -life out of reach of all these disagreeables, about which she seems to have -been whining to you, but she is so pig-headed that she won’t.” - - - -“But surely, father, you wouldn’t expect her to marry a man she -doesn’t like, would you? Why, I have heard you say that you thought it -better that a woman should never be born than that she should be forced into a -distasteful marriage.” - - - -“Circumstances alter cases, and certainly it would have been better if -_she_ had never been born,” answered Mr. Levinger, who seemed quite -beside himself with irritation. “However, there it is: she won’t -marry, she won’t do anything except bring trouble upon others with her -confounded beauty, and make herself the object of scandal.” - - - -“I think that it is time for me to go and dress,” said Emma coldly. - - - -“I forgot, my dear; I should not have spoken of that before you, but -really I feel quite unhinged to-night. I suppose that you have no idea of what -I am alluding to, but if not you soon will have, for some kind friend is sure -to tell you.” - - - -“I—have an idea, father.” - - - -“Very well. Then I may as well tell you that it is all nonsense.” - - - -“I am not sure that it is all nonsense,” she answered, in the same -restrained voice; “but whether it is nonsense or no, it has nothing to do -with me.” - - - -“Nothing to do with you, Emma! Do you mean that? Listen, my love: these -are delicate matters, but if any one may speak to a woman about them, her -father may. Do you remember that nearly two years ago, when you were more -intimate and open with me than you are now, Emma, you told me that Henry Graves -had—well, taken your fancy?” - - - -“I remember. I told you because I did not think it likely that I should -meet him again, and because you said something to me about marrying, and I -wished to put a stop to the idea.” - - - -“Yes, I quite understand; but I gathered from what took place the other -day, when poor Graves was so ill, that you still entertain an affection for -him.” - - - -“Oh! pray do not speak of that,” she murmured: “I cannot bear -it even from you; it covers me with shame. I was mad, and you should have paid -no attention to it.” - - - -“I am sorry to give you pain or to press you, Emma, but I should be -deeply grateful if you would make matters a little clearer. Never mind about -Henry Graves and his attitude towards you: I want to understand yours towards -him. As you know, or if you do not know I beg you to believe it, your happiness -is the chief object of my life, and to secure that happiness to you I have -planned and striven for years. What I wish to learn now is: do you desire to -have done with Henry Graves? If so, tell me at once. It will be a great blow to -me, for he is the man of all others to whom, for many reasons, I should like to -see you married, and doubtless if matters are left alone he will marry you. But -in this affair your wish is my law, and if you would prefer it I will wind up -the mortgage business, cut the connection to-morrow, and then we can travel for -a year in Egypt, or wherever you like. Sometimes I think that this would be the -best course. But it is for you to choose, not for me. You are a woman full -grown, and must know your own mind. Now, Emma.” - - - -“What do you mean by winding up the mortgage business, father?” - - - -“Oh! the Graves’s owe us some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and -it is not a paying investment, that is all. But don’t you bother about -that, Emma: confine yourself to the personal aspect of the question, -please.” - - - -“It is very hard to have to decide so quickly. Can I not give you an -answer in a few days, father?” - - - -“No, Emma, you can’t. I will not be kept halting between two -opinions any longer. I want to know what line to take at once.” - - - -“Well, then, on the whole I think that perhaps you had better not -‘wind up the business.’ I very much doubt if anything will come of -this. I am by no means certain that I wish anything to come of it, but we will -let it remain open.” - - - -“In making that answer, Emma, I suppose that you are bearing in mind -that, though I believe it to be all nonsense, the fact is not to be concealed -that there is some talk about Graves and Joan Haste.” - - - -“I am bearing it in mind, father. The talk has nothing to do with me. I -do not wish to know even whether it is false or true, at any rate at present. -True or false, there will be an end of it now, as the girl is going away. I -hope that I have made myself clear. I understand that, for reasons of your own, -you are very anxious that I should marry Sir Henry Graves, should it come in my -way to do so; and I know that his family desire this also, because it would be -a road out of their money difficulties. What Sir Henry wishes himself I do not -know, nor can I say what I wish. But I think that if I stood alone, and had -only myself to consider, I should never see him again. Still I say, let it -remain open, although I decline to bind myself to anything definite. And now I -must really go and dress.” - - - -“I do not know that I am much ‘for’arder,’ after all, -as Samuel Rock says,” thought Mr. Levinger, looking after her. “Oh, -Joan Haste! you have a deal to answer for.” Then he also went to dress. - - - -The two interviews in which Emma had taken part this afternoon—that with -Joan and that with her father—had, as it were, unsealed her eyes and -opened her ears. Now she saw the significance of many a hint of Ellen’s -and her father’s which hitherto had conveyed no meaning to her, and now -she understood what it was that occasioned the forced manner which had struck -her as curious in Henry’s bearing towards herself, even when he had -seemed most at his ease and pleased with her. Doubtless the knowledge that he -was expected to marry a particular girl, in order that by so doing he might -release debts to the amount of fifty thousand pounds, was calculated to cause -the manner of any man towards that girl to become harsh and suspicious, and -even to lead him to regard her with dislike. This was why he had been forced to -leave the Service, for this reason “his family had desired his -presence,” and the opening in life, the only one that remained to him, to -which he had alluded so bitterly, but significantly enough avoided specifying, -was to marry a girl with fortune, to marry her—Emma Levinger. - - - -It was a humiliating revelation, and though perhaps Emma had less pride than -most women, she felt it sorely. She was deeply attached to this man; her heart -had gone out to him when she first saw him, after the unaccountable fashion -that hearts sometimes affect. Still, having learned the truth, she was quite in -earnest when she told her father that, were she alone concerned, she would meet -him no more. But she was not alone in the matter, and it was this knowledge -that made her pause. To begin with, there was Henry himself to be considered, -for it seemed that if he did not marry her he would be ruined or something very -like it; and, regarding him as she did, it became a question whether she ought -not to outrage her pride in order to save him if he would be saved. Also she -knew that her father wished for this marriage above all things—that it -was, indeed, one of the chief objects of his life; though it was true that in -an inexplicable fit of irritation with everything and everybody, he had but now -offered to bring the affair to nothing. Why he should be so set upon it she -could not understand, any more than she could understand why he should have -been so vexed when she illustrated her sense of the hardship of Joan’s -position by supposing herself to be similarly placed. These were some of the -mysteries by which their life was surrounded, mysteries that seemed to thicken -daily. After what she had seen and heard this afternoon she began to believe -that Joan Haste herself was another of them. Joan had told her that her father -had always been kind to her. Taken by itself there was nothing strange about -this, for Emma knew him to be charitable to many people, but it was strange -that he should have practically denied all knowledge of the girl some few weeks -before. Perhaps he knew more about her than he chose to say—even who she -was and where she came from. - - - -Now it appeared that her presentiment was coming true, and that Joan herself -was playing some obscure and undefined part in the romance or intrigue in which -she, Emma, was the principal though innocent actor. In effect, Joan had given -her to understand that she was in love with Henry, and yet she had implored her -to marry Henry. Why, if Joan was in love with him, should she desire another -woman to marry him? It was positively bewildering, also it was painful, and, -like everything else connected with this business, humbling to her pride. She -felt herself being involved in a network of passions, motives and interests of -which she could only guess the causes, and the issues whereof were dark; and -she longed, ah, how she longed to escape from it back into the freedom of clear -purpose and honest love! But would she ever escape? Could she ever hope to be -the cherished wife of the man whom too soon she had learned to love? Alas! she -doubted it. And yet, whatever was the reason, she could not make up her mind to -have done with him, either for his sake or her own. - - - - - - -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.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘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.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -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._” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -A NEW DEPARTURE. - - - -Joan reached town in safety. Willie Hood called for her box as he had promised, -and conveyed it to the station before anybody at the inn was up, whither she -followed after breakfast. It gave Joan a new and strange sensation to sit -opposite her aunt, who took the opportunity of a -_têteàtête_ to scold and grumble at her from one end of -the meal to the other, and to reflect that they were about to separate, for -aught she knew, never to meet again. She could not pretend any affection for -Mrs. Gillingwater, and yet the thought moved her, for after all she belonged to -the familiar round of daily life from which Joan was about to cut herself -adrift. Still more did it move her, yes, even to silent tears, when for the -last time she looked upon the ancient room that had been hers, and in which she -had nursed Henry back to health. Here every chair and picture was an old -friend, and, what is more, connected with his presence, the presence which -to-day she finally refused. - - - -In turning her back upon that room she forsook all hope of seeing him again, -and not till she had closed its door behind her did she learn how bitter was -this renunciation. - - - -Finding her luggage at the station, she saw it labelled, and took her seat in -the train. Just as it was about to start Willie Hood sauntered up. - - - -“Oh! there you are, Joan Haste,” he said. “I thought that you -would be following your box, so I’ve just dropped round to say good-bye -to you. Good-bye, Joan: I hope that you will have a pleasant time up in London. -Let me know your address, and I shouldn’t wonder if I looked you up there -one day, for somehow I don’t feel as though there were room for another -smart young man in Bradmouth, and the old place won’t seem the same -without you. Perhaps, as you ain’t going to marry him after all,” -and Willie jerked his red head in the direction of Rosham, “if -you’ll have the patience to wait a year or two, we might set up together -yonder in the grocery line.” - - - -“You impudent young monkey!” said Joan, laughing in spite of -herself; and then the train steamed off, leaving Master Willie on the platform, -kissing his hand in the direction of her carriage. - - - -On arriving at Liverpool Street, Joan took a cab and directed the man to Kent -Street, Paddington, whither she came after a drive that seemed interminable. - - - -Kent Street, Paddington, was a shabby little place in the neighbourhood of the -Edgware Road. The street itself ended in a _cul-de-sac,_ a recommendation -to the lover of quiet, as of course no traffic could pass through it; but, -probably on this account, it was the happy hunting ground of hundreds of dirty -children, whose shrill voices echoed through it from dawn to dark, as they -played and fought and screamed. The houses were tall, and covered with a dingy -stucco, that here and there had peeled away in flakes, exposing patches of -yellow brick; the doors were much in need of paint, some of the area railings -were broken, and the window curtains for the most part presented the appearance -of having been dried in a coal cellar. Indeed, the general squalor and the -stuffy odours of the place filled Joan’s heart with dismay, for she had -never before visited the poorer quarters of a large town. - - - -“Are you sure that this is Kent Street, Paddington?” she asked -feebly of the driver. - - - -“If you don’t believe me, miss, look for yourself,” he -answered gruffly, pointing to the corner of a house upon which the name was -painted. “No. 13, you said, didn’t you? Well, here it is, and -here’s your box,” he added, bumping her luggage down upon the -steps; “and my fare is three-and-six, please.” - - - -Joan paid the three-and-sixpence, and the sulky cabman drove off, yelling at -the children in front to get out of the way of his horse, and lashing with his -whip at those who clung behind. - - - -Left to herself, Joan pulled the bell and waited. Nobody came, so she pulled it -again, and yet a third time; after which she discovered that it was broken, and -there being no knocker, was reduced to rapping on the door with the handle of -her umbrella. Presently it was opened with great violence, and a sour-faced -slattern with a red nose asked shrilly,— - - - -“Who the dickens are you, that you come a-banging of the door to bits? -This ain’t the Al’ambra, my fine miss. Don’t you make no -mistake.” - - - -“My name is Haste,” said Joan humbly, “and I have come here -to lodge.” - - - -“Then you’d better haste out of this, for you won’t lodge -here.” And the vixen prepared to slam the door. - - - -“Does not Mrs. Thomas live here?” asked Joan desperately. - - - -“No, she don’t. Mrs. Thomas was sold up three days ago, and -you’ll find her in the Marylebone Workhouse, I believe. I am the -caretaker. Now take that box off those steps, and cut it sharp, or I’ll -send for the policeman.” And before Joan could say another word the door -was shut in her face. - - - -She turned round in despair. Where was she to go, and what could she do in this -horrible place? By now a crowd had collected about her, composed largely of -dirty children and dreadful blear-eyed men in very wide-skirted tattered coats, -who made audible remarks about her personal appearance. - - - -“Now then,” screamed the vixen from the area, “will you take -thim things off the steps?” - - - -Thus adjured, Joan made a desperate effort to lift the box, but she was weak -with agitation and could not stir it. - - - -“Carry yer things for yer, miss?” said one creature in a raucous -whisper. “Don’t you mind him, miss,” put in another; -“he’s a blooming area sneak, he is. You give ’em me.” -“Hullo, Molly, does your mother know you’re out?” asked a -painted-faced slut, who evidently had taken more to drink than was good for -her; and so forth. - - - -For a few moments Joan bore it. Then she sank down upon the box and began to -weep—a sight that touched the better feelings of some of the men, for one -of them offered to punch the “blooming ’ead” of anybody who -annoyed her. - - - -It was at this juncture that Joan, chancing to look up, saw a little -pale-faced, straw-coloured woman, who was neatly dressed in black, pushing her -way through the crowd towards her. - - - -“What is the matter, my dear?” said the little woman, in a small -and gentle voice. - - - -“I have come from the country here to lodge,” answered Joan, -choking back her tears; “and there’s nobody in the house except -that dreadful person, and I don’t know where to go.” - - - -The little woman shook her head doubtfully; and at that moment once more the -fiend in the area yelled aloud, “If you won’t get off thim steps, -I’ll come and put you off. I’m caretaker here, and I’ll show -you.” - - - -“Oh! what shall I do?” said Joan, wringing her hands. - - - -The sight of her distress seemed to overcome the scruples of the little woman; -at any rate she bade one of the loafers lift the box and bring it across the -street. - - - -“Now, my dear, take your bag and your umbrella, and follow me.” - - - -Joan obeyed with joy: just then she would have followed her worst enemy -anywhere, also her new friend’s face inspired her with confidence. On the -other side of the street the little woman opened the door of a house—it -was No. 8—with a latchkey, and Joan noticed that on it was a brass plate -inscribed “Mrs. Bird, Dressmaker.” - - - -“Go in,” she said. “No, I will settle with the man; he will -cheat you.” - - - -She went in, and found herself in a tiny passage of spotless cleanliness; and, -her baggage having been set down beside her, the door was closed, and the crowd -which had accompanied them across the street melted away. - - - -“Oh! thank you,” said Joan. “What do I owe you?” - - - -“Threepence, my dear; it is a penny too much, but I would not stop to -argue with the man.” - - - -Joan fumbled in her pocket and found the threepence. - - - -“Thank you, my dear. I am glad to see that you pay your debts so readily. -It is a good sign, but, alas! appearances are often deceptive;” and her -hostess led the way into a small parlour, beautifully neat and well kept. -“Sit down,” said the little woman, lifting a dress that she was in -process of making from a chair which she offered to Joan, “and take a cup -of tea. I was just going to have some myself. Bobby, will you be quiet?” -This last remark was addressed to a canary, which was singing at the top of its -voice in a cage that hung in the window. “I am afraid that you find him -rather shrill,” she went on, nodding towards the canary, “but I -have so much to do with silence that I don’t mind the noise.” - - - -“Not at all: I like birds,” said Joan. - - - -“I am glad of that, my dear, for my name is Bird. Quite a coincidence, -isn’t it?—not but what coincidences are deceptive things. And now, -here is your tea.” - - - -Joan took the tea and drank it thankfully, while Mrs. Bird watched her. - - - -“My dear, you are very handsome,” she said at length, “if you -will forgive me for making a personal remark— _dreadfully_ handsome. -I am sure that, being so handsome, you cannot be happy, since God does not give -us everything; and I only hope that you are good. You look good, or I should -not have come to help you just now; but it is impossible to put any trust in -appearances.” - - - -“I am afraid that I am neither very happy nor very good,” answered -Joan, “but I am most grateful to you. I have come up from the country to -look for work, and I want to find a decent lodging. Perhaps you can help me, -for I have never been in London before, and do not know where to go. My name is -Joan Haste.” - - - -“Perhaps I can, and perhaps I can’t,” said Mrs. Bird. -“It depends. Yours is a very strange story, and I am not sure that I -believe it. It is not usual for beautiful young women like you to wander to -London in this kind of way—that is, if they are respectable. How am I to -know that you are respectable? That you look respectable does not prove you to -be so. Do your friends know that you have come here, or have you perhaps run -away from home?” - - - -“I hope that I am respectable,” answered Joan meekly; “and -some of my friends know about my coming.” - - - -“Then they should have made better arrangements for you. That house to -which you were going was not respectable; it is a mercy that it was shut -up.” - - - -“Not respectable!” said Joan. “Surely Mr. Levinger could -never have been so wicked,” she added to herself. - - - -“No: it used to be a while ago—then there were none but very decent -people there; but recently the woman, Mrs. Thomas, took to drink, and that was -why she was sold up.” - - - -“Indeed,” said Joan; “I suppose that my friend did not know. -I fancy it is some years since he was acquainted with the house.” - - - -“Your friend! What sort of friend?” said Mrs. Bird suspiciously. - - - -“Well, he is a kind of guardian of mine.” - - - -“Then he ought to have known better than to have sent you to a house -without making further inquiries. This world is a changeable place, but nothing -changes in it more quickly than lodging-houses, at any rate in Kent -Street.” - - - -“So it seems,” answered Joan sadly; “but now, what am I to -do?” - - - -“I don’t know, Miss Haste—I think you said Haste was your -name; although,” she added nervously, sweeping off her lap some crumbs of -the bread and butter that she had been eating, “if I was quite sure that -you are respectable I might be able to make a suggestion.” - - - -“What suggestion, Mrs. Bird?” - - - -“Well, I have two rooms to let here. My last lodger, a most estimable -man, and a very clever one too—he was an accountant, my dear—died -in them a fortnight ago, and was carried out last Friday; but then, you see, it -is not everybody that would suit me as a tenant, and there are many people whom -I might not suit. There are three questions to be considered; the question of -character, the question of rent, and the question of surroundings. Now, as to -the question of character——” - - - -“I have a certificate,” broke in Joan mildly, as she produced a -document that she had procured from Mr. Biggen, the clergyman at Bradmouth. -Mrs. Bird put on a pair of spectacles and perused it carefully. - - - -“Satisfactory,” she said, “very satisfactory, presuming it to -be genuine; though, mind you, I have known even clergymen to be deceived. Now, -would you like to see my references?” - - - -“No, thank you, not at all,” said Joan. “I am quite sure that -_you_ are respectable.” - - - -“How can you be sure of anything of the sort? Well, we will pass over -that and come to the rent. My notion of rent for the double furnished room on -the first floor, including breakfast, coals, and all extras, is eight shillings -and sixpence a week. The late accountant used to pay ten-and-six, but for a -woman I take off two shillings; not but what I think, from the look of you, -that you would eat more breakfast than the late accountant did.” - - - -“That seems very reasonable,” said Joan. “I should be very -glad to pay that.” - - - -“Yes, my dear, you might be very glad to pay it, but you will excuse me -for saying that the desire does not prove the ability. How am I to know that -you would pay?” - - - -“I have plenty of money,” answered Joan wearily; “I can give -you a month’s rent in advance, if you like.” - - - -“Plenty of money!” said the little woman, holding up her hands in -amazement, “and that _very_ striking appearance! And yet you wander -about the world in this fashion! Really, my dear, I do not know what to make of -you.” - - - -“For the matter of that, Mrs. Bird, I do not quite know what to make of -myself. But shall we get on with the business?—because, you see, if we do -not come to an agreement, I must search elsewhere. What was it you said about -surroundings?” - - - -“That reminds me,” answered Mrs. Bird; “before I go a step -further I must consult my two babies. Now, do you move your chair a little, and -sit so. Thank you, that will do.” And she trotted off through some -folding doors, one of which she left carefully ajar. - - - -Joan could not in the least understand what this odd little person was driving -at, nor who her two babies might be, so she sat still and waited. Presently, -from the other side of the door, there came a sound as though several people -were clapping their hands and snapping their fingers. A pause followed, and the -door was pushed a little farther open, apparently that those on the farther -side might look into the room where she was sitting. Then there was more -clapping and snapping, and presently Mrs. Bird reentered with a smile upon her -kind little face. - - - -“They like you, my dear,” she said, nodding her head “both of -them. Indeed, Sal says that she would much prefer you as a lodger to the late -accountant.” - - - -“They? Who?” asked Joan. - - - -“Well, my dear, when I spoke of surroundings you may have guessed that -mine were peculiar; and so they are very peculiar, though harmless. The people -in the next room are my husband and my daughter; he is paralytic, and they are -both of them deaf and dumb.” - - - -“Oh, how sad!” said Joan. - - - -“Yes, it is sad; but it might have been much sadder, for I assure you -they are not at all unhappy. Now, if I had not married Jim it would have been -otherwise, for then he must have gone to the workhouse, or at the best into a -home, and of course there would have been no Sal to love us both. But come in, -and you shall be introduced to them.” And Mrs. Bird lit a candle and led -the way into the small back room. - - - -Here Joan saw a curious sight. Seated in an armchair, his withered legs -supported on a footstool, was an enormous man of about forty, with flaxen hair -and beard, mild blue eyes, and a face like an infant’s, that wore a -perpetual smile. Sometimes the smile was more and sometimes it was less, but it -was always there. Standing by his side was a sweet and delicate-faced little -girl of about twelve; her eyes also were blue and her hair flaxen, but her face -was alight with so much fire and intelligence that Joan found it hard to -believe that she could be deaf and dumb. Mrs. Bird pointed to her, and struck -her hands together this way and that so swiftly that Joan could scarcely follow -their movements, whereon the two of them nodded vigorously in answer, and Sal, -advancing, held out her hand in greeting. Joan shook it, and was led by her to -where Mr. Bird was sitting, with his arm also outstretched. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘There, my dear,’ said Mrs. Bird ... ‘ -this is my family.’ - - - - -“There, my dear—now you are introduced,” said Mrs. Bird. -“This is my family. I have supported them for many many years, thanks be -to God; and I hope that I have managed that, if I should die before them, there -will be no need for them to go to the workhouse; so you see I have much to be -grateful for. Though they are deaf and dumb, you must not think them stupid, -for they can do lots of things—read and write and carve. Oh, we are a -very happy family, I can assure you; though at times I want somebody to talk -to, and that is one of the reasons why I like to have a lodger—not that -the late accountant was much use in that respect, for he was a very gloomy man, -though right-thinking. And now that you have seen the surroundings, do you -think that you would wish to stay here for a week on trial?” - - - -“I should like nothing better,” answered Joan. - - - -“Very well, then. Will you come upstairs and see your rooms and wash your -hands for supper? I will call the girl, Maria, to help you carry up the -box.” - - - -Presently Maria arrived. She was a strong, awkward-looking damsel of fifteen, -“a workhouse girl,” Mrs. Bird explained, but, like everything else -in that house, scrupulously clean in appearance. With her assistance the box -was dragged up the narrow stairs, and Joan found herself in the apartments of -the late accountant. They were neat little rooms, separated from each other by -double doors, and furnished with a horsehair sofa, a round deal table with a -stained top, and some old chairs with curly backs and rep-covered seats. - - - -“They look a little untidy,” said Mrs. Bird, eyeing these chairs; -“but the fact is that the late accountant was a careless man, and often -upset his coffee over them. However, I will run you up some chintz covers in no -time, and for the sofa too if you like. And now do you think that the rooms -will do? You see here is a good cupboard and a chest of drawers.” - - - -“Very nicely, thank you,” answered Joan. “I never expected a -sitting-room all to myself.” - - - -“I am glad that you are pleased. And now I will leave you. Supper will be -ready in half an hour—fried eggs and bacon and bread and butter. But if -you like anything else I dare say that I can get it for you.” - - - -Joan hastened to assure her that eggs and bacon were her favourite food; and, -having satisfied herself that there was water in the jug and a clean towel, -Mrs. Bird departed, leaving her to unpack. Half an hour later Joan went down -and partook of the eggs and bacon. It was an odd meal, with a deaf-and-dumb -child pouring out the tea, a deaf-and-dumb giant smiling at her perpetually -across the table, and her little hostess attending to them all, and keeping up -a double fire of conversation, one with her lips for Joan’s benefit, and -one with her head and hands for that of her two “babies.” - - - -After supper the things were cleared away; and having first inquired whether -Joan objected to the smell of smoke, Mrs. Bird filled a large china pipe for -her husband, and brought him some queer-shaped tools, with which he began to -carve the head of a walking-stick. - - - -“I told you that he was very clever,” she said; “do you know, -he sometimes makes as much as four shillings in a week. He gives me the money, -and thinks that I spend it; but I don’t, not a farthing. I put it all -into the Savings Bank for him and Sally. There is nearly forty pounds there on -that account alone. There, do you know what he is saying?” - - - -Joan shook her head. - - - -“He says that he is going to carve a likeness of you. He thinks that you -have a beautiful head for a walking-stick. Oh! don’t be afraid; he will -do it capitally. Look, here is the late accountant. I keep it in memory of -him,” and Mrs. Bird produced a holly stick, on the knob of which appeared -a dismal, but most lifelike, countenance. - - - -“He wasn’t very handsome,” said Joan. - - - -“No, he wasn’t handsome—only right-thinking; and that is why -Jim would like to carve you, because you see you are handsome, though whether -or no you are right-thinking remains to be proved.” - - - -Joan smiled; there was something very quaint about the little lady. - - - -“I hope that Mr. Bird does not want me to sit to him to-night,” she -said, “for, do you know, I am dreadfully tired, and I think that I will -go to bed.” - - - -“No, no; he will only make a beginning to-night, perhaps of two or three -sticks, and afterwards he will study you. You will be much better for some -sleep after your journey,—though you have not yet told me where you came -from,” and she shook her straw-coloured head doubtfully. - - - -Joan made no answer, not feeling inclined to submit herself to -cross-examination at the moment; but, going round the table, she shook hands -with Mr. Bird and with Sally, who had been watching her all the evening and now -put up her face to be kissed in a way that quite won Joan’s heart. - - - -“That shows that Sally likes you,” said Mrs. Bird, in a gratified -voice; “and if Sally likes you I shall too, for she is never wrong about -people. And now good night, my dear. We breakfast at half-past seven; but first -I read some prayers if you would like to attend them: I read, and my two -babies’ follow in a book. Be sure you put your light out.” - - - -Joan stumbled upstairs, and, too tired even for thought, was soon in bed. -Beneath her she could hear a clapping and cracking of fingers, which told her -that she was being vigorously discussed by the Bird family after their own -strange fashion; and to this queer lullaby she went to sleep. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER. - - - -Joan slept well that night, and woke to find the sunlight streaming in at her -window. Coming down to the sitting-room at a quarter past seven, she saw that, -early as it was, it had been swept and garnished and the breakfast laid. - - - -“Good morning, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird: “I am glad to see -that you are an early riser. I suppose it is a habit which you bring with you -from the country. It was not so with the late accountant, who would never -breakfast till nine if he could help it, and on Sundays not till ten; but I -think that an affection of the liver from which he suffered made him sleepy. -And now I am going to have prayers. Maria, come to prayers.” - - - -Maria shuffled in, obedient, and diving into the back room reappeared wheeling -her master before her, who, as he came, smiled sweetly and waved his hand in -greeting to Joan. Presently Sally arrived, and the ceremony began. First Mrs. -Bird handed two Bibles to her husband and her daughter, pointing out the -passage which was to be read with her finger, then she gave them each a manual -of prayer. These preparations finished, she began to read the chapter of the -Bible aloud; and it was curious and touching to see the attention with which -her deaf-and-dumb audience followed the words they could not hear, glancing -from time to time at the motions of her lips to make sure that they were -keeping pace with her. When the reading was finished she shut the Bible and -knelt down an example that Mr. Bird could not follow, for his limbs were -paralysed. Sally, however, placed herself near Joan, making it clear to her by -signs that she was to indicate by pointing each sentence as it passed her -mother’s lips. - - - -Prayers being over—and surely family worship was never carried on under -greater difficulties—breakfast followed, and then the business of the day -began. Mr. Bird carved while Mrs. Bird and her daughter sewed at gowns that -they were making. For a time Joan looked on helplessly; then, wearying of -idleness, asked if she could not do something. - - - -“Can you sew, my dear?” said Mrs. Bird. - - - -“Pretty well,” she answered; “but not like you.” - - - -“That is scarcely wonderful, considering that I have done nothing else -for more than twenty years; but here are some seams to be run up, if you have -nothing better to do.” - - - -Joan took the seams and began to run them; indeed, she “ran” until -her back ached with stooping. - - - -“You are getting tired, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “as I -expected you would, not being accustomed to the work,” and she peered at -her kindly through her spectacles. “Now you had better rest awhile and -talk. What part of England do you come from?” - - - -“From the Eastern counties,” answered Joan. - - - -“Dear me! that is strange—quite a coincidence, I declare. I come -from the East coast myself. I was born at Yarmouth, though it is many and many -a year since I have seen a herring boat. You see, my story is a very simple -one. I was an orphan girl, for my dear father was drowned in an October gale -when fishing at sea, and I came to London with a family as nursemaid. They did -not treat me kindly—even now I cannot say that they did, although I wish -to be charitable—for they discharged me because I was not strong enough -to do the work, and if I had not been taken in out of pity by a widow woman, a -dressmaker and my predecessor in this very house, I do not know what would have -become of me. My husband was her only child, and it was part of my duty, and -indeed of my pleasure, to look after him in his affliction so far as I was -able. Then when his mother died I married him, for I could not make up my mind -to leave him alone, and this of course I must have done unless I became his -wife. So you see, my dear, I took him on and the business with him, and we have -been very happy ever since—so happy that sometimes I wonder why God is so -good to me, who am full of faults. One sorrow we have had, it is true, though -now even that seems to have become a joy: it was after Sally was born. She was -a beautiful baby, and when for the first time I grew sure that she would be -deaf and dumb also, I cried till I thought my heart would break, and wished -that she might die. Now I see how wicked this was, and every night I thank -Heaven that I was not taken at my word, for then my heart would have broken -indeed.” And the dear little woman’s eyes filled with tears as, -putting her arm round the child’s waist, she kissed her tenderly. - - - -There was something so beautiful in the scene that Joan almost cried in -sympathy, and even Jim, who seemed to understand everything, for one moment -ceased to smile, and having wiped away a tear from his round blue eye, -stretched out his great arms and swept both the mother and the daughter into a -confused embrace. - - - -“You say that you are full of faults,” said Joan, turning her head -until the three of them had recovered their composure, “but I think you -are an angel.” - - - -“If to tend and care for those whom one loves is to be an angel, _I_ -think that we shall most of us get to heaven,” she answered, shaking her -head; then added, “Oh! you wretched Jim, you have broken my -spectacles—the new ones.” - - - -Jim, watching his wife’s lip and the damaged glasses, looked so comically -distressed that Joan burst out laughing, while Sally, seeing what was the -matter, ran to the back room to fetch another pair. - - - -“And now, my dear,” Mrs. Bird said presently, “you say that -you have come to London to get work, though why you should want work if you -have plenty of money I do not quite understand. What kind of employment do you -wish to take? For my part I cannot think, for, to be frank with you, my dear, -you seem too much of a lady for most things.” - - - -“I thought,” said Joan diffidently, “that I might perhaps get -a situation as one of those girls in shops whom they use to hang cloaks on for -the approval of customers. You see, I am—tall, and I am not clever enough -to teach, so I know nothing else for which I should be fit.” - - - -Mrs. Bird shook her head. “I dare say that you might come by such -employment, my dear, but I tell you at once that I do not approve of it. I know -something of the wickedness of London, and I think that this sort of occupation -puts too many temptations in the way of a young lady like you, who are so -beautiful, and do not seem to have any home ties to keep your thoughts from -them. We are most of us weak, remember; and flattery, and promises, and grand -presents, all of which would be offered to you, are very nice things.” - - - -“I am not afraid of such temptations, Mrs. Bird,” Joan answered, -with a sad confidence that at once attracted the quick little woman’s -attention. - - - -“Now, when a person tells me that she is not afraid of a thing,” -she said, glancing at her, “I conclude that she is either totally without -experience and foolhardy, or that, having won the experience and passed through -the fire, she no longer fears a danger which she has overcome, -or——” and she stopped. - - - -This vein of speculative reflection did not seem to recommend itself to Joan: -at any rate she changed the subject. - - - -“You have twice called me a lady, Mrs. Bird,” she said, “but -I must tell you that I am nothing of the sort. Who my father was I don’t -even know, though I believe him to have been a gentleman, and my mother was the -daughter of a yeoman farmer.” - - - -“Married?” asked Mrs. Bird interrogatively. - - - -Joan shook her head. - - - -“Ah! I understand,” said Mrs. Bird. - - - -“I—That is partly why I left home,” explained Joan. - - - -“Meaning Bradmouth? Don’t look surprised, my dear. I saw the name -on the clergyman’s testimonial, and also on your box.” - - - -“Yes, Bradmouth. I lived there with an aunt, and everybody looked down -upon me because of my position.” - - - -“That was very wicked of them. But did they begin to look down upon you -all at once, or had you, perhaps, some other reason for coming away? I suppose -your aunt knew that you were coming?” - - - -“No, she did not know. We do not get on together, and I thought it best -not to tell her. Also, she wanted me to marry somebody whom I dislike.” - - - -“Because there is somebody else whom you do like, I suppose, my dear. -Well, it is no affair of mine. But if you will not think me impertinent, where -then do you get your money from?” - - - -“A gentleman——” - - - -“A gentleman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, dropping her work in horror. - - - -“Oh! no, not that,” said Joan, blushing; “he is a kind of -guardian, a friend of my father’s, I believe. At any rate he has paid for -me all these years, and says that he will allow me five pounds a month though I -would rather earn my own living if possible.” - - - -“A friend of your father’s? What a strange story! I suppose that -_he_ is not your father, my dear?” - - - -“My father!” said Joan, opening her eyes wide in amazement,— -“Mr. Levinger my father! Of course not. Why, if he were, would he have -treated me like a stranger all my life?” - - - -“It is possible,” said Mrs. Bird drily; “I have heard of such -things.” - - - -“Oh no, he is not bad enough for that; in fact, he is very good and kind. -He knew that I was coming away, and gave me five-and-twenty pounds to start on, -and he told me himself that he was left my trustee by my father, who is dead, -but whose name he was bound not to reveal.” - - - -“Indeed,” answered Mrs. Bird, pursing up her lips. “And now I -must go and see about the dinner. As it happens, I do work for some of the big -shops; and I will inquire if there is any situation vacant that might suit you. -Look: Jim wants you to turn your head a little, so that he can see your nose. -Is he not making a beautiful likeness?” And, nodding affectionately at -her husband, she left the room. - - - -Once outside the door, Mrs. Bird stood still and reflected. “There is a -mystery about that girl,” she thought, “and she has not told me all -her story: she has left out the love affair—I could see it in her face. -Now, if I were wise, I should send her about her business without more words; -but, somehow, I cannot find the heart to do it. I suppose it is because she is -so beautiful, and seems so sad and friendless; and after all it is one’s -duty to help those who are placed thus—yes, even if they have not been -quite respectable, though of course I have no right to suppose that she has -not. No, I cannot turn her away. To do so might be to bring her to ruin, and -that would be a dreadful thing to have upon one’s mind. But I do not -think much of that guardian of hers, Mr. Levinger she called him, who can send -such a lovely girl to take her chance in London without providing her with a -proper home. It looks almost as if he wished to be rid of her: altogether it is -a very strange story. I must say that it interests me; but then curiosity -always was one of my sins, and I have not conquered it yet.” And again -shaking her head, this time at the thought of her own depravity, Mrs. Bird made -her way to the kitchen. - - - -After dinner was over she announced to Joan that they were all going out for a -walk in the Park, and asked her if she would like to accompany them. Joan, of -course, was delighted, for already she began to feel a want of the fresh air to -which she was accustomed; but as she accepted she looked inquiringly at Mr. -Bird. - - - -“Ah, my dear,” said his wife, “you are wondering how he can -come out walking when his legs are crippled. Well, presently you shall see. Now -go and put on your hat.” - - - -By the time that Joan was ready she found that a long wheel-chair, which she -had noticed standing in the passage, had been run into the sitting-room, and -into this chair Mr. Bird shifted himself with marvellous agility by the help of -his muscular arms, nodding and smiling at Joan the while. - - - -“How on earth will they get it down the steps?” she wondered. Soon -the mystery was solved, for, the front door having been opened, Sally appeared -with three grooved boards which reached from the lintel to the pavement. The -three wheels of the chair having been set in the grooves, Mr. Bird grasped the -iron railings on either side of the steps, and, smiling triumphantly, launched -himself with much dignity into the street. - - - -“There, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird, while Sally replaced the boards -in the passage and shut the door, “necessity is the mother of invention. -Quite clever, isn’t it? But we have other contrivances that are even -cleverer.” - - - -Then they started, Mr. Bird guiding himself, while Sally and Mrs. Bird who was -arrayed in a prim little bonnet and mantle, pushed behind. Joan offered to -assist, but was not allowed this honour because of her inexperience of the -streets, at any rate until they reached the Park. So she walked by the side of -the chair, wondering at the shops and the noise and bustle of the Edgware Road. - - - -Presently they came to the corner opposite the Marble Arch, where, as usual, -the wide roadway was blocked with traffic. “How ever will they get across -there?” thought Joan: “it frightens me to look at it.” - - - -But it did not frighten Mrs. Bird and her family, who, without a moment’s -hesitation, plunged into the thick of it, calling to Joan to keep close to -them. It was really wonderful to see the skill with which the transit was -accomplished; cabs, omnibuses and carriages bore down upon them from all -directions, but the Bird family were not dismayed. Here and there the chair -headed, now passing under the nose of a horse and now grazing the wheel of a -cab, till at length it arrived safely at the farther pavement. Joan was not so -fortunate, however; about half-way across she lost her head, and, having been -nearly knocked down by the pole of an omnibus, stood bewildered till a -policeman seized her by the arm and dragged her into safety. - - - -“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “although you are so -strong, you are not quite competent to wheel Jim at present. First you must -learn to look after yourself.” - - - -Then they went for their walk in the Park, which Joan enjoyed, for it was all -new to her, especially when she was allowed to push the precious chair; and -returned to Kent Street in time for tea. - - - -The rest of the afternoon and evening passed like those of the previous day, -and the morrow was as the yesterday had been. Indeed, there was little variety -in the routine of the Bird ménage—so little that Joan soon began -to wonder how they distinguished one month or one year from another. Few -customers came to the house, for most of the dressmaking was put out to Mrs. -Bird by the managers of large shops, who had confidence in her, and were not -afraid to trust her with costly materials, which she made up, generally into -skirts, and took back in the evenings. - - - -So it came about that all day long Mrs. Bird and Sally sewed, while Jim carved -endless walking-sticks, and Joan sat by giving such help as she could, now -listening to her hostess’s good-natured chatter and now to the shrill -song of the canary. At first, after all that she had gone through, this mode of -life was a rest to her. It was delightful to be obliged neither to think nor to -work unless she so wished; it was delightful to know that she was beyond the -reach of Samuel Rock, and could not be harried by the coarse tongue of Mrs. -Gillingwater or by the gossip of her neighbours. The atmosphere of goodness in -which she lived was very soothing also: it was a new thing for Joan to pass her -days where there was no hate, no passion, no jealousy, and no -violence—where, on the contrary, charity and loving-kindness reigned -supreme. Soon she grew very fond of little Mrs. Bird, as, indeed, anybody must -have done who had the good fortune to know her; and began to share her -adoration of the two “babies,” the great patient creature who faced -his infirmities with a perpetual smile, and the sweet child from whom love -seemed to radiate. - - - -But after a while, as her body and mind shook off their weariness, these things -began to pall; she longed for work, for anything that would enable her to -escape from her own thoughts,—and as yet no work was forthcoming. At -times, tiring of Jim’s smile as he hewed out libellous likenesses of -herself upon his walking-sticks, and of the trilling of the canary, she would -seek refuge in her own sitting-room, where she read and re-read the books that -Henry had given her; and at times, longing for air, she would escape from the -stuffy little house to the Park, to walk up and down there till she grew -weary—an amusement which she found had its drawbacks. At last, when she -had been a fortnight in Kent Street, she asked Mrs. Bird if there was any -prospect of getting employment. - - - -“My dear,” was the answer, “I have inquired everywhere, and -as yet without success. To-night I am taking this skirt back to Messrs. Black -and Parker, in Oxford Street, and I will ask their manager, who is quite a -friend of mine, if he has an opening. Failing this I think you had better -advertise, for I see that you are getting tired of doing nothing, and I do not -wonder at it,—though you should be most thankful that you can afford to -live without work, seeing that many people in your position would now be -reduced to starvation.” - - - -That night Mrs. Bird returned from Messrs. Black and Parker’s with a -radiant countenance. - - - -“My dear,” she said, “there is a coincidence, quite a -wonderful coincidence. The young woman at Messrs. Black and Parker’s -whose business it was to fit on the cloaks in the mantle department has -suddenly been called away to nurse a sick uncle in Cornwall from whom she has -expectations, and they are looking out for some one to take her place, for, as -it chances, there is no one suitable for the post in their employ. I told the -manager about you, and he said that I was to bring you there to-morrow morning. -If they engaged you your pay would be eighteen shillings a week to begin with; -which is not much, but better than nothing.” - - - -Accordingly, on the following morning, having arrayed herself in her best -dress, and a pretty little bonnet that she had made with the help of Sally, -Joan set out for Messrs. Black and Parker’s in the company of Mrs. Bird. - - - -Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment was an enormous one, having many -departments. - - - -“You see it is a first-class shop, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, -glancing with veneration at the huge windows filled with -_chefs-d‘oeuvres_ of the milliner’s and other arts. “Now -follow me, and don’t be nervous.” And she led the way through -various divisions till she reached a large box built of mahogany and glass -labelled “Manager’s Office. No admittance except on business.” - - - -At this moment the door of the box opened, and from it issued an oiled and -curled specimen of manhood, with very white hands and hair so wavy, that it -conveyed a suggestion of crimping tongs. - - - -His eye fell upon Joan, and he bowed obsequiously. - - - -“Can I do anything for you, madam?” he said. “We are so full -this morning that I fear you are not being attended to.” - - - -“She is not a customer, Mr. Waters,” said Mrs. Bird, emerging from -behind Joan’s tall shape: “she is the young person about whom I -spoke to you, who wants a situation as show-woman.” - - - -“Oh! is she?” said Mr. Waters, with a complete change of manner; -“then why didn’t you say so at first? Well, she’s a pretty -girl anyway. Step in here, miss, and take off your jacket, please, so that I -can see what your figure is like.” - - - -Joan did as she was told, although she felt a hate of this individual swelling -in her heart. Mr. Waters surveyed her critically for half a minute or more, -shutting first one eye and then the other, as though to bring her better into -focus. - - - -“Any experience?” he said laconically. “I mean of -business.” - - - -“No, sir, none,” Joan answered. - - - -“Ah! I see: a lady, I suppose.” - - - -“I am not a lady, sir,” replied Joan. - - - -“Ain’t you?—then you imitate the article very well.” - - - -“Just what I feared,” murmured Mrs. Bird, shaking her head. - - - -“However,” he went on, “we can overlook that fault; but I -have another doubt about you. You’re too good-looking. Our customers like -to see their things tried on a fine figure, of course, but they don’t -like to see them tried on a girl who makes them look common dowds beside her. -Why, a three-guinea mantle would seem a better thing on your back than a -forty-pound cloak on most of them. You’d show off the goods, I dare say, -but I doubt that you would frighten away custom.” - - - -“I thought that tall people were always wanted,” hesitated Joan. - - - -“Tall people!” said Mr. Waters, with an admiring snigger; -“just you look at yourself in this pier glass, and I think that you will -see something else there beside height. Now, I’ll give you a bit of -advice: you drop this show and go on to the stage. You’ll draw there; -yes, even if you can’t sing or act a bit, there are hundreds who would -pay to come and look at you. By George! I’m not sure that I -wouldn’t myself.” - - - -“I do not wish to go on the stage,” answered Joan stiffly; and Mrs. -Bird behind her murmured, “No! never!” in sympathetic tones. -“If you think that I shall not suit,” she added, “I will not -take up your time any longer.” - - - -“I didn’t say that, miss. Here!”—and he put his head -out of the door and called to a shop-woman—“just give me that -velvet mantle, will you? Now, miss,” he said: “you fancy that Mrs. -Bird’s a customer, and let me see you try to sell her this cloak.” - - - -Joan’s first impulse was to refuse, but presently a sense of the fun of -the situation prevailed, and she rose to it, mincing, smiling, and praising up -the garment, which she hung upon her own shoulders, bending her graceful shape -this way and that to show it in various lights and attitudes, till at length -Mrs. Bird exclaimed, “Well, I never!—you’re a born actress, -my dear. You might have been bred to the business. I should have bought that -cloak long ago, I should, though, saving your presence, Mr. Waters, I -don’t think it is worth the price asked.” - - - -“You’ll do,” said the manager, rubbing his hands, “if -only you can forget that you are a lady, and have _nous_ enough to flatter -when you see that it is welcome, and that’s always where ladies and their -clothes are concerned. What’s your name?” - - - -“Haste: Joan Haste.” - - - -“Very well, Miss Haste. Let’s see: to-day is Saturday, so you may -as well begin on Monday. Hours nine to seven, dinner and tea provided, also -black silk dress, that you put on when you come and take off when you leave. I -should think that the last young lady’s would fit you pretty well with a -little alteration, unless you like to buy one yourself at cost price.” - - - -“Thank you, I think that I will buy one for myself.” - - - -“Indeed! Well, so much the better for us. It is usual to ask for -references as to character, and security, or a sum on deposit; but I understand -that Mrs. Bird guarantees all that, so we will say no more about it. The wages -will be eighteen shillings a week for the first six months, and after that a -pound if we are satisfied with you. Do you agree to these terms?” - - - -“Yes.” - - - -“Very well, then. Good morning.” - - - -“There’s a smart girl,” reflected Mr. Waters to himself, -“and a real beauty too. But she’s a fool for all that; she ought to -go on the boards,—she’d have a future there. However, it’s -her affair, not mine.” - - - -“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird to Joan, “you got through -that capitally. At first I thought that he would never engage you, but he -seemed to take quite a liking to you before the end. What do you think of -him?” - - - -“I think him odious,” said Joan. - - - -“Odious, my dear! What a strong term! Free and easy, if you like, but not -odious. He is much better than most of them, I can tell you.” - - - -“Then the rest must be very bad indeed,” said Joan, and continued -on her way in silence. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -“I FORBID YOU.” - - - -On the following Monday morning Joan began her career as a shop-girl, to -describe which in detail would be too long, however instructive it might prove. -Her actual work, especially at this, the dead season of the year, was not so -hard as she had expected, nor was she long in mastering her duties; but, -accustomed as she had been to a country life and the fresh air, she soon found -confinement for so many hours a day in the close atmosphere of the shop -exceedingly irksome. From Kent Street to Messrs. Black and Parker’s was -but a quarter of an hour’s walk; and, as Joan discovered by experiment, -without exposing herself to many annoyances it was impossible for her to wander -about the streets after dark in search of exercise. As a last resource she was -driven to rising at the peep of day and taking her walks abroad in the Park so -soon as the gates were open—a daily constitutional which, if wholesome, -was not exhilarating, and one that could only be practised in fine weather and -while the days were long. This craving for air, however, was among the least of -her troubles, for soon it became clear to her that she had no vocation for shop -life; indeed, she learned to loathe it and its surroundings. At first the -humours of the business amused her a little, but very shortly she discovered -that even about these there was a terrible sameness, for one cannot be -perpetually entertained by the folly of old ladies trying to make themselves -look young, or by the vanity of the young ones neglected by nature and -attempting to supply their deficiencies with costly garments. - - - -What galled her chiefly, however, were the attentions with which she was -honoured by the young men of the establishment. Worst of all, the oiled and -curled Mr. Waters singled her out as the object of his especial admiration, -till at length she lost her temper, and answered him in such a fashion as to -check his advances once and for all. He left her muttering “You shall pay -for that”; and he kept his word, for thenceforth her life was made a -misery to her, and it seemed that she could do nothing right. As it chanced, he -could not actually discharge her, for Joan had attracted the favourable notice -of one of the owners of the business, who, when Mr. Waters made some trumped-up -complaint against her, dismissed it with a hint that he had better be more -careful as to his facts in future. - - - -For the rest, she had no amusements and no friends, and during all the time she -spent in London she never visited a theatre or other place of entertainment. -Her only recreation was to read when she could get the books, or, failing this, -to sit with little Mrs. Bird in the Kent Street parlour and perfect herself in -the art of conversation with the deaf and dumb. - - - -As may be imagined, such an existence did not tend to cause Joan to forget her -past, or the man who was to her heart what the sun is to the world. She could -renounce him, she could go away vowing that she would never see him more; but -to live without him, and especially to live such a life as hers, ah! that was -another matter. - - - -Moreover, as time went on, a new terror took her, that, vague in the beginning, -grew week by week more definite and more dreadful. At first she could scarcely -believe it, for somehow such a thing had never entered into her calculations; -but soon she was forced to acknowledge it as a fact, an appalling, unalterable -fact, which, as yet secret to herself, must shortly become patent to the whole -world. The night that the truth came home to her without the possibility of -further doubt was perhaps the most terrible which she ever spent. For some -hours she thought that she must go mad: she wept, she prayed, she called upon -the name of her lover, who, although he was the author of her woe, in some -mysterious fashion had now grown doubly dear to her, till at last sleep or -insensibility brought her relief. But sleep passes with the darkness, and she -awoke to find this new spectre standing by her bedside and to know that there -it must always stand till the end came. All that day she went about her work -dazed by her secret agony of mind, but in the evening her senses seemed to come -back to her, bringing with them new and acuter suffering. - - - -Where was she to go and what was she to do, she who had no friend in the wide -world, or at least none in whom she could confide? Soon they would turn her out -upon the streets; even the Bird family would shrink from her as though she had -a leprosy. Would it not be better to end it at once, and herself with it? -Abandoning her usual custom, Joan did not return home, but wandered about -London heedless of the stares and insults of the passers-by, till at length she -came to Westminster Bridge. She had not meant to come there—indeed, she -did not know the way—but the river had drawn her to its brink, as it has -drawn so many an unfortunate before her. There beneath those dim and swirling -waters she could escape her shame and find peace, or at least take it to a -region beyond all familiar things, whereof the miseries and unrest would not be -those of the earth, even if they surpassed them. Twice she crossed the bridge; -once she tore herself away, walking for a while along the Embankment; then she -returned to it again, brought back by the irresistible attraction of the -darkling river. - - - -Now she thought that she would do it, and now her hand was on the parapet. She -was quite alone for the moment, there were none to stop her,—alone with -her fear and fate. Yes, she would do it: but oh! what of Henry? Had she a right -to make him a murderer? Had she the right to be the murderess of his child? -What would he say when he heard, and what would he think? After all, why should -she kill herself? Was it so wicked to become a mother? According to religion -and custom, yes—that is, such a mother as she would be—but how -about nature? As for the sin, she could not help it. It was done, and she must -suffer for it. She had broken the law of God, and doubtless God would exact -retribution from her; indeed, already He was exacting it. At least she might -plead that she loved this man, and there were many married women who could bear -their children without shame, and could not say as much. Yet they were virtuous -and she was an outcast—that was the rule. Well, what did it matter to -her? They could not put her in prison, and she had no name to lose. Why should -she kill herself? Why should she not bear her baby and love it for its -father’s sake and its own? Now she came to think of it, there was nothing -that she would like better. Doubtless there would be difficulties and troubles, -but she was answerable to no one. However much she might be ashamed of herself, -there were none to be ashamed of her, and therefore it was a mere question of -pounds, shillings and pence. She could get these from Mr. Levinger, or, failing -him, from Henry. He would not leave her to starve, or his child -either—she knew him too well for that. What a fool she had been! Had she -not come to her senses, by now she would be floating on that river or lying in -the mud at the bottom of it. Well, she had done with that, and so she might as -well go home. The future and the wrath of Heaven she must face, that was all; -she had sown, and she must reap—as we always do. - - - -Accordingly she hailed a passing hansom and told the driver to take her to the -Marble Arch, for she was too weary to walk; moreover she did not know the road. - - - -It was ten o’clock when she reached Kent Street. “My dear,” -said Mrs. Bird, “how flushed you look! Where have you been? We were all -getting quite anxious about you.” - - - -“I have been walking,” answered Joan: “I could not stand the -heat of that shop any longer, and I felt as though I must get some exercise or -faint.” - - - -“I do not think that young women ought to walk about the streets by -themselves at night,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly. “If you were so -very anxious for exercise I dare say that I could have managed to accompany -you. Have you had supper?” - - - -“No, and I don’t want any. I think that I will go to bed. I am -tired.” - - - -“You will certainly not go to bed, Joan, until you have had something to -eat. I don’t know what has come to you—I don’t indeed.” - - - -So Joan was forced to sit down and go through the farce of swallowing some -food, while Sally ministered to her, and Jim, perceiving that something was -wrong, smiled sympathetically across the table. How she got through the meal -she never quite knew, for her mind was somewhat of a blank; though she could -not help wondering vaguely what these good people would say, could they become -aware that within the last hour she had been leaning on the parapet of -Westminster Bridge purposing to cast herself into the Thames. - - - -Next morning Joan went to her work as usual. All day long she stood in the shop -attending to her duties, but it seemed to her as though she had changed her -identity, as though she were not Joan Haste, but a different woman, whom as yet -she could not understand. Once before she had suffered this fancied change of -self: on that night when she lay in the churchyard clasping Henry’s -shattered body to her breast; and now again it was with her. That was the hour -when she had passed from the regions of her careless girlhood into love’s -field of thorns and flowers—the hour of dim and happy dream. This, the -second and completer change, came upon her in the hour of awakening; and though -the thorns still pierced her soul, behold, the red bloom she had gathered was -become a bitter fruit, a very apple of Sodom, a fruit of the tree of sinful -knowledge that she must taste of in the wilderness which she had won. Love had -been with her in the field, and still he was with her in the desert; but oh! -how different his aspect! Then he was bright and winged and beautiful, with -lips of honey, and a voice of promise murmuring many a new and happy word; now -he appeared terrible and stern, and spoke of sin, of sorrow, and of shame. Then -also her lover had been at her side, now she was utterly alone, alone with the -accusing angel of her conscience, and in this solitude she must suffer, with no -voice to cheer her and no hand to help. - - - -From the hour of their parting she had longed for him, and desired the comfort -of his presence. How much more, then, did she long for him now! Soon indeed -this craving swallowed up every other need of her nature, and became a physical -anguish that, like some deadly sickness, ended in the conquest of her mind and -body. Joan fought against it bravely, for she knew what submission meant. It -meant that she would involve Henry in her own ruin. She remembered well what he -had said about marrying her, and the tale which she had heard as to his -refusing to become engaged to Miss Levinger on the ground that he considered -himself to be already bound to her. If she told him of her sore distress, would -he not act upon these declarations? Would he not insist upon making her his -wife, and could she find the strength to refuse his sacrifice? Beyond the -barrier that she herself had built between them were peace and love and honour -for her. But what was there for him? If once those bars were down—and she -could break them with a touch—she would be saved indeed, but Henry must -be lost. She was acquainted with the position of his affairs, and aware that -the question was not one of a _mésalliance_ only. If he married -her, he would be ruined socially and financially in such a fashion that he -could never lift up his head again. Of course even in present circumstances it -was not necessary that he should marry her, especially as she would never ask -it of him; but if once they met, if once they corresponded even, as she knew -well, the whole trouble would begin afresh, and at least there would be an end -of his prospects with Miss Levinger. No, no; whatever happened, however great -her sufferings, her first duty was silence. - - - -Another week went by, leaving her resolution unchanged; but now her health -began to fail beneath the constant strain of her anxieties, and a physical -languor that rendered her unfit for long hours of work in a heated shop. Now -she lacked the energy to tramp about the Park before her early breakfast; -indeed, the advance of autumn, with its rain and fogs, made such exercise -impossible. Her first despair, the despair that suggested suicide, had gone by, -but then so had the half-defiant mood which followed it. Whatever may have been -her faults, Joan was a decent-minded woman, and one who felt her position -bitterly. Never for one moment of the day or night could she be free from -remorse and care, and the weight of apprehension that seemed to crush all -courage out of her. Even if from time to time she could succeed in putting -aside her mental troubles, their place was taken by anxieties for the future. -Soon she must leave the home that sheltered her, and then where was she to go? - - - -One afternoon, about half-past three o’clock, Joan was standing in the -mantle department of Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment awaiting -customers. The morning had been a heavy one, for town was filling rapidly, and -she felt very tired. There was, it is true, no fixed rule to prevent Messrs. -Black and Parker’s employés from seating themselves when not -actually at work; but since a pique had begun between herself and Mr. Waters, -in practice Joan found few opportunities of so doing. On two occasions when she -ventured to rest thus for a minute, the manager had rated her harshly for -indolence, and she did not care to expose herself to another such experience. -Now she was standing, the very picture of weariness and melancholy, leaning -upon a chair, when of a sudden she looked up and saw before her—Ellen -Graves and Emma Levinger. They were speaking. - - - -“Very well, dear,” said Ellen, “you go and buy the gloves -while I try on the mantles. I will meet you presently in the doorway.” - - - -“Yes,” said Emma, and went. - - - -Joan’s first impulse was to fly; but flight was impossible, for with -Ellen, rubbing his white hands and bowing at intervals, was Mr. Waters. - - - -“I think you asked for velvet mantles, madam, did you not? Now, miss, the -velvet mantles—quick, please—those new shapes from Paris.” - - - -Almost automatically Joan obeyed, reaching down cloak after cloak to be -submitted to Miss Graves’s critical examination. Three or four of them -she put by as unsuitable, but at last one was produced that seemed to take her -fancy. - - - -“I should like the young person to try on this one, please,” she -said. - - - -“Certainly, madam. Now, miss: no, not that, the other. Where are your -wits this afternoon?” - - - -Joan put on the garment in silence, turning herself round to display its -perfections, with the vain hope that Ellen’s preoccupation and the -gathering gloom in the shop would prevent her from being recognised. - - - -“It is very dark here,” Ellen said presently. - - - -“Yes, madam; but I have ordered them to turn on the electric light. Will -you be seated for a moment, madam?” - - - -Ellen took a chair, and began chatting with the manager about the advantages of -the employment of electricity in preference to gas in shops, while Joan, with -the cloak still on her shoulders, stood before them in the shadow. - - - -Just then she heard a footstep, the footstep of a lame man who was advancing -towards them from the stairs, and the sound set her wondering if Henry had -recovered from his lameness. Next moment she was clinging to the back of a -chair to save herself from falling headlong to the floor, for the man was -speaking. - - - -“Are you here, Ellen?” he said: “it is so infernally dark in -this place. Oh! there you are. I met Miss Levinger below, and she told me that -I should find you upstairs trying on bodices or something.” - - - -“One does not generally try on bodices in public, Henry. What is the -matter?” - - - -“Nothing more than usual, only I have made up my mind to go back to -Rosham by the five o’clock train, and thought that I would come to see -whether you had any message for my mother.” - - - -“Oh! I understood that you were not going till Wednesday, when you could -have escorted us home. No, I have no particular message, beyond my love. You -may tell her that I am getting on very well with my trousseau, and that Edward -has given me the loveliest bangle.” - - - -“I have to go,” answered Henry: “those confounded farms, as -usual,” and he sighed. - - - -“Oh! farms,” said Ellen,—“I am sick of farms. I wish -that the art of agriculture had never been invented. Thank -goodness”—as the electric light sprang out with a sudden -glare—“we can see at last. If you have a minute, stop and give me -your opinion of this cloak. Taste is one of your redeeming virtues, you -know.” - - - -“Well, it is about all the time I have,” he said, glancing at his -watch. “Where’s the article?” - - - -“There, before you, on that young woman.” - - - -“Oh!” said Henry, “I see. Charming, I think; but a little -long, isn’t it? Now I’m off.” - - - -At this moment, for the first time Ellen saw Joan’s face. - - - -She recognised her instantly—there was no possibility of mistake in that -brilliant and merciless light. And what a despairing face it was! so much so, -indeed, that it touched even Ellen’s imagination and moved her to pity. -The great brown eyes were opened wide, the lips were set apart and pale, the -head was bent forward, and from beneath the rich folds of the velvet cloak the -hands were a little lifted, as though in entreaty. - - - -In an instant Ellen grasped the facts: Joan Haste had seen Henry, and was about -to speak to him. Trying as was the situation, Ellen proved herself its -mistress, as she had need to do, for an instinct warned her that if once these -two recognised each other incalculable trouble must result. With a sudden -movement she threw herself between them. - - - -“Very well, dear,” she said: “good-bye. You had better be -going, or you will miss the train.” - - - -“All right,” answered Henry, “there is no such desperate -hurry; let me have another look at the cloak.” - - - -“You will have plenty of opportunities of doing that,” Ellen said -carelessly; “I have settled to buy it. Why, here comes Emma; I suppose -that she is tired of waiting.” - - - -Henry turned and began to walk towards the stairs. Joan saw that he was going, -and made an involuntary movement as though to follow him, but Ellen was too -quick for her. Stepping swiftly to one side, she spoke, or rather whispered -into her ear: - - - -“Go back: I forbid you!” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Go back: I forbid you!’ - - - - -Joan stopped bewildered, and in another moment Henry had spoken some civil -words of adieu to Emma and was gone. - - - -“Will you be so good as to send the cloak with the other things?” -said Ellen to Mr. Waters. “Come, Emma, we must be going, or we shall be -late for the ‘at home,’” and, followed by the bowing manager, -she left the shop. - - - -“Oh, my God!” murmured Joan, putting her hands to her face, -“oh, my God! my God!” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -A LOVE LETTER. - - - -Joan never knew how she got through the rest of that afternoon. She did not -faint, but she was so utterly overcome and bewildered that she could do nothing -right. Three times Mr. Waters spoke to her, with ever-increasing harshness, and -on the third occasion she answered him saying,— - - - -“I am very sorry, but it is not my fault. I feel ill: let me go -home.” - - - -“Yes, you’d better go, miss,” he said, “and so far as I -am concerned you can stop there. I shall report your conduct to the -proprietors, so you need not trouble to return unless you hear from me -again.” - - - -Joan went without a word; and so ended her life as a show-woman, for never -again did she set eyes upon the establishment of Messrs. Black and Parker, or -upon their estimable manager, Mr. Waters. - - - -The raw damp of the October evening revived her somewhat, but before she -reached Kent Street she knew that she had not exaggerated when she said that -she was ill—very ill, in body as well as in mind. The long anxiety and -mental torture, culminating in the scene of that afternoon, together with -confinement in the close atmosphere of the shop and other exciting causes, had -broken down her health at last. Sharp pains shot through her head and limbs; -she felt fever burning in her blood, and at times she trembled so violently -that she could scarcely keep her feet. Sally opened the door to her with an -affectionate smile, for the dumb girl had learned to worship her; but Joan went -straight to her room without noticing her, and threw herself upon the bed. -Presently Mrs. Bird, learning from the girl that something was wrong, came -upstairs bringing a cup of tea. - - - -“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she asked. - - - -“I don’t know,” answered Joan; “I feel very bad in my -head and all over me.” - - - -“Influenza, I expect,” said Mrs. Bird; “there is so much of -it about now. Let me help you off with your cloak and things, then drink this -tea and try to go to sleep. If you are not better to-morrow morning, we shall -have to send for the doctor.” - - - -Joan obeyed listlessly, swallowing the tea with an effort. - - - -“Are you sure that you have nothing on your mind, my dear?” asked -Mrs. Bird. “I have been watching you for a long while, and I find a great -change in you. You never did seem happy from the hour that you came here, but -of late you have been downright miserable.” - - - -Joan laughed: the sound of that laugh gave Mrs. Bird “the creeps,” -as she afterwards expressed it. - - - -“Anything on my mind? Yes, I have everything on my mind, enough to drive -me mad twice over. You’ve been very kind to me, Mrs. Bird, and I shall -never forget your goodness; but I am going to leave you to-morrow they have -dismissed me from the shop already so before I go I may as well tell you what I -am. To begin with, I am a liar; and I’m more than that, I am -Listen!” and she bent her head forward and whispered into the little -woman’s ear. “Now,” she added, “I don’t know if -you will let me stop the night in the house after that. If not, say so, and -I’ll be off at once. I dare say that they would take me in at a hospital, -or a home, or if not there is always the Thames. I nearly threw myself into it -the other day, and this time I should not change my mind.” And again she -laughed. - - - -“My poor child! my poor, poor child!” said Mrs. Bird, wiping her -eyes, “please don’t talk like that. Who am I, that I should judge -you? though it is true that I do like young women to be respectable; and so -they would be if it wasn’t for the men, the villains! I’d just like -to tear the eyes out of this wicked one, I would, who first of all leads you -into trouble and then deserts you.” - - - -“Don’t speak of him like that,” said Joan: “he -didn’t lead me,—if anything, I led him; and he didn’t desert -me, I ran away from him. I think that he would have married me if I had asked -him, but I will have nothing to do with him.” - - - -“Why, the girl must be mad!” said Mrs. Bird blankly. “Is he a -gentleman?” - - - -“Yes, if ever there was one; and I’m not mad, only can’t you -understand that one may love a man so much that one would die rather than bring -him into difficulties! There, it’s a long story, but he would be ruined -were he to marry me. There’s another girl whom he ought to marry a -lady.” - - - -“He would be ruined, indeed! And what will _you_ be, pray?” - - - -“I don’t know, and I don’t care: dead, I hope, before long. -Oh!” and she wrung her hands piteously, “I saw him in the shop this -afternoon; he was quite close to me. Yes, he looked at a cloak that I was -showing, and never knew me who wore it. That’s what has broken me down: -so long as I did not see him I could bear it, but now my heart feels as though -it would burst. To think that he should have been so close to me and not have -known me, oh! it is cruel, cruel!” - - - -“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bird, “really I feel quite upset: I -am not accustomed to this sort of thing. If you will excuse me I will go and -look for my salts. And now you get into bed like a good girl, and stop -there.” - - - -“Am I not to go away, then?” asked Joan. - - - -“Certainly not—at any rate for the present. You are much too ill to -go anywhere. And now there is just one thing that I should like to know, and -you may as well tell it me as you have told me so much. What is this -gentleman’s name?” - - - -“I’ll not tell you,” answered Joan sullenly: “if I told -you, you would be troubling him; besides, I have no right to give away his -secrets, whatever I do with my own.” - - - -“Perhaps it is no such great secret after all, my dear. Say now, -isn’t his name Henry Graves, and doesn’t he live at a place called -Rosham?” - - - -“Who told you that?” asked Joan, springing up and standing over -her. Then she remembered herself, and sat down again upon the bed. “No, -that’s not the name,” she said; “I never heard that -name.” - - - -“Nobody told me,” answered Mrs. Bird quietly, ignoring Joan’s -denial. “I saw the name in those poetry books that you are so fond of, -and which you lent me to read; and I saw one or two notes that you had made in -them also, that’s all. I’ve had to watch deaf-and-dumb people for -many years, my dear, and there’s nothing like it for sharpening the wits -and teaching one how to put two and two together. Also you could never hear the -name of Henry without staring round and blushing, though perhaps you -didn’t know it yourself. Bless you, I guessed it all a month ago, though -I didn’t think that it was so bad as this.” - - - -“Oh! it’s mean of you to have spied on me like that, Mrs. -Bird,” said Joan, giving in; “but it’s my fault, like -everything else.” - - - -“Don’t you fret about your faults, but just go to bed, -there’s a good girl. I will come back in half an hour, and if I -don’t find you fast asleep I shall be very angry.” And she put her -arms about her and kissed her on the forehead, as a mother might kiss her child. - - - -“You are too kind to me, a great deal too kind,” said Joan, with a -sob. “Nobody ever was kind to me before, except him, and that’s why -I feel it.” - - - -When Mrs. Bird had gone, Joan undressed herself and put on a wrapper, but she -did not get into bed. For a while she wandered aimlessly backwards and forwards -through the doors between the two rooms, apparently without much knowledge of -what she was doing. Some note-paper was lying on the table in the sitting-room, -where the gas was burning, and it caught her eye. - - - -“Why shouldn’t I write?” she said aloud: “not to him, -no, but just to put down what I feel; it will be a comfort, to play at writing -to him, and I can tear it up afterwards.” - - - -The fancy seemed to please her excited brain; at any rate she sat down and -began to write rapidly, never pausing for a thought or words. She wrote:— - - - -“MY DARLING,— - - - -“Of course I have no business to call you that, but then you see this is -not a real letter, and you will never get it, for I shall post it presently in -the fire; I am only playing at writing to you. Henry, my darling, my lover, my -husband—you can see now that I am playing, or I shouldn’t call you -that, should I?—I am very ill, I think that I am going to die, and I hope -that I shall die quickly, quickly, and melt away into nothingness, to be blown -about the world with the wind, or perhaps to bloom in a flower on my own grave, -a flower for you to pick, my own. Henry, I saw you this afternoon; I wore that -cloak your sister was choosing, and I think that I should have spoken to you, -only she forbade me, and looked so fierce that she frightened me. Wasn’t -it strange—it makes me laugh now, though I could have cried then to think -of my standing there before you with that mantle on my shoulders, and of your -looking at it, and taking no more notice of me than if I were a -dressmaker’s shape? Perhaps that is what you took me for; and oh! I wish -I was, for then I couldn’t feel. But I haven’t told you my secret -yet, and perhaps you would like to know it. I am going to have a child, -Henry—a child with big blue eyes, like yours. I was ashamed about it at -first, and it frightened me. I used to dream at nights that everybody I knew -was hunting me through the streets, pointing and gibbering at me, with my aunt, -Mrs. Gillingwater, at the head of them. Now I’m not ashamed any more. I -don’t care: why should I? Nobody will bother because a nameless girl has -a nameless baby nobody except me; and I shall love it, and love it, and love it -almost as much as I love you, my dear. But I forgot: I am going to -die—kiss me when I am dead, Henry—pale lips for you to kiss, my -own! so there will be no child after all, and that is a pity, for you -won’t be able to see it. If it is born at all it will be born in heaven, -or wherever poor girls who have gone wrong are sent to. I wonder what is the -meaning of it, Henry; I wonder, not why I should love you, for I was bred to -that, that was my birth-luck, but why I should suffer so because I love you? Is -it my fault, or somebody else’s?—I don’t mean yours, dear, or -is it simply a punishment because I am wicked?—because, if so, it seems -curious. You see, if I had taken you at your word and married you, then I -shouldn’t have been wicked—that is, in the eyes of others—and -I shouldn’t have suffered. I should have been as good as all married -women are, and oh! a great deal happier than most of them. But because I -couldn’t think of marrying you, knowing that it would be your ruin, I am -wicked and I suffer; at least I can guess no other reason. Well, Henry, I -don’t mind suffering so long as you are happy, and I hope that you will -always be happy. But I am selfish too: When I am dead, I hope that you will -think of me at times —yes, and of the baby that wasn’t -born—and if I can, I shall try to wander into your sleep now and again, -and you will see me there white robed, and with my hair spread out—for -you used to praise my hair holding the dream-baby in my arms. And at last you -will die also and come to find me; not that you will need to seek, for though I -am a sinner God will be good and pitiful to me because I have endured so much, -and I shall be waiting at your bedside to draw your passing spirit to my -breast. Oh! I have been lonely, so dreadfully lonely; I have felt as though I -stood by myself in a world where nobody understood me and everybody scorned and -hated me. But I know now that this was only because I could not see you. If -only I could see you I should die happy. Oh! my darling, my darling, if only I -could see you, and you were kind to me for one short hour, I -would——” - - - -Here Joan’s letter came to an abrupt termination, for the simple reason -that the agony in her head grew so sharp that she fainted for a moment, then, -recovering herself, staggered to her bed, forgetting all about the disjointed -and half-crazy epistle which it had been her fancy to write. - - - -A few minutes later Mrs. Bird entered the room accompanied by a -doctor—not a “red lamp” doctor, but a very clever and rising -man from the hospital, who made a rapid examination of the patient. - - - -“Um!” he said, after taking her temperature, “looks very like -the beginnings of what you would call ‘brain fever,’ though it may -be only bad influenza; but I can’t tell you much about it at present. -What do you know of the history of the case, Mrs. Bird?” - - - -She told him, and even repeated the confession that Joan had made to her. - - - -“When did she say all this?” he asked. - - - -“About an hour and a half ago, sir.” - - - -“Then you must not pay much attention to it. She is in a state of -cerebral excitement with high fever, and was very likely wandering at the time. -I have known people invent all sorts of strange stories under such conditions. -However, it is clear that she is seriously ill, though a woman with such a -splendid physique ought to pull through all right. Indeed, I do not feel -anxious about her. What a beautiful girl she is, by the way! You’ll sit -up with her to-night, I suppose? I’ll be round by eight o’clock -to-morrow morning, and I will send you something in half an hour that I hope -will keep her quiet till then.” - - - -Mrs. Bird did not go to bed that night, the most of which she spent by -Joan’s side, leaving her now and again to rest herself awhile upon the -sofa in the sitting-room. As she was in the act of lying down upon this sofa -for the first time, her eye fell upon the written sheets of Joan’s -unfinished letter. She took them up and glanced at them, but seeing from its -opening words that the letter was of a strictly confidential character, she put -it down and tried to go to sleep. The attempt, however, was not successful, for -whenever Mrs. Bird closed her eyes she saw those passionate words, and a great -desire seized her to learn to whom they were addressed, and whether or no the -document threw any light upon the story that Joan had told her. Now, if Mrs. -Bird had a weak point it was curiosity; and after many struggles of conscience, -the end of it was, that in this instance temptation got the better of her. From -time to time glancing guiltily over her shoulder, as though she feared to see -the indignant writer rise from the bed where she lay in semi-torpor, she -perused the sheets from beginning to end. - - - -“Well, I never did!” she said, as she finished them— -“no, not in all my born days. To think of the poor girl being able to -write like that: not but what it is mad enough, in all conscience, though -there’s a kind of sense in the madness, and plenty of feeling too. I -declare I could cry over it myself for sixpence, yes, that I could, with all -this silly talk about a babe unborn. She seems to have thought that she is -going to die, but I hope that isn’t true; it would be dreadful to have -her die here, like the late accountant, let alone that we are all so fond of -her. Well, I know her aunt’s name now, for it’s in the letter; and -if things go bad I shall just take the liberty to write and tell her. Yes, and -I’m by no means sure that I won’t write to this Mr. Graves too, -just to harrow him up a bit and let him know what he has done. If he’s -got the feelings of a man, he’ll marry her straight away after -this—that is, if she’s left alive to marry him. Anyhow I’ll -make bold to keep this for a while, until I know which way things are -going.” And she placed the sheets in an envelope, which she hid in the -bosom of her dress. - - - -Next morning the doctor came, as he had promised, and announced that Joan was -worse, though he still declined to express any positive opinion as to the -nature of her illness. Within another twenty-four hours, however, his doubts -had vanished, and he declared it to be a severe case of “brain -fever.” - - - -“I wish I had moved her to the hospital at once,” he said; -“but it is too late for that now, so you will have to do the best you can -with her here. A nurse must be got: she would soon wear you out; and what is -more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done with her.” - - - -“A nurse!” said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, “how am I -to afford all that expense?” - - - -“I don’t know; but can’t she afford it? Has she no -friends?” - - - -“She has friends, sir, of a sort, but she seems to have run away from -them, though I think that I have the address of her aunt. She’s got money -too, I believe; and there’s some one who gives her an allowance.” - - - -“Very likely, poor girl,” answered the doctor drily. “Well, I -think that under the circumstances you had better examine her purse and see -what she has to go on with, and then you must write to this aunt and let her -know how things are. I dare say that you will not get any answer, but -it’s worth a penny stamp on the chance. And now I’ll be witness -while you count the money.” - - - -Joan’s purse was easily found; indeed, it lay upon the table before them, -for, notwithstanding Mr. Levinger’s admonitions, she was careless, like -most of her sex, as to where she put her cash. On examination it was found to -contain over fifteen pounds. - - - -“Well, there’ plenty to go on with,” said the doctor; -“and when that’s gone, if the relations won’t do anything I -must get a sister to come in and nurse her. But I shouldn’t feel -justified in recommending her case to them while she has so much money in her -possession.” - - - -Within three hours the nurse arrived—a capable and kindly woman of middle -age who thoroughly understood her business. As may be imagined, Mrs. Bird was -glad enough to see her; indeed, between the nursing of Joan, who by now was in -a high fever and delirious, upstairs, and attending to her paralytic husband -below, her strength was well-nigh spent, nor could she do a stitch of the work -upon which her family depended for their livelihood. That afternoon she -composed a letter to Mrs. Gillingwater. It ran as follows:— - - - -“MADAM,— - - - -“You may think it strange that I should write to you, seeing that you -never heard of me, and that I do not know if there is such a person as -yourself, though well enough acquainted with the name of Gillingwater down -Yarmouth way in my youth; but I believe, whether I am right or wrong and if I -am wrong this letter will come back to me through the Post Office—that -you are the aunt of a girl called Joan Haste, and that you live at Bradmouth, -which place I have found on the map. I write, then, to tell you that Joan Haste -has been lodging with me for some months, keeping herself quiet and -respectable, and working in a situation in Messrs. Black & Parker’s -shop in Oxford Street, which doubtless is known to you if ever you come to -London. Two nights ago she came back from her work ill, and now she lies in a -high fever and quite off her head (so you see she can’t tell me if you -are her aunt or not). Whether she lives or dies is in the hands of God, and -under Him of the doctor; but he, the doctor I mean, thinks that I ought to let -her relations, if she has any, know of her state, both because it is right that -they should, and so that they may help her if they will. I have grown very fond -of her myself, and will do all I can for her; but I am a poor woman with an -invalid husband and child to look after, and must work to support the three of -us, so that won’t be much. Joan has about fifteen pounds in her purse, -which will of course pay for doctor, food and nursing for a few weeks; but her -illness, if things go well with her, is likely to be a long one, and if they -don’t, then there will be her funeral expenses to meet, for I suppose -that you would wish to have her buried decent in a private grave. Joan told me -that there was some one who is a kind of guardian to her and supplies her with -money, so if you can do nothing yourself, perhaps you will send him this -letter, as I can’t write to him not knowing his address. Madam, I do hope -that even if you have quarrelled with Joan, or if she hasn’t behaved -right to you, that you will not desert her now in her trouble, seeing that if -you do and she dies, you may come to be sorry for it in after years. Trusting -to hear from you, - - - -“Believe me, Madam, - - - - “Obediently yours, - - - -JANE BIRD, _Dressmaker._ - - - -“P. S. I enclose my card, and you will find my name in the London -Directory.” - - - -When she had finished this letter, and addressed it thus, - - - -_“Mrs. Gillingwater,_ - - - - _“Bradmouth,_ - - - - _“Please deliver at once,”_ - Mrs. Bird posted -it with her own hands in the pillar-box at the corner of Kent Street. - - - -Then she returned to the house and sat down to reflect as to whether or not she -should write another letter—namely, to the Mr. Henry Graves of Rosham, -who, according to Joan’s story, was the author of her trouble, enclosing -in it the epistle which the girl had composed at the commencement of her -delirium. Finally she decided not to do so at present, out of no consideration -for the feelings of this wicked and perfidious man, but because she could not -see that it would serve any useful purpose. If Joan’s relations did not -come forward, then it would be time enough to appeal to him for the money to -nurse or to bury her. Or even if they did come forward, then she might still -appeal to him—that is, if Joan recovered—to save her from the -results of his evil doings and her folly by making her his wife. Until these -issues were decided one way or another, it seemed to Mrs. Bird, who did not -lack shrewdness and a certain knowledge of the world, that it would be wisest -to keep silent, more especially in view of the fact that, as the doctor had -pointed out, the whole tale might be the imagining of a mind diseased. - - - -And here it may be convenient to say that some weeks went by before it was -known for certain whether Joan would die or live. Once or twice she was in -considerable if not in imminent danger; moreover, after periods of distinct -improvement, she twice suffered from relapses. But in the end her own splendid -constitution and youth, aided by the care and skill with which she was nursed, -pulled her through triumphantly. When her return to life and health was -assured, Mrs. Bird again considered the question of the advisability of -communicating with Henry in the interests of her patient. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -LUCK AT LAST. - - - -On the morning after the posting of Mrs. Bird’s letter, Mrs. Gillingwater -was sitting at breakfast in the parlour of the Crown and Mitre, in no happy -frame of mind. Things had gone very ill with her since Joan disappeared, some -months previously. To begin with, the ample allowance that Mr. Levinger had -been in the habit of paying for his ward’s support no longer found its -way into her pocket, and the sums received from that quarter were now -inconsiderable, amounting indeed to a remission of rent only. Then, try as she -would, she could not extract another farthing from Samuel Rock, who, in fact, -had shown the very nastiest temper when she ventured to ask him for a trifle, -having gone so far as to allege that she had been playing a double game with -him as to Joan, and was concealing from him the secret of that young -lady’s whereabouts. - - - -“Look here, mum,” he had said in conclusion, “if you want -money you must give value, do you understand? At present you have had lots of -money out of me, but I have had precious little value out of you. On the day -that you tell me Joan’s true address there will be five-and-twenty -sovereigns to go into your pocket. Look, I keep them ready,”—and -going to a drawer he unlocked it and showed her the gold, at which Mrs. -Gillingwater glared avariciously. “Yes, and on the day that I marry her -there’ll be fifty more to follow. Don’t you be afraid but what I -can afford it and will keep my word. But till I get that address you -sha’n’t have a sixpence—no, not if it was to save you from -the poorhouse.” - - - -“I tell you, Mr. Rock, that I have no more notion where she has flitted -to than a babe unborn. If any one knows, it’s old Levinger or Sir -Henry.” - - - -“And if they know, they keep their mouths shut,” said Samuel. -“Well ma’am, you have got my answer, so now I will wish you good -morning. When you can let me have that address I shall be glad to see you, but -till then perhaps you’ll keep clear, as it don’t look well for a -married woman to be always hanging about my house.” - - - -“Any one with a grain of sense in his head might be pretty certain that -she wasn’t hanging after an oily-tongued half-bred saint like you,” -retorted Mrs. Gillingwater furiously. “I don’t wonder that Joan -never could abide you, that I don’t, with your sneaking, snuffling ways, -and your eye cocked round the corner. She hates the sight of you, and -that’s why she’s run away. She hates you as much as she loves Sir -Henry, and small blame to her: ay, you may turn green with jealousy if you -like, but it’s true for all that. She’d rather run a mile barefoot -to kiss his little finger than she would be carried in a coach-and-four to -marry you. So there, you put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Rock!” -And she retired, slamming the office and kitchen doors behind her. - - - -When her just wrath against Samuel had subsided, Mrs. Gillingwater considered -the position, and since she must get money by hook or by crook, she determined -to renew her attack upon Henry, this time by letter. Accordingly she wrote a -long and rambling epistle, wherein among other things she accused him of the -abduction of her niece, mildly suggesting even that he had murdered her in -order to hide his misdeeds. The letter ended with a threat that she would -publish his true “karacter” from one end of the county to the other -unless the sum of ten pounds was immediately forthcoming. In a few days the -answer came; but on opening it Mrs. Gillingwater discovered, to her disgust and -dismay, that it was from a firm of lawyers, who informed her in the most -pointed language that if any further attempt was made to blackmail their client -she would be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. - - - -All this was bad enough, yet it was but a beginning of troubles. Since -Joan’s departure Mr. Gillingwater had been drunk at least twice as often -as usual—as he declared in his sober moments, and with some truth, in -order to console himself for the loss of Joan, who was the one human creature -to whom he was attached. One of these drinking bouts culminated in his making a -furious attack, in the bar of the Crown and Mitre, upon a customer who was also -drunk. For this assault he was fined at the petty sessions; and on the matter -coming before the bench on licensing day, his license to keep a public-house, -that already had been twice endorsed by the police, was taken away from -him,—which meant, of course, that the Crown and Mitre was closed as a -place of refreshment for man and beast for so long as the landlord, Mr. -Levinger, chose to allow him to occupy it. - - - -No wonder, then, that on this morning of the receipt of Mrs. Bird’s -letter Mrs. Gillingwater was depressed in mind as she sat drinking her tea and -trying to master an invitation from no less a person than “Victoria, by -the grace of God, etc.,” to attend a county court and show cause why she -should not pay a certain sum of four pounds three and nine-pence halfpenny, -with costs, for various necessaries of life bought by and duly delivered to -her, the said defendant. - - - -Hearing a knock at the door, Mrs. Gillingwater threw down the summons with an -expression that was more forcible than polite having reference, indeed, to the -temporal and spiritual welfare of her august sovereign and of all those who -administer justice under her. Then, having looked carefully through the window -to make sure that her visitor was not another bailiff or policeman, she opened -the door and took her letter. - - - -“I don’t know the writing,” she muttered, turning it round -and round suspiciously. “It may be another of those dratted summonses, or -something of that sort; I’ve half a mind to throw it into the fire and -swear that I never got it, only then that fool of a postman would give me the -lie, for I took it from him myself.” - - - -In the end she opened the letter and spelt through its contents with difficulty -and ever growing astonishment. - - - -“Well,” she said, as she put it down, “here’s some luck -at last, anyway. If that silly girl doesn’t go and die it will be hard if -I don’t turn an honest penny out of her, now that I know where -she’s got to. Samuel would pay up to learn, but it’s best to let -him lie awhile, for I can work more out of him when she gets well again if she -does. I’m off up to the old man’s, for that’s the safest -game: he’ll scarcely bow me out with this in my hand; and if I -don’t give him a nip or two before I am done with him, the mean old -scamp, then my fingers grow on my feet, that’s all!” For be it -known that on two recent occasions when Mrs. Gillingwater called, Mr. Levinger -had declared himself not to be at home, and this when she could plainly see him -standing by the study window. - - - -Reaching Monk’s Lodge in due course, Mrs. Gillingwater, who was not -afflicted with Joan’s humility, went to the front door and rang the bell -boldly. Its sound disturbed Mr. Levinger from his reading, and he stepped to -the window to perceive her standing on the doorstep, red and hot from her walk, -and looking, as he thought, unusually large, coarse and violent. - - - -“There is that dreadful woman again,” he said to himself. “I -can’t bear the sight of her. I wonder now if, had she lived, poor Mary -would have looked like her by this time. Perhaps,” and he sighed; then, -opening the door, told the servant to say that he was not at home. - - - -She obeyed, and presently there arose sounds of altercation. “It -ain’t no use, you impudent barefaced thing, for you to stand there -a-lying your soul away, when I saw him with my own eyes,” shrilled the -rough voice of Mrs. Gillingwater. - - - -“Not at home: them’s my orders,” answered the girl with -warmth, as she attempted to shut the door. - - - -“No, you don’t, hussy!” retorted the visitor, thrusting her -foot between it and the jamb. “I’ve got some orders must see him, -about Joan Haste, and if he won’t let me in I’ll holler what -I’ve got to say outside the house.” - - - -Alarmed by the violence of her antagonist, the girl retreated, and, returning -presently, showed Mrs. Gillingwater into the study without a word. Here she -found Mr. Levinger standing by the fire, his face white with anger. - - - -“Be seated, Mrs. Gillingwater,” he said in a quiet voice, -“and tell me what you mean by coming to make a disturbance here.” - - - -“I mean that I want to see you, sir,” she answered sullenly, -“and that I won’t be driven away from your door like a dog. Once -for all I tell you, sir, that you’d better be careful how you treat me, -for if you turn dirty to me, I’ll turn dirty to you. It’s only the -dead that don’t speak, sir, and I’m very much alive, I am.” -Then she paused and added threateningly, “You can’t treat me as -I’ve heard say you did another, Mr. Levinger.” - - - -“Have you quite done?” he asked. “Very well, then; be so good -as to listen to me: you can tell nothing about me, for the best of all possible -reasons, that you know nothing. On the other hand, Mrs. Gillingwater, I can, if -necessary, tell something about you perhaps you may remember to what I refer, -if not I can refresh your memory ah! I see that there is no need. A -moment’s reflection will show you that you are entirely in my power. If -you dare to make any attack upon my character, or even to repeat such a -disturbance as you have just caused, I will ruin you and drive you to the -workhouse, where, except for me, you would have been long ago. In earnest of -what I say, your husband will receive to-morrow a summons for the rent that he -owes me, and a notice to quit my house. I trust that I have made myself -clear.” - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater knew Mr. Levinger well enough to be aware that he would keep -his word if she drove him to it; and, growing frightened at the results of her -own violence, she began to whimper. - - - -“You never would be so cruel as to deal with a poor woman like that, -sir,” she said. “If I’ve spoken rash and foolish it’s -because I’m as full of troubles as a thistle-head with down; yes, -I’m driven mad, that’s what I am. What with having lost the -license, and that brute of a husband of mine always drunk, and Joan, my poor -Joan, who was like a daughter to me, a-dying:—— - - - -“What did you say?” said Mr. Levinger. “Stop that snivelling, -woman, and tell me.” - - - -“Now you see, sir, that you would have done foolish to send me -away,” Mrs. Gillingwater jerked out between her simulated sobs, -“with the news that I had to tell you. Not as I can understand why it -should trouble you, seeing that of course the poor dear ain’t nothing to -you; though if it had been Sir Henry Graves that I’d gone to, it -wouldn’t have been surprising.” - - - -“Will you tell me what you are talking about?” broke in Mr. -Levinger, striking his stick upon the floor. “Come, out with it: -I’m not to be trifled with.” - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes, wondering if -it would be safe to keep up the game any longer. Coming to an adverse -conclusion, she produced Mrs. Bird’s letter, saying, “This is what -told me about it, sir.” - - - -He took, or rather snatched the letter from her hand, and read it through with -eagerness. Apparently its contents moved him deeply, for he muttered, -“Poor girl! to think of her being so ill! Pray Heaven she may not -die.” Then he sat down at the table, and taking a telegram form, he -filled it in as follows: - - - -“To Mrs. Bird, 8 Kent Street, London, W. - - - -“Your letter to Mrs. Gillingwater received. Spare no expense. Am writing -by to-day’s post. - - - -“James Levinger, Monk’s Lodge, Bradmouth.” - - - -“Would you mind ringing the bell, Mrs. Gillingwater?” said Mr. -Levinger, as he re-read the telegram and, placing it in an envelope, directed -it to the postmaster at Bradmouth. “No, stay: I will see to the matter -myself.” And he left the room. - - - -Presently he returned. “I do not know that I need keep you, Mrs. -Gillingwater,” he said, “or that I have anything more to say. I -shall do my best to look after your niece, and I will let you know how she goes -on.” - - - -“Thank you, sir; and about the rent and the notice?” - - - -“At present, Mrs. Gillingwater, I shall dispense with both of them. I do -not wish to deal hardly with you unless you force me to it. I suppose that you -are in a bad way, as usual?” - - - -“Well, yes, sir, I am. In fact, I don’t quite know what I can do -unless I get a little help.” - - - -“Ten pounds?” suggested Mr. Levinger. - - - -“That will tide me over for a bit, sir.” - - - -“Very well, then, here you are,” and he produced the money. -“But mind, I give you this for the sake of old associations, little as -you deserve it; and if there is any more trouble you will get nothing further -from me. One more thing: I expect you to hold your tongue about poor -Joan’s illness and her address especially to Sir Henry Graves and Mr. -Rock. Do you understand me?” - - - -“Perfectly, sir.” - - - -“Then remember what I say, and good morning; if you want to communicate -with me again, you had better write.” - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater departed humbly enough, dropping all awkward courtesy at the -door. - - - -“Like the month of March, she came in like a lion and has gone out like a -lamb,” reflected Mr. Levinger as the door closed behind her. “She -is a dangerous woman, but luckily I have her in hand. A horrible woman I call -her. It makes me shudder to think of the fate of anybody who fell into the -power of such a person. And now about this poor girl. If she were to die many -complications would be avoided; but the thing is to keep her alive, for in the -other event I should feel as though her blood were on my hands. Much as I hate -it, I think that I will go to town and see after her. Emma is to start for home -to-morrow, and I can easily make an excuse that I have come to fetch her. Let -me see: there is a train at three o’clock that would get me to town at -six. I could dine at the hotel, go to see about Joan afterwards, and telegraph -to Emma that I would fetch her in time for the eleven o’clock train -to-morrow morning. That will fit in very well.” - - - -Two hours later Mr. Levinger was on his road to London. - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater returned to Bradmouth, if not exactly jubilant, at least in -considerably better spirits than she had left it. She had wrung ten pounds out -of Mr. Levinger, which in itself was something of a triumph; also she had hopes -of other pickings, for now she knew Joan’s address, which it seemed was a -very marketable commodity. At present she had funds in hand, and therefore -there was no need to approach Samuel Rock which indeed she feared to do in the -face of Mr. Levinger’s prohibition; still it comforted her not a little -to think that those five-and-twenty sovereigns also were potentially her own. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD. - - - -A month went by, and at the end of it every farthing of Mr. Levinger’s -ten pounds was spent, for the most part in satisfying creditors who either had -sued, or were threatening to sue, for debts owing to them. Finding herself once -more without resources, Mrs. Gillingwater concluded that it was time to deal -with Samuel Rock, taking the chance of her breach of confidence being found out -and visited upon her by Mr. Levinger. Accordingly, towards dusk one -evening— for she did not wish her errand to be observed by the -curious—Mrs. Gillingwater started upon her mission to Moor Farm. - - - -Moor Farm is situated among the wind-torn firs that line the ridge of ground -which separates the sea heath between Bradmouth and Ramborough from the meadows -that stretch inland behind it. Perhaps in the whole county there is no more -solitary or desolate building, with its outlook on to the heath and the chain -of melancholy meres where Samuel had waylaid Joan, beyond which lies the sea. -The view to the west is more cheerful, indeed, for here are the meadows where -runs the Brad; but, as though its first architect had determined that its -windows should look on nothing pleasant, the house is cut off from this -prospect by the straggling farm buildings and the fir plantation behind them. - - - -The homestead, which stands quite alone, for all the labourers employed about -the place live a mile or more away in the valley, is large, commodious, and -massively built of grey stone robbed from the ruins of Ramborough. When the -Lacons, Joan’s ancestors on the mother’s side, who once had owned -the place, went bankrupt, their land was bought by Samuel Rock’s -grandfather, an eccentric man, but one who was very successful in his business -as a contractor for the supply of hay to His Majesty’s troops. After he -had been the possessor of Moor Farm for little more than a year, this James -Rock went suddenly mad; and although his insanity was of a dangerous character, -for reasons that were never known his wife would not consent to his removal to -an asylum, but preferred to confine him in the house, some of the windows of -which are still secured by iron bars. The end of the tale was tragic, for one -night the maniac, having first stunned his keeper, succeeded in murdering his -wife while she was visiting him. This event took place some seventy years -before the date of the present story, but the lapse of two generations has not -sufficed to dispel the evil associations connected with the spot, and that -portion of the house where the murder was committed has remained uninhabited -from that day to this. - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater was not a person much troubled by imaginative fears, but the -aspect of Moor House as she approached it on that November evening affected her -nerves, rudimentary as they were. The day had been very stormy, and angry rays -from the setting sun shone through gaps in the line of naked firs behind the -house, and were reflected from the broken sky above on to the surface of the -meres and of the sea beyond them. The air was full of the voices of wind and -storm, the gale groaned and shrieked among the branches of the ancient trees; -from the beach a mile away came the sound of the hiss of the surge and of the -dull boom of breakers, while overhead a flock of curlews appeared and -disappeared as they passed from sunbeam into shadow and from shadow into -sunbeam, till they faded among the uncertain lights of the distance, whence the -echo of their unhappy cries still floated to the listener’s ear. The -front of the house was sunk in gloom, but there was still light enough to -enable Mrs. Gillingwater, standing by the gate of what in other times had been -a little pleasure garden, but was now a wilderness overrun with sea grasses, to -note its desolate aspect, and even the iron bars that secured the windows of -the rooms where once the madman was confined. Nobody could be seen moving about -the place, and she observed no lamp in the sitting-room. - - - -“I hope those brutes of dogs are tied up, for I expect _he’s_ -out,” Mrs. Gillingwater said to herself; “he’s fond of -sneaking about alone in weather like this.” - - - -As the thought passed through her mind, she chanced to glance to her left, -where some twenty paces from her, and beyond the intercepting bulk of the -building, a red sunbeam pierced the shadows like a sword. There in the centre -of this sunbeam stood Samuel Rock himself. He was wrapped in his long dark -cloak that fell to the knees, but his hat lay on the ground beside him, and his -upturned face was set towards the dying sun in such a fashion that the vivid -light struck full upon it, showing every line of his clear-cut features, every -hair of the long beard that hung from the square protruding chin, and even the -motion of his thin lips, and of the white hands that he moved ceaselessly, as -though he were washing them in the blood-red light. - - - -There was something so curious about his aspect that Mrs. Gillingwater started. - - - -“Now what’s he a-doing there?” she wondered: “bless me -if I know, unless he’s saying prayers to his master the devil. I never -did see a man go on like that before, drunk or sober; he gives me the creeps, -the beast. Look, there he goes sneaking along the wall of the house, for all -the world like a great black snake wriggling to its hole. Well, he’s in -now, so here’s after him, for his money is as good as anybody -else’s, and I must have it.” - - - -In another half-minute she was knocking at the door, which was opened by Samuel. - - - -“Who’s that?” he said. “I don’t want no visitors -at this time of day.” - - - -“It’s me, Mr. Rock—Mrs. Gillingwater.” - - - -“Then I want you least of all, you foul-mouthed, lying woman. Get you -gone, or I’ll loose the dogs on you.” - - - -“You’d better not,” she answered, “for I’ve -something to tell you that you’d like to hear.” - - - -“Something that I’d like to hear,” he answered, hesitating: -“is it about _her?_” - - - -“Yes, it’s about her—all about her.” - - - -“Come in,” he said. - - - -She entered, and he shut and locked the door behind her. - - - -“What are you a-doing that for?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater -suspiciously. - - - -“Nothing,” he answered, “but doors are best locked. You -can’t tell who will come through them, nor when, if they’re left -open.” - - - -“That’s just another of his nasty ways,” muttered Mrs. -Gillingwater, as she followed him down the passage into the sitting-room, which -was quite dark except for some embers of a wood fire that glowed upon the -hearth. - - - -“Stop a minute, and I will light the lamp,” said her host. - - - -Soon it burnt brightly, and while Samuel was making up the fire Mrs. -Gillingwater had leisure to observe the room, in which as it chanced she had -never been before, at any rate since she was a child. On the occasions of their -previous interviews Samuel had always received her in the office or the kitchen. - - - -It was long and low, running the depth of the house, so that the windows faced -east and west. The fireplace was wide, and over it hung a double-barrelled -muzzle-loading gun, which Mrs. Gillingwater noticed was charged, for the light -shone upon the copper caps. There were two doors one near the fireplace, -leading to the offices and kitchen, and one by which she had entered. The floor -was of oak, half covered with strips of matting, and the ceiling also was -upheld by great beams of oak, that, like most of the materials in this house, -had been bought or stolen from the Abbey at the time when it was finally -deserted, a hundred and fifty years before. This was put beyond a doubt, -indeed, by the curious way in which it had been the fancy of the builder to -support these huge beams namely, by means of gurgoyles that once had carried -off the water from the roofs of the Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine -anything more grotesque, or indeed uncanny, than the effect of these -weather-worn and grinning heads of beasts and demons glaring down upon the -occupants of the chamber open-mouthed, as though they were about to spring upon -and to devour them. Indeed, according to a tale in Bradmouth, a child of ten, -finding herself left alone with them for the first time, was so terrified by -their grizzly appearance that she fell into a fit. For the rest, the walls of -the room were hung with a dingy paper, and adorned with engravings of a -Scriptural character, diversified by prints taken from Fox’s “Book -of Martyrs.” The furniture was good, solid and made of oak, like -everything else in the place, with the sole exception of an easy chair, in -which it was Samuel’s custom to smoke at night. - - - -“I suppose, now, Mr. Rock,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, pointing to the -grinning gurgoyles, “that you don’t find it lonesome up here at -nights, with those stone parties for company?” - - - -“Not a bit of it, Mrs. Gillingwater; why, I’ve known them all ever -since I was a child, as doubtless others have before me, and they are downright -good friends to me, they are. I have names for every one of them, and I talk to -them sometimes too—now this and now that, as the fancy takes me.” - - - -“Just what I should have expected of you, Mr. Rock,” answered Mrs. -Gillingwater significantly; “not but what I dare say it is good -training.” - - - -“Meaning?” said Samuel. - - - -“Meaning, Mr. Rock, that as it is getting late, and it’s a long and -windy walk home, we’d better stop talking of stone figures and come to -business—that is, if you have a mind for it.” - - - -“By all means, Mrs. Gillingwater. But what is the business?” - - - -“Well, it’s this: last time we met, when we parted in anger, though -through no fault of mine, you said that you wanted Joan’s address: and -now I’ve got it.” - - - -“You’ve got it? Then tell it me. Come, be quick!” and he -leaned towards her across the polished oak table. - - - -“No, no, Mr. Rock: do you think that I am as green as an alder shoot, -that you should ask such a thing of me? I must have the money before you get -the address. Do you understand?” - - - -“I understand, Mrs. Gillingwater; but be reasonable. How can you expect -me to pay you five-and-twenty pounds for what may be gammon after all?” - - - -“Five-and-twenty pounds, Mr. Rock! No such thing, indeed: it is fifty -pounds I want, every farthing of it, or you get nothing out of me.” - - - -“Fifty pounds!” answered Samuel; “then I don’t think -that we need talk no longer, Mrs. Gillingwater, seeing that I ain’t going -to give you fifty pounds, no, not for the address of all the angels in -heaven.” - - - -“I dare say not, Mr. Rock: _they’d_ be precious little use to -you when you’d got them, either now or at any future time, to judge from -what I knows of you”—and she glanced significantly at the -sculptured demons beneath the ceiling—“but you see Joan’s -whereabouts is another matter, more especially since she isn’t an angel -yet, though she’s been nigh enough to it, poor dear.” - - - -“What do you mean by that, ma’am? Is she ill, then?” - - - -“When I’ve got the fifty pounds in my pocket, Mr. Rock, I’ll -be glad enough to tell you all about it, but till then my mouth is sealed. -Indeed, it’s a great risk that I run letting you know at all, for if the -old man yonder finds it out, I think that he’ll be the ruin of me. And -now, will you pay, or won’t you?” - - - -“I won’t give you the fifty pounds,” he answered, setting his -teeth; “I’ll give you thirty, and that’s the last farthing -which you’ll screw out of me—and a lot of money too, seeing that -there’s no reason why I should pay you anything at all.” - - - -“That’s just where you’re wrong, Mr. Rock,” she -answered: “not that I’m denying that thirty pounds is a lot of -money; but then, you see, I’ve got that to sell that you want to buy, and -badly. Also, as I told you, I take risks in selling it.” - - - -“What risks?” - - - -“The risks of being turned out of house and home, and being sold up, -that’s all. Old Levinger don’t want no one to know Joan’s -address; I can’t tell you why, but he don’t, and if he finds out -that I have let on, it will be a bad business for me. Now look here: I fancy -that there is another person as wouldn’t mind giving a trifle for this -address, and if you’re so mean that you won’t cash up, I shall take -a walk out yonder to-morrow morning,” and she nodded in the direction of -Rosham. - - - -Samuel groaned, for he knew that she was alluding to his rival. “I doubt -that he knows it already, curse him,” he said, striking his hand upon the -table, “Thirty-five—there, that’s the last.” - - - -“You’re getting along, Mr. Rock, but it won’t do yet,” -sneered Mrs. Gillingwater. “See here now, I’ve got something in my -hand that I’ll show you just for friendship’s sake,” and -producing Mrs. Bird’s letter, she read portions of it aloud, pausing from -time to time to watch the effect upon her hearer. It was curious, for as he -listened his face reflected the extremes of love, hope, terror and despair. - - - -“God!” he said, wringing his hands, “to think that she may be -dead and gone from me for ever!” - - - -“If she were dead, Mr. Rock, it wouldn’t be much use my giving you -her address, would it? since, however fond you may be of her, I reckon that you -would scarcely care to follow her _there._ No, I’ll tell you this -much, she is living and getting well again, and I fancy that you’re after -a live woman, not a dead one.’ This was written a month ago and -more.” - - - -“Thank heaven!” he muttered. “I couldn’t have borne to -lose her like that; I think it would have driven me mad. While she’s -alive there’s hope, but what hope is there in the grave?” Samuel -spoke thus somewhat absently, after the fashion of a man who communes with -himself, but all the while Mrs. Gillingwater felt that he was searching her -with his eyes. Then of a sudden he leant forward, and swiftly as a striking -snake he shot out his long arm across the table, and snatched the letter from -her grasp. - - - -“You think yourself mighty clever, Mr. Rock,” she said, with a -harsh laugh; “but you won’t get the address for nothing in that -way. If you take the trouble to look you’ll see that I’ve tore it -off. Ah! you’ve met your match for once; it is likely that I was going to -trust what’s worth fifty pounds in reach of your fingers, isn’t -it?” - - - -He looked at the letter and saw that she spoke truth. - - - -“I didn’t take it for that,” he said, gnawing his hand with -shame and vexation; “I took it to see if there was a letter at all, or if -you were making up lies.” And he threw it back to her. - - - -“No doubt you did, Mr. Rock,” she answered, jeering at him. -“Well, and now you’re satisfied, I hope; so how about them fifty -sovereigns?” - - - -“Forty,” he said. - - - -“Fifty. Never a one less.” - - - -Samuel sprang up from his seat, and, coming round the table, stood over her. - - - -“Look here,” he said in a savage whisper, “you’re -pushing this game too far: if you’re a wise woman you’ll take the -forty and go, or—” - - - -“Or what?” - - - -“Or I’ll twist what I want to know out of that black heart of -yours, and not a farthing shall you get for it perhaps you’ve forgotten -that the door is locked and we are alone in the house. Yes, you might scream -till you brought the roof down, but nobody would hear you; and scream you shall -if I take hold of you.” - - - -Mrs. Gillingwater glanced at his face, and read something so evil on it, and in -the lurid eyes, that she grew frightened. - - - -“Very well,” she said, as unconcernedly as possible, “I -won’t stand out for a tenner between friends: down with the cash, and you -shall have it.” - - - -“Ah! ma’am, you’re afraid of me now I can feel it and -I’ve half a mind to beat you down; but I won’t, I’ll stand by -my word. Now you write that address upon this piece of paper and I’ll get -the coin.” And rising he left the room by the door near the fireplace, -which he took the precaution of locking behind him. - - - -“The murdering viper!” reflected Mrs. Gillingwater; “I -pinched his tail a little too much that time, and I sha’n’t be -sorry to find myself outside again, though there’s precious little chance -of that until he chooses, as he’s locked me in. Well, I must brazen it -out now.” And somewhere from the regions of her ample bosom she produced -the fragment that she had torn off Mrs. Bird’s letter, on which was -written the address and a date. - - - -Presently Samuel returned holding a small bag of money in his hand, from which -he counted out forty sovereigns. - - - -“There’s the cash, ma’am,” he said; “but before -you touch it be so good as to hand me that bit of writing: no, you -needn’t be afraid, I’ll give you the money as I take the -paper.” - - - -“I’m not afraid, Mr. Rock; when once I’ve struck a bargain I -stick to it like an honest woman, and so, I know, will you. Never you doubt -that the address is the right one; you can see that it is torn off the letter I -read to you. Joan is there, and through the worst of her illness, so the party -she’s lodging with wrote to me; and if you see her I hope you’ll -give her my love.” As she spoke she pushed the scrap of paper to him with -her left hand, while with her right she drew the shining heap of gold towards -herself. - - - -“Honest!” he said: “I may be honest in my way, Mrs. -Gillingwater; but you are about as honest as other traitors who sell innocent -blood for pieces of money.” - - - -“What do you mean by that, Mr. Rock?” she replied, looking up from -her task of securing the forty sovereigns in her pocket-handkerchief. -“I’ve sold no innocent blood; I’d scorn to do such a thing! -You don’t mean any harm to Joan, do you?” - - - -“No, ma’am, I mean her no harm, unless it’s a harm to want to -make her my wife; but it would have been all one to you if I meant to murder -her and you knew it, so your sin is just as great, and verily the betrayers of -innocent blood shall have their reward,” and he pointed at her with his -long fingers. “I’ve got what I want,” he went on -“though I’ve had to pay a lot of money for it; but I tell you that -it won’t do you any good; you might as well throw it into the mere and -yourself after it, as expect to get any profit out of that forty pounds, the -price of innocent blood the price of innocent blood.” Then once more -Samuel pointed at her and grinned maliciously, till to her fancy his face -looked like that of the stone demon above him. - - - -By now Mrs. Gillingwater was so frightened that for a moment or two she -hesitated as to whether it would not be wiser to return the money and free -herself from the burden of a dreadful thought. In the end her avarice -prevailed, as might have been expected, and without another word she rose and -walked towards the front door, which Samuel unlocked and opened for her. - - - -“Good-bye,” he said, as she went down the passage. - - - -“You’ve done me a good turn, ma’am, and now I’m sure -that I’ll marry Joan; but for all that a day shall come when you will -wish that your hand had been cut off before you touched those forty sovereigns: -you remember my words when you lie a-dying, Mrs. Gillingwater, with all your -deeds behind you and all the doom before.” - - - -Then the woman fled through the storm and the night, more terrified than ever -she had been in her life’s day, nor did the gold that she clasped to her -heart avail to comfort her. For Rock had spoken truth; it was the price of -innocent blood, and she knew it. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. - - - -Upon his arrival in town, Mr. Levinger drove to a private hotel in Jermyn -Street, where he was in the habit of staying on the rare occasions when he -visited London. He dressed and dined; then, having posted a letter to Emma -stating that he would call for her and Miss Graves on the following morning in -time to catch the eleven o’clock train, and escort them home, he ordered -a hansom and told the cabman to take him to 8, Kent Street. - - - -“It’s many a year since I have been in this place,” he -thought to himself with a sigh, as the cab turned out of the Edgware Road, -“and it doesn’t seem much changed. I wonder how she came to go to -another house. Well, I shall know the worst, or the best of it, -presently.” And again he sighed as the horse stopped with a jerk in front -of No. 8. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘You remember my words -when you lie a-dying.’ - - - - -Telling the man to wait, he rang the bell. The door was opened by Mrs. Bird -herself, who, seeing an elderly gentleman in a fur coat, dropped a polite -courtesy. - - - -“Is this Mrs. Bird’s house, pray?” he asked in his gentle -voice. - - - -“Yes, sir; I am Mrs. Bird.” - - - -“Indeed: then perhaps you received a telegram from me this -morning,—Mr. Levinger?” - - - -“Yes, sir, it came safely, and I ordered some things on the strength of -it. Will you be so good as to step in, sir? I have heard poor Joan speak of -you, though I never could make out what you were to her from her father -down.” - - - -“In a certain sense, madam, I am her guardian. Will you allow me to help -you with that door? And now, how is she?” - - - -“About as bad as she can be, sir; and if you are her guardian, I only -wish that you had looked after her a little before, for I think that being so -lonesome has preyed upon her mind, poor dear. And now perhaps you’ll step -upstairs into her sitting-room, making as little noise as possible. The doctor -and the nurse are with her, and you may wish to see them; it’s not a -catching fever, so you can come up safely.” - - - -He bowed, and followed Mrs. Bird to the little room, where she offered him a -chair. Through the thin double doors that separated them from the bedchamber he -could hear the sound of whispering, and now and again of a voice, still strong -and full, that spoke at random. “Don’t cut my hair,” said the -voice: “why do you cut my hair? He used to praise it; he’d never -know me without my hair.” - - - -“That’s her raving, poor love. She’ll go on in this kind of -way for hours.” - - - -Mr. Levinger turned a shade paler. He was a sensitive man, and these voices of -the sick room pained him; moreover, he may have found a meaning in them. - - - -“Perhaps you will give me a few details, Mrs. Bird,” he said, -drawing his chair close to the window. “You might tell me first how Joan -Haste came to be your lodger.” - - - -So Mrs. Bird began, and told him all the story, from the day when she had seen -Joan sitting upon her box on the opposite doorstep till the present hour that -is, she told it to him with certain omissions. Mr. Levinger listened -attentively. - - - -“I was very wrong,” he said, when she had finished, “to allow -her to come to London in this fashion. I reproach myself much about it, but the -girl was headstrong and —there were reasons. It is most fortunate that -she should have found so kind a friend as you seem to have been to her.” - - - -“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Bird severely, “I must say that I -think you were wrong. London is not a place to throw a young woman like Joan -into to sink or to swim, even though she may have given you some trouble; and -if anything happens to her I think that you will always have it on your -conscience.” And she put her head on one side and looked at him through -her spectacles. - - - -Mr. Levinger winced visibly, and did not seem to know what to answer. At that -moment the doctor came out of the sick room, leaving the door open; and, -looking through it, Mr. Levinger saw a picture that he could never forget. Joan -was lying upon an iron bedstead, and on a chair beside it, shimmering in the -light, lay the tumbled masses of her shorn hair. Her face was flushed, and her -large eyes shone with an unnatural brightness. One hand hung downwards almost -to the floor, and with the other she felt feebly at her head, saying in a -piteous voice, “Where is my hair? What have you done with my hair? He -will never know me like this, or if he does he will think me ugly. Oh! please -give me back my hair.” Then the nurse closed the door, and Mr. Levinger -was glad of it. - - - -“This is the gentleman, Doctor,” said Mrs. Bird, “who is -interested in——” - - - -The doctor bowed stiffly; then, seeing what manner of man Mr. Levinger was, -relaxed, and said, “I beg your pardon. I suppose that your interest in my -patient is of a parental character?” - - - -“Not exactly, sir, but I consider myself _in loco parentis._ Can you -give me any information, or perhaps I should say—any hope?” - - - -“Hope? Oh yes—lots of it,” answered the doctor, who was an -able middle-aged man of the brusque and kindly order, one who understood his -business, but took pleasure in disparaging both himself and it. “I always -hope until I see a patient in his coffin. Not that things are as bad as that in -this case. I trust that she will pull through—I fancy that she -_will_ pull through; but all the same, as I understand that expense -is no longer an object, I am going to get in a second opinion to-morrow. You -see I am barely forty myself, and my experience is consequently limited,” -and he smiled satirically. “I have my views, but I dare say that they -stand in need of correction; at any rate, without further advice I don’t -mean to take the responsibility of the rather heroic treatment which I propose -to adopt. The case is a somewhat peculiar one. I can’t understand why the -girl should be in this way at all, except on the hypothesis that she is -suffering from some severe mental shock; and I purpose, therefore, to try and -doctor her mind as well as her body. But it is useless to bore laymen with -these matters. I can only say, sir, that I am deeply interested in the case, -and will do my utmost to pull her through. I would rather that she had been at -the hospital; but, on the whole, she is not badly off here, especially as I -have succeeded in getting the best nurse for her that I know anywhere. Good -night.” - - - -“Good night, Doctor, and whatever the issue, pray accept my thanks in -advance, and remember that you need not spare money.” - - - -“Don’t be afraid, sir—I sha’n’t. I’ll spend -a thousand pounds over her, if necessary; and save your thanks at present, -three weeks hence it may be another matter, or there may be only the bill to -pay. Well, I must be off. Good night. Perhaps, Mrs. Bird, you will send out for -the things the nurse wants,” and he went. - - - -“That seems a capable man,” said Mr. Levinger; “I like the -look of him. And now, madam, you will need some cash in hand. I have brought -twenty pounds with me, which I suppose will be enough to go on with, without -touching Joan’s money,” and he placed that sum upon the table. - - - -“By the way, Mrs. Bird,” he added, “perhaps you will be good -enough to send me a note or a telegram every day informing me of your -patient’s progress—here is my address— also to keep an -account of all sums expended, in which you can include an extra allowance of a -pound a week to yourself, to compensate you for the trouble and anxiety to -which this illness must put you.” - - - -“Thank you, sir,” she answered, courtesying—“I call -that very liberal; though, to tell you the truth, I am so fond of Joan that I -would not take a farthing if I could afford it. But, what between two -deaf-and-dumb people to look after and her on my mind, it is no use pretending -that I can get through as much dressmaking work as I ought; and so, as you seem -well able to pay, I will put my pride in my pocket and the money along with it. -Also I will keep you informed daily, as you ask.” - - - -“Two deaf-and-dumb people?” - - - -“Yes, sir,”—and she told him about her husband and Sally. - - - -“Really,” he said, when she had finished, surveying the frail -little woman with admiration, “you seem to have more than your share of -this world’s burden, and I respect you, madam, for the way in which you -bear it.” - - - -“Not a bit, sir,” she answered cheerily; “while it pleases -God to give me my health, I wouldn’t change places with the Queen of -England and all her glory.” - - - -“I admire you still more, Mrs. Bird,” he answered, as he bowed -himself out politely; “I wish that everybody could face their trials so -cheerfully.” But within himself he said, “Poor Joan! no wonder she -was wretched, shut up in this dreadful little house with deaf-and-dumb folk for -companions. Well, I have done all I can for her now, but I wish that I had -begun earlier. Oh! if I could have the last twenty years over again, things -would be very different to-day.” - - - -Mrs. Bird was delighted with Mr. Levinger. Never before, as she explained -presently with much gesticulation to Jim, had she met so charming, so handsome, -so thoughtful, and so liberal an elderly gentleman. - - - -“But,” gesticulated Jim back, “if he is all this, why -didn’t he look after Joan better before?”—a question that his -wife felt herself unable to answer, beyond saying that Joan and all connected -with her were “most mysterious, my dear, and quite beyond me.” - - - -Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she saw that whereas she had given -Mr. Levinger every information in her power, he had imparted none to her. To -this moment she did not know what was the exact relationship in which he stood -towards Joan. Though there were many dissimilarities between them, it had -struck her, observing him, that his eyes and voice were not unlike -Joan’s. Could he be her father? And, if so, how did it come about that he -had allowed her to wander to London and to live there unprotected? Like the -rest, it was a mystery, and one that after much cogitation Mrs. Bird was forced -to give up as insoluble, though on the whole she came to the conclusion that -her visitor was not a blood relation of Joan. - - - -Mr. Levinger duly carried out his programme, and on the morrow escorted his -daughter and Ellen back to Bradmouth. He did not, however, think fit to tell -them the true cause of his visit to London, which he accounted for by saying -that he had come up to bargain with a dealer in curiosities about some ancient -British ornaments that were on the market. Nor, oddly enough, did Ellen chance -to mention that she had seen Joan selling mantles at Messrs. Black and -Parker’s; the fact being that, as regards this young woman, there reigned -a conspiracy of silence. Neither at Rosham nor at Monk’s Lodge was her -name ever mentioned, and yet she was seldom out of the minds of the members of -either of those households. Ellen, when the preparations for her approaching -marriage allowed her time for thought, never ceased to congratulate herself -upon her presence of mind in preventing the recognition of Joan by Henry. It -was clear to her that her obstinate brother had begun to settle down and to see -matters in a truer light, especially as regarded Emma; but it was also clear -that had he once found the missing Joan there would have been new troubles. -Well, he had not found her, so that danger was gone by. And Ellen rejoiced -accordingly. - - - -Mrs. Bird kept her promise, writing and telegraphing regularly to Mr. Levinger -to inform him of Joan’s progress. Indeed, for some time the messenger -from the Bradmouth post-office arrived almost daily with a yellow envelope at -Monk’s Lodge. One of these telegrams Emma opened by chance, as her father -happened to be out and the boy said that it required an answer. It ran: -“Patient had serious relapse last night. Doctor proposes to call -in——” [here followed the name of a very eminent authority on -such cases] “do you sanction expense? Reply, Bird.” Emma was -naturally quite unable to reply, and so soon as he came in she handed the -telegram to Mr. Levinger, explaining why she had opened it. He read it, then -said, with as much severity as he ever showed towards his daughter: - - - -“I wish, my dear Emma, that in future you would be so kind as to leave my -letters and telegrams alone. As you have opened it, however, and your curiosity -is doubtless excited, I may as well tell you that this is a business cypher, -and has to do with nothing more romantic than the Stock Exchange.” - - - -“I am very sorry, father,” she answered coldly for, trusting as she -was by nature, she did not believe him, “I will be more careful in -future.” - - - -Then she left the room, feeling that another enigma had been added to the -growing stock of family mysteries. - - - - - - -Slowly the days went by, till at length it became clear to those who tended her -that Joan would recover from her illness. - - - -The last and greatest crisis had come and gone, the fever had left her, and she -no longer wandered in her mind, but lay upon the bed a shadow of her former -self, so weak that she could scarcely speak above a whisper. All day long she -lay thus, staring at the dingy ceiling above her with her brown eyes, which, -always large, now looked positively unnatural in her wasted face a very -pathetic sight to see. At times the eyes would fill with tears, and at times -she would sigh a little, but she never smiled, except in acknowledgment of some -service of the sick room. Once she asked Mrs. Bird if any one had discovered -that she was ill, or come to see her, and on receiving a reply in the -affirmative, asked eagerly,— - - - -“Who? What was his name?” - - - -“Mr. Levinger,” the little woman answered. - - - -“It is very kind of him,” Joan murmured, and turned her head upon -the pillow, where presently Mrs. Bird saw such a mark as might have been left -by the falling of a heavy raindrop. - - - -Then it was that Mrs. Bird’s doubts and difficulties began afresh. From -what she had heard while attending on Joan in her delirium, she was now -convinced that the poor girl’s story was true, and that the letter which -she had written was addressed not to any imaginary person, but to a living man -who had worked her bitter wrong. This view indeed was confirmed by the doctor, -who added, curiously enough, that had it not been for her condition he did not -believe that she would have lived. In these circumstances the question that -tormented Mrs. Bird was whether or no she would do right to post that letter. -At one time she thought of laying the matter before Mr. Levinger, but upon -consideration she refrained from so doing. He was the girl’s guardian, -and doubtless he knew nothing of her disgrace. Why, then, should she expose it, -unless such a step became absolutely necessary? Ultimately he would have to be -told, but there seemed no need to tell him until an appeal to the man’s -honour and pity had failed. After much thought Mrs. Bird adopted a third -course, and took the doctor into her confidence. He was a man of rough manners, -plain speech, and good heart, and her story did not in the least surprise him. - - - -“There’s nothing wonderful about this, Mrs. Bird,” he said. -“I have seen the same thing with variations dozens of times in my twenty -years of experience. It’s no use your starting off to call this man a -scoundrel and a brute. It’s fashionable, I know, but it does not follow -that it is accurate: you see it is just possible that the girl may have been to -blame herself, poor dear. However, she is in a mess, and the thing is to get -her out of it, at the expense of the man if necessary, for we are interested in -her and not in him. That letter of hers is a beautiful production in a queer -kind of way, and ought to have an effect on the individual, if he is not -already married, or a bad lot both of which things are probable. I tell you -what, I will make a few inquiries about him, and let you know my opinion -to-morrow. What did you say his name was? Henry Graves? Thanks; good-bye. No, -no opiate to-night, I think.” - - - -On the following day the doctor returned, and having visited Joan and reported -favourably of her progress, he descended to the front parlour, where Mrs. Bird -was waiting for him. - - - -“She’s getting on well,” he said—“a good deal -better than I expected, indeed. Well, I have looked up Sir Henry Graves, for -he’s a baronet. As it chanced, I came across a man at the hospital last -night who used to stay with his father down at Rosham. The old man, Sir -Reginald, died a few months ago; and Henry, the second son—for his elder -brother broke his neck in a steeplechase—succeeded him. He is, or was, a -captain in the Navy, rather a distinguished man in a small way; and not long -ago he met with an accident, broke his leg or something of that sort, and was -laid up at an inn in a place called Bradmouth. It seems that he is a good sort -of fellow, though rather taciturn. That’s all I could find out about -him.” - - - -“Joan comes from Bradmouth, and she lived in an inn there,” -answered Mrs. Bird. - - - -“Oh! did she? Well, then there you have the whole thing; nothing could be -more natural and proper, or rather improper.” - - - -“Perhaps so, sir,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly; “though, -begging your pardon, I cannot see that this is a matter to joke about. What I -want to know now is shall I send the gentleman that letter?” - - - -The doctor rubbed his nose reflectively and answered, “If you do he will -probably put it at the back of the fire; but so far as I can judge, being of -course totally unacquainted with the details, it can’t hurt anybody much, -and it may have a good effect. _She_ has forgotten that she ever wrote it, -and you may be sure that unless he acts on it he won’t show it about the -neighbourhood. Yes, on the whole I think that you may as well send it, though I -dare say that it will put him in a tight place.” - - - -“That is where I should like to see him,” she answered, pursing up -her lips. - - - -“I dare say. You’re down on the man, are you not, Mrs. Bird? And so -am I, speaking in a blessed ignorance of the facts. By all means let him be put -into a tight place, or ruined, for anything I care. He may be comparatively -innocent, but my sympathies are with the lady, whom I chance to know, and who -is very good looking. Mind you let me know what happens that is, if anything -does happen.” - - - -That afternoon Mrs. Bird wrote her letter, or rather she wrote several letters, -for never before did the composition of an epistle give her so much thought and -trouble. In the end it ran as follows:— - - - -“SIR,— - - - -“I am venturing to take what I dare say you will think a great liberty, -and a liberty it is, indeed, that only duty drives me to. For several months a -girl called Joan Haste has been staying in my house as a lodger. Some weeks ago -she was taken seriously ill with a brain fever, from which she has nearly died; -but it pleased God to spare her life, and now, though she is weak as water, the -doctor thinks that she will recover. On the night that she became ill she -returned home not at all herself, and made a confession to me, about which I -need say nothing. Afterwards she wrote what I enclose to you. You will see from -the wording of it that she was off her head when she did it, and now I am sure -that she remembers nothing of it. I found the letter and kept it; and partly -from what fell from her lips while she was delirious, partly because of other -circumstances, I became sure that you are the man to whom that letter is -addressed. If I have made any mistake you must forgive me, and I beg that you -will then return the enclosed and destroy my letter. If, sir, I have not made a -mistake, then I hope that you will see fit to act like an honest man towards -poor Joan, who, whatever her faults may be—and such as they are you are -the cause of them—is as good-hearted as she is sweet and beautiful. It is -not for me to judge you or reproach you; but if you can, I do pray you to act -right by this poor girl, who otherwise must be ruined, and may perhaps drift -into a life of sin and misery, the responsibility for which will be upon your -hands. - - - -“Sir, I have nothing more to say: the paper I enclose explains everything. - - - -“I am, sir, - - - -Your humble servant, - - - -“JANE BIRD. - - - -“P.S. Sir, I may say that there is no need for you to hurry to answer -this, since, even if you wished to do so, I do not think that it would be safe -for you to see Joan, or even to write anything that would excite her, for ten -days at least.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -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.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -THE GATE OF PARADISE. - - - -For some days Lady Graves was completely prostrated by this new and terrible -misfortune, which, following as it did hard upon the hope of happier things, -seemed to her utterly overwhelming. She dared not even trust herself to see her -son, but kept her room, sending a message to him to say that she was unwell and -did not wish to be disturbed. For his part Henry avoided the house as much as -possible. As it chanced, he had several invitations to shoot during this -particular week, one of them coupled with an engagement to dine and sleep; and -of all of these he availed himself, though they brought him little enjoyment. -On the third morning after he had posted his letter, there came a short answer -from Mrs. Bird, stating that Joan would be well enough to see him on the -following Thursday or Friday; but from Joan herself he received no reply. This -note reached him on a Friday, just as he was starting to keep his aforesaid -engagement to shoot and sleep. On Saturday he returned to Rosham to find that -his mother had gone to town, leaving a note of explanation to be given to him. -The note said:— - - - -“DEAR HENRY,— - - - -“I am going to London to stay for a few days with my old friend and your -godmother, Lady Norse. Circumstances that have recently arisen make it -necessary that I should consult with the lawyers, to see if it is possible for -me to recover any of the sums that from time to time have been expended upon -this estate out of my private fortune. I am not avaricious, but if I can obtain -some slight provision for my remaining years, of course I must do so; and I -desire that my claim should be made out legally, so as to entitle me to rank as -a creditor in the bankruptcy proceedings which are now, I suppose, inevitable. - - - -“Your affectionate mother, - - - -“E. GRAVES.” - - - -Henry put the letter into his pocket with a sigh. Like everything else, it was -sad and humiliating; but he was not sorry to find that his mother had gone, for -he had no more wish to meet her just now than she had to meet him. Then he -began to wonder if he ought to take any steps to advise Mr. Levinger of his -intentions, so that the mortgagee might proceed to recover such portion of the -capital advanced as the assets would realise. On the whole he determined to let -the matter be for a while. He was sick to death of arguments, reproaches, and -affairs; it would be time enough to face these and other disagreeables when he -had seen Joan and was about to marry her, or had already done so. There was no -pressing need for hurry. By Mr. Levinger’s help arrangements had been -made under which the vacant farms were being carried on for the present, and he -had a little money in hand. He remembered, indeed, that he was engaged to stay -at Monk’s Lodge on the following Friday. Well, he could telegraph from -London making his apologies and saying that he was detained in town by -business, which would save the necessity of writing an explanatory letter. One -step he did take, however: he wrote to an old messmate of his who held an -under-secretaryship in the Government, explaining the condition of the estate -to which he had succeeded, and asking him to interest himself to obtain him a -consulship, no matter how remote, or any other suitable employment. Also he put -himself in communication with the Admiralty, to arrange for the commutation of -his pension, which of course was not liable for his father’s debts, so -that he might have some cash in hand wherewith to start in married life. Then -he composed himself to wait quietly at Rosham till the following Friday, when -he purposed to go to town. - - - -Lady Graves’s note to Henry was true in substance, but it was not the -whole truth. She was still an able and an energetic woman, and her mind had not -been idle during those days when she kept her room, refusing to see her son. On -the contrary, she considered the position in all its bearings, recalling every -word of her interviews with Henry, and of Joan’s letter to him, no -sentence of which had escaped her memory. After much thinking she came to a -conclusion namely, that while it would be absolutely useless to make any -further attempt to turn Henry from his purpose, it was by no means certain that -the girl herself could not be appealed to with success. She recollected that, -according to Henry’s story, Joan had all along declined to entertain the -idea of marrying him, and that even in the mad rhapsody which Mrs. Bird had -forwarded, she stated that she could never suffer such a thing, because it -would mean his ruin. Of course, as she was well aware, should these two once -meet it was probable, it was almost certain, that Joan Haste would be persuaded -to retract her self-denying ordinance, and to allow herself to be made -Henry’s wife and a respectable member of society. The woman who was so -circumstanced and did otherwise would be more than human, seeing that her own -honour and the honour of her child were at stake, and that consent meant social -advancement to her, and the lifelong gratification of a love which, however -guilty it might have been in its beginning, was evidently sincere. But if she -could be appealed to _before_ they met, it might be different. At any rate -it seemed to Lady Graves that the experiment was worth trying. - - - -Should she be justified in making such an appeal? This girl had been wronged, -and she had rights: could she then be asked to forego those rights? Lady Graves -answered the question in the affirmative. She was not a hard and worldly woman, -like her daughter, nor was she careful of her own advantage in this matter, but -her dead husband’s wishes were sacred to her and she had her son’s -best interests at heart. Moreover, she was of opinion, with Ellen, that a man -has no right to undo his family, and bring the struggle of generations to an -inglorious end, in order that he may gratify a personal passion or even fulfil -a personal duty. It was better that this girl should be wronged, if indeed she -was wronged, and that Henry should suffer some remorse and shame, than that a -day should come when others would learn that the family had been ousted of its -place and heritage because he had chosen to pay a debt of honour at their -expense. - - - -The reasoning may have been faulty, and perhaps Lady Graves was not the person -to give judgment upon a case in which she was so deeply interested; but, such -as it was, it carried conviction to her mind, and she determined to act upon -it. There was but one way to do this, to see the girl face to face, for she -would trust nothing to letters. She had learned through Thomson the butler that -Henry was not going to town for some days, and she must be beforehand with him. -She had Joan’s address that is, she had seen it at the head of Mrs. -Bird’s letter, and she would take the chance of her being well enough to -receive her. It was a forlorn hope, and one that Lady Graves had no liking for; -still, for the sake of all that had been and of all that might be, she made up -her mind to lead it. - - - -Henry’s letter reached Kent Street in due course, and when she had read -it Mrs. Bird was a proud and happy woman. She also had led a forlorn hope, and -never in her wildest moments had she dreamed that the enemy would capitulate -thus readily. She could scarcely believe her eyes: the wicked baronet, the -penny-novel villain of her imaginings, had proved himself to be an amenable -creature, and as well-principled as any common man; indeed, she gathered, -although he did not say so in as many words, that actually he meant to marry -the victim of his vices. Mrs. Bird was dumfoundered; she read and re-read -Henry’s note, then she examined the enclosure addressed to Joan, holding -it to the light and trying to peep beneath the edges of the envelope, to see if -perchance she could not win some further word of comfort. So great was her -curiosity, indeed, that she looked with longing at the kettle boiling on the -hearth, wondering if she would not be justified in reducing the gum upon the -envelope to a condition that would enable her to peruse the writing within -before she handed it seemingly inviolate to Joan. But at this point conscience -came to her rescue and triumphed over her curiosity, devouring as it was. - - - -When first she read Henry’s letter she had determined that in the -interests of Joan’s health the enclosure must not be given to her for -some days, but by degrees she modified this decision. Joan was out of danger -now, and the doctor said that she might read anything; surely, therefore, it -would be safe for her to peruse this particular sheet of paper. Accordingly, -when the nurse came down to say that her patient was awake after her morning -sleep, and that if Mrs. Bird would sit with her, she proposed to take a walk in -the Park till dinner-time, the little woman hurried upstairs with the precious -document in her pocket. Joan, who was sitting on the sofa, received her with a -smile, and held up her face to be kissed. - - - -“How are you this morning, my dear?” she asked, putting her head on -one side and surveying her critically. - - - -“I feel stronger than I have for weeks,” answered Joan; -“indeed, I believe that I am quite well again now, thanks to you and all -your kindness.” - - - -“Do you think that you are strong enough to read a letter, -dear?—because I have one for you.” - - - -“A letter?” said Joan anxiously: “who has taken the trouble -to write to me? Mr. Levinger?” - - - -Mrs. Bird shook her head and looked mysterious. - - - -“Oh! don’t torment me,” cried Joan; “give it -me—give it me at once.” - - - -Then Mrs. Bird put her hand into her pocket and produced Henry’s -enclosure. - - - -Joan saw the writing, and her poor white hands trembled so that she could not -unfasten the envelope. “Open it for me,” she whispered. “Oh! -I cannot see: read it to me. Quick, quick!” - - - -“Don’t be in a hurry, my dear; it won’t fly away,” said -Mrs. Bird as she took the letter. Then she put on her spectacles, cleared her -throat, and began. - - - -“‘Dearest Joan—’Really, my love, do you not think that -you had better read this for yourself? It seems so -very—confidential.” - - - -“Oh! I can’t; I must hear it at once. Go on, pray.” - - - -Thus encouraged, Mrs. Bird went on, nothing loath, till she reached the last -word of the letter. - - - -“Well,” she said, laying it upon her knees, “now, that is -what I call behaving like a gentleman. At any rate, my dear, you have been -lucky in falling into the hands of such a man, for some would not have treated -you so well, having begun wicked they would have gone on wickeder. Why, good -gracious! what’s the matter with the girl? She’s fainted, I do -believe.” And she ran to get water, reproaching herself the while for her -folly in letting Joan have the letter while she was still so weak. By the time -that she returned with the water, the necessity for it had gone by. Joan had -recovered, and was seated staring into vacancy, with a rapt smile upon her face -that, so thought Mrs. Bird, made her look like an angel. - - - -“You silly girl!” she said: “you gave me quite a turn.” - - - -“Give me that letter,” answered Joan. - - - -Mrs. Bird picked it up from the floor, where it had fallen, and handed it to -her. Joan took it and pressed it to her breast as though it were a thing alive -much, indeed, as a mother may be seen to press her new-born infant when the -fear and agony are done with and love and joy remain. For a while she sat thus -in silence, holding the letter to her heart, then she spoke:—— - - - -“I do not suppose that I shall ever marry him, but I don’t care -now: whatever comes I have had my hour, and after this and the rest I can never -quite lose him—no, not through all eternity.” - - - -“Don’t talk nonsense, Joan,” said Mrs. Bird, who did not -understand what she meant. “Not marry him, indeed!— why -shouldn’t you?” - - - -“Because something is sure to prevent it. Besides, it would be wrong of -me to do so. Letting other things alone, he must marry a rich woman, not a -penniless girl like me.” - - - -“Oh! stuff and nonsense with your ‘rich woman’: the man -who’ll go for money when he can get love isn’t worth a row of pins, -say I; and this one isn’t of that sort, or he would never have written -such a letter.” - - - -“He can get both love and money,” answered Joan; “and it -isn’t for himself that he wants the money—it is to save his family. -He had an elder brother who brought them to ruin, and now he’s got to set -them up again by taking the girl who holds the mortgages, and who is in love -with him, as his wife—at least, I believe that’s the story, though -he never told it me himself.” - - - -“A pretty kettle of fish, I am sure. Now look here, Joan, don’t you -talk silly, but listen to me, who am older than you are and have seen more. It -isn’t for me to blame you, but, whatever was the truth of it, -you’ve done what isn’t right, and you know it. Well, it has pleased -God to be kind to you and to show you a way out of a mess that most girls never -get clear of. Yes, you can become an honest woman again, and have the man you -love as a husband, which is more than you deserve perhaps. What I have to say -is this: don’t you be a fool and cut your own throat. These money matters -are all very well, but you have got nothing to do with them. You get married, -Joan, and leave the rest to luck; it will come right in the end. If -there’s one thing that’s more of a vanity than any other in this -wide world, it is scheming and plotting about fortunes and estates and -suchlike, and in nine cases out of ten the woman who goes sacrificing herself -to put cash into her lover’s pocket or her own either for that matter -does him no good in the long run, but just breaks her heart for nothing, and -his too very likely. There, that’s my advice to you, Joan; and I tell you -that if I thought that you would go on as you have begun and make this man a -bad wife, I shouldn’t be the one to give it. But I don’t think -that, dear. No; I believe that you would be as good as gold to him, and that -he’d never regret marrying you, even though he is a baronet and you are -what you are.” - - - -“Oh! indeed I would,” said Joan. - - - -“Don’t say ‘indeed I would,’ dear; say ‘indeed I -shall,’ and mind you stick to it. And now I hear the nurse coming back, -and it is time for me to go and see about your dinner. Don’t you fuss and -make yourself ill again, or she won’t be able to go away to-morrow, you -know. I shall just write to this gentleman and say that he can come and see you -about next Friday; so mind, you’ve got to be well by then. -Good-bye.” - - - -Weak as she was still from illness, when her first wild joy had passed a great -bewilderment took possession of Joan. - - - -As her body had been brought back to the fulness of life from the very pit of -death, so the magic of Henry’s letter changed the blackness of her -despair to a dawn of hope, by contrast so bright that it dazzled her mind. She -had no recollection of writing the letter to which Henry alluded; indeed, had -she been herself she would never have written it, and even now she did not know -what she had told him or what she had left untold. What she was pleased to -consider his goodness and generosity in offering to make her his wife touched -her most deeply, and she blessed him for them, but neither the secret pleading -of her love nor Mrs. Bird’s arguments convinced her that it would be -right to take advantage of them. The gate of what seemed to be an earthly -paradise was of a sudden thrown open to her feet: behind her lay solitude, -sorrow, sin and agonising shame, before her were peace, comfort, security, and -that good report which every civilised woman must desire; but ought she to -enter by that gate? A warning instinct answered “No,” and yet she -had not strength to shut it. Why should she, indeed? If she might judge the -future from the past, Fate would do her that disservice; such happiness could -not be for one so wicked. Yet till the blow fell she might please her fancy by -standing upon the threshold of her heaven, and peopling the beyond with unreal -glories which her imagination furnished without stay or stint. She was still -too weak to struggle against the glamour of these visions, for that they could -become realities Joan did not believe, rather did she submit herself to them, -and satisfy her soul with a false but penetrating delight, such as men grasp in -dreams. Of only one thing was she sure that Henry loved her and in that -knowledge, so deep was her folly, she found reward for all she had undergone, -or that could by any possibility be left for her to undergo; for had he not -loved her, as she believed, he would never have offered to marry her. He loved -her, and she would see him; then things must take their chance, meanwhile she -would rest and be content. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -THE CLOSING OF THE GATE. - - - -While Lady Graves was standing at the Bradmouth station on that Saturday in -November, waiting for the London train, she saw a man whose face she knew and -who saluted her with much humility. He was dressed in a semi-clerical fashion, -in clothes made of smooth black cloth, and he wore a broad wide-awake, the only -spot of colour about him being a neck scarf of brilliant red, whereof the -strange incongruity caught and offended her eye. For a long time she puzzled -herself with endeavours to recollect who this individual might be. He did not -look like a farmer; and it was obvious that he could not belong to the -neighbouring clergy, since no parson in his senses would wear such a tie. -Finally Lady Graves concluded that he must be a dissenting minister, and -dismissed the matter from her mind. At Liverpool Street, however, she saw him -again, although he tried to avoid her, or so she thought; and then it flashed -across her that this person was Mr. Samuel Rock of Moor Farm, and she wondered -vaguely what his business in London could be. - - - -Had Lady Graves possessed the gift of clairvoyance she would have wondered -still more, for Mr. Rock’s business was curiously connected with her own, -seeing that he also had journeyed to town, for the first time in his life, in -order to obtain an interview with Joan Haste, whose address he had purchased at -so great a price on the previous day. As yet he had no very clear idea of what -he should say or do when he found himself in Joan’s presence. He knew -only that he was driven to seek that presence by a desire which he was -absolutely unable to control. He loved Joan, not as other men love, but with -all the strength and virulence of his distempered nature; and this love, or -passion, or incipient insanity, drew him to her with as irresistible a force as -a magnet draws the fragment of steel that is brought within its influence. Had -he known her to be at the uttermost ends of the earth, it would have drawn him -thither; and though he was timid and fearful of the vengeance of Heaven, there -was no danger that he would not have braved, and no crime which he would not -have committed, that he might win her to himself. - - - -Till he learned to love Joan Samuel Rock had been as free from all human -affections as it is possible for a man to be; there was no one creature for -whom he cared, and, though he was naturally passionate, his interests and his -strict religious training had kept him from giving way to the excesses that in -secret he brooded over and desired. During his early manhood all his energies -had been devoted to moneymaking, and in the joy of amassing wealth and of -overreaching his fellows in every kind of legitimate business he found -consolation for the absence of all that in the case of most men makes life -worth living. Then on one evil day he met Joan, grown from a child into a most -lovely woman; and that which he had hidden in his heart arose suddenly and -asserted itself, so that from this hour he became a slave bound to the -chariot-wheels of a passion over which he had lost command. The rebuffs that he -had received at her hands served only to make the object of his affections -dearer and more desirable in his eyes, while the gnawing ache of jealousy and -the daily torment of long-continued disappointment drove him by slow degrees to -the very edge of madness. She hated him, he knew, as he knew that she loved his -rival; but if only he could see her, things might yet go well with him, or if -they did not, at least he would have seen her. - - - -But of all this Lady Graves was ignorant, and, had she known it, anxious though -she was to win her end, it is probable that she would have shrunk from an -enterprise which, if successful, must expose Joan Haste to the persecution of -such a man as Samuel Rock, and might end in delivering her into his hands. - - - -On the following afternoon—it was Sunday—Lady Graves informed her -hostess that she was going to visit a friend, and, declining the offer of the -carriage, walked to the corner of the square, where she chartered a -four-wheeled cab, directing the driver to take her to Kent Street. As they -crawled up the Edgware Road she let down the window of the cab and idly watched -the stream of passers-by. Presently she started, for among the hundreds of -faces she caught sight of that of Mr. Samuel Rock. It was pale, and she noticed -that as he went the man was muttering to himself and glancing at the corner of -a street, as though he were seeking some turn with which he was not familiar. - - - -“I wonder what that person is doing here,” she thought to herself; -“positively he seems to haunt me.” Then the cab went on, and -presently drew up in front of No. 8, Kent Street. - - - -“What a squalid-looking place!” Lady Graves reflected, while she -paid the man and rang the bell. - - - -As it chanced, Mrs. Bird was out and the door was answered by the little -serving girl, who, in reply to the question of whether Miss Haste was in, said -“Yes” without hesitation and led the way upstairs. - - - -“Some one to see you,” she said, opening the door in front of Lady -Graves and almost simultaneously shutting it behind her. - - - -Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to read a -book, rose instinctively at the words, and stared at her veiled and -stately-looking visitor. - - - -“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?” - - - -“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of -coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.” - - - -Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a chair. At -the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that the blow -which she dreaded was about to fall, and that Henry’s mother came as a -messenger of ill. - - - -Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence. - - - -“I trust that you are better,” she said at length. - - - -“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.” - - - -“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you, or retard -your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your permission, upon -a very delicate and important matter.” - - - -Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on. - - - -“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need -only allude to one namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you his wife, -as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right to expect,” -and she paused. - - - -“Please go on,” murmured Joan. - - - -“I am here,” she continued hesitatingly, “to submit some -questions to your consideration; but pray understand that my son knows nothing -of this visit, and that I have not come to reproach you in any way. We are all -human and liable to fall into temptation, though our temptations vary with age, -disposition and other circumstances: it is quite possible, for instance, that -in speaking to you thus I am at this moment yielding to a temptation which I -ought to resist. Perhaps I am right in supposing that it is your intention to -accept my son’s offer of marriage?” - - - -“I have not made up my mind, Lady Graves.” - - - -“Well,” she answered, with a faint smile, “you will doubtless -make it up when you see him, if you do see him. I think that I may take it for -granted that, unless what I have to say to you should change your views, you -will very shortly be married to Sir Henry Graves.” - - - -“I suppose you do not wish that,” said Joan: “indeed, how can -you wish it, seeing what I am, and his reason for asking me to marry him?” - - - -“No, I do not wish it, though not altogether for these reasons. You are a -very beautiful woman and a sweet one, and I have no doubt but that you could -soon learn to fill any position which he might be able to give you, with credit -to yourself and to him. As for the rest, he is as much to blame as you are, and -therefore owes you reparation, so I will say no more upon that point. My -reasons are simple and to a certain extent selfish, but I think that they will -appeal to you. I believe that you love Henry. Well, if you marry him you will -bring this man whom you love to the most irretrievable ruin. I do not know if -you have heard of it, but the place where he lives, and where his ancestors -have lived for three centuries before him, is deeply encumbered. Should he -marry a girl without means it must be sold, leaving us all, not only beggars, -but bankrupt. I will not insult you by supposing that the fact that you would -find yourself in the painful position of the penniless wife of a person of -nominal rank can influence you one way or another, but I do hope that the -thought of the position in which he would find himself may influence you. He -would be driven from his home, his name would be tarnished, and he would be -left burdened with a wife and family, and without a profession, to seek such a -living as chance might offer to him.” - - - -“I know all this,” said Joan quietly; “but have you quite -considered my side of the question, Lady Graves? You seem to have heard the -facts: have you thought, then, in what state _I_ shall be left if I refuse -the offer that Sir Henry has so generously made to me?” - - - -“Doubtless,” answered Lady Graves confusedly—“forgive -me for speaking of it—adequate provision, the best possible, would be -made——” - - - -She stopped, for Joan held up her hand in warning, and said: “If you are -going to offer me money compensation, I may as well tell you at once, it is the -one thing that I shall not be able to forgive you. Also, where is the provision -to come from? Do you wish to endow me with Miss Levinger’s money? I have -not sunk to that, Lady Graves.” - - - -“I ask your pardon,” she answered; “it is so terribly hard to -deal with such a subject without giving offence. Believe me, I have considered -your side of the question, and my heart bleeds for you, for I am asking more of -you than any one has a right to ask of a woman placed in your position. Indeed, -I come to you as a suppliant, not for justice, but for pity; to implore you, in -the name of the love which you bear my son, to save him from himself yes, even -at the cost of your own ruin.” - - - -“You put things plainly, Lady Graves; but how if he loves me? In that -event will it be any real kindness to save him from himself? Naturally I do not -wish to sacrifice my life for nothing.” - - - -“It will be a kindness, Miss Haste, if not to him, at any rate to his -family. To the chance that a man in after years might learn to dislike, or even -to hate the woman who has been forced upon him as a wife under such painful -circumstances, I will only allude; for, although it is a common experience -enough, it is possible, indeed I think that it is probable, that such a thing -would never arise in your case. If he loves you, in my opinion he should -sacrifice that love upon the altar of his duty; he has sinned, and it is right -that he should suffer for his sin, as you have already suffered. Although I am -his mother, Miss Haste, for Henry I have little sympathy in this matter; my -sympathy is for you and you alone!” - - - -“You spoke of his family, Lady Graves: a man is not his family. Surely -his duty is towards himself, and not towards the past and the future.” - - - -“I cannot agree with you. The duty of a man placed as Henry is, is -chiefly owing to the house which for some few years he represents—in -which, indeed, he has but a brief life interest—and to the name that has -descended to him. The step which he contemplates would bring both to -destruction; also it would bring me, his mother, who have given my all to -bolster up the fortunes of his family, to utter penury in my old age. But of -that I do not complain; I am well schooled in trouble, and it makes little -difference to me in what fashion I drag out my remaining years. I plead, Miss -Haste, not for myself and not for my son Henry, but for his forefathers and his -descendants, and the home that for three centuries has been theirs. Do you know -how his father, my beloved husband, died? He died broken-hearted, because in -his last moments he learned that his only surviving son purposed to sacrifice -all these on your account. Therefore although he is dead I plead for him also. -Putting Henry out of the account, this is the plain issue, Miss Haste: are you -to be deserted, or is Rosham to be sold and are the members of the family into -which I have married to be turned out upon the world bankrupt and -dishonoured?” - - - -“Putting myself aside, Lady Graves, is your son to suffer for -difficulties that he did not create? Did he spend the money which if it is not -repaid will make him a bankrupt? Indeed, will _he_ be made a bankrupt at -all? Was he not earning his living in a profession which his family forced him -to abandon, in order that he might take these troubles upon his own shoulders, -and put an end to them by bartering himself in marriage to a rich lady for whom -he has no affection?” - - - -“These things are true; but still I say that he must suffer, and for the -reasons that I have given.” - - - -“You say that, Lady Graves, but what you mean is that he will _not_ -suffer. I will put your thoughts into words: you think that your son has been -betrayed by me into a troublesome position, from which most men would escape -simply enough—namely, by deserting the woman. As it chances, he is so -foolish that, when he has heard of her trouble, he refuses to do this from a -mistaken sense of honour. So you come to appeal to that fallen and unfortunate -woman, although it must be an insult to you to be obliged even to speak to her, -and because you are kind-hearted, you say that your son must suffer. How must -he suffer according to your view? His punishment will be, firstly, that at the -cost of some passing pain he escapes from a disgraceful marriage with a -nameless girl—a half-lady—born of nobody knows whom and bred up in -a public-house, with such results that on the first opportunity she follows her -mother’s example; and secondly, that he must marry a sweet and beautiful -lady who will bring him love as well as fortune, and having shaken himself -clear from trouble of every sort, live happy and honoured in the position that -he has inherited. And if, as you wish, I inflict all this upon him by refusing -to marry him, what will be my reward? A life of shame and remorse for myself -and my unborn child, till at length I die of a broken heart, or -perhaps——” And she stopped. - - - -“Oh! how can I ask it of you?” broke in Lady Graves. - - - -“I do not know—that is a matter for your own conscience; but you -have asked it, understanding all that it means to me. Well, Lady Graves, I will -do as you wish, I will not accept your son’s offer. He never made me a -promise of marriage, and I never asked or expected any. Whatever I have done I -did for love of him, and it was my fault, not his—or as much my fault as -his—and I must pay the price. I love him so well that I sacrifice my -child and myself, that I put him out of my life—yes, and give him to the -arms of my rival”—and Joan made a movement with her hands as though -to push away some unseen presence. - - - -“You are a very noble woman,” said Lady Graves—“so -noble that my mind misgives me; and notwithstanding all that I have said, I am -inclined to ask you to forget that promise and let things take their chance. -Whatever may have been your faults, no man could do wrong to marry such a -wife.” - - - -“No, no—I have promised, and there’s an end; and may God have -mercy on me, for He alone knows how I shall perform what now I undertake! -Forgive me, your ladyship, but I am very tired.” - - - -Then her visitor rose. - - - -“My dear girl,” she said, “my dear, dear girl, in asking all -this of you I have done only what I believed to be my duty; and should you, on -reflection, come to any different conclusion from that which you have just -expressed, I can only say that I for one shall not blame you, and that, -whatever the event, you will always have me for your friend.” And, moved -to it by a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed Joan upon the forehead. - - - -“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to -me. Do not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same -mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.” - - - -Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she -left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I -had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for the best. -Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house! What can he be looking -for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and manner remind me of a cat -watching a caged bird.” - - - -Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her hands to her -head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a scene out of a -book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an end sooner -than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it matter? And now what am I -to do?” She thought a while, then went to the table and began to write. -She wrote thus:— - - - -“DEAR SIR HENRY,— - - - -“I have received your letter, but could not answer it before because I -was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in it, but it is not to be -thought of that a gentleman in your position should marry a poor girl like me; -and, if you did, I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing -that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems, -from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I -remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since -people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be -glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see -anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me. -I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon -as I can get about. Thanking you again, - - - -“Believe me - - - -“Your affectionate - - - -“JOAN. - - - -“P.S. You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is -very _romantic._ I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were -to take you at your word. ‘Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a -shop-girl!” - - - -Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle, -with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art—indeed, just -the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be -expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished -to see no more. - - - -“There,” she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy, -“if that does not disgust him with me, I don’t know what will. Bah! -It makes me sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have -to write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep it up for -long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till you are -married, dear.” And she rested her head, that now was clustered over with -little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept bitterly, till she heard the -girl coming up with her tea, when she dried her eyes and sent her letter to the -post. - - - -Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -THE GATE OF HELL. - - - -On the afternoon of the day following the interview between Lady Graves and -Joan, it occurred to Henry, who chanced to be in Bradmouth, that he might as -well call at the post-office to get any letters which had been despatched from -London on the Sunday. There was but one, and, recognising the handwriting on -the envelope, he read it eagerly as he sat upon his horse. - - - -Twice did he read it, then he put it in his pocket and rode homewards -wondering, for as yet he could scarcely believe that it had been written by -Joan Haste. There was nothing in the letter itself that he could find fault -with, yet the tone of it disgusted him. It was vulgar and flippant. Could the -same hand have written these words and those other words, incoherent and yet so -touching, that had stirred his nature to its depths? and if so, which of them -reflected the true mind of the writer? The first letter was mad, but beautiful; -the second sane, but to his sense shocking. If it was genuine, he must conclude -that the person who penned it, desired to have done with him: but was it -genuine? He could not account for the letter, and yet he could not believe in -it; for if Joan wrote it of her own free will, then indeed he had -misinterpreted her character and thrown his pearls, such as they were, before -the feet of swine. She had been ill, she might have fallen under other -influences; he would not accept his dismissal without further proof, at any -rate until he had seen her and was in a position to judge for himself. And yet -he must send an answer of some sort. In the end he wrote thus:— - - -“DEAR JOAN,— - - - -“I have received your note, and I tell you frankly that I cannot -understand it. You say that you do not wish to marry me, which, unless I have -altogether misunderstood the situation (as may be the case), seems -incomprehensible to me. I still purpose to come to town on Friday, when I hope -that you will be well enough to see me and to talk this matter over. - - - -“Affectionately yours, - - - -“HENRY GRAVES.” - - - -Joan received this note in due course of post. - - - -“Just what I expected,” she thought: “how good he is! Most -people would have had nothing more to do with me after that horrid, common -letter. How am I to meet him if he comes? I cannot—simply I cannot. I -should tell him all the truth, and where would my promise be then! If I see him -I shall marry him—that is, if he wishes it. I must not see him, I must go -away; but where can I go? Oh! Heaven help me, for I cannot help myself!” - - - -The journey to London had not changed Mr. Samuel Rock’s habits, which it -will be remembered were of a furtive nature. When Lady Graves saw him on the -Sunday, he was employed in verifying the information as to Joan’s address -that he had obtained from Mrs. Gillingwater. Any other man would have settled -the matter by inquiring at No. 8 as to whether or not she lived there, but he -preferred to prowl up and down in the neighbourhood of the house till chance -assured him of the fact. - - - -As it happened, Fortune favoured him from the outset, for if Lady Graves saw -him, he also saw her as she left the house, and was not slow to draw -conclusions from her visit, though what its exact object might be he could not -imagine. One thing was clear, however: Mrs. Gillingwater had not lied, since to -suppose that by the merest coincidence Lady Graves was calling at this -particular house for some purpose unconnected with Joan Haste, was an idea too -improbable to be entertained. Still his suspicious mind was not altogether -satisfied: for aught he knew Joan had left the place, or possibly she might be -dead. In his desire to solve his doubts on these points before he committed -himself to any overt act, Samuel returned on the Monday morning to Kent Street -from the hotel where he had taken a room, and set himself to watch the windows -of No. 8; but without results, for the fog was so thick that he could see -nothing distinctly: In the afternoon, when the fog lifted, he was more -successful, for, just as the November evening was closing in, the gas was lit -in the front room on the first floor, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of -Joan herself drawing down a blind. The sight of her filled him with a strange -rapture, and he hesitated a while as to whether he should seek an interview -with her at once, or wait until the morrow. In the end he decided upon the -latter course, both because his courage failed him at the moment, and because -he wished to think over his plan of action. - - - -On the Tuesday morning he returned about ten o’clock, and with many -inward tremblings rang the bell of No. 8. The door was answered by Mrs. Bird, -whom he saluted with the utmost politeness, standing on the step with his hat -off. - - - -“Pray, ma’am, is Miss Haste within?” he asked. - - - -“Yes, sir, being so ill, she has not been out for many weeks.” - - - -“So I have heard, ma’am; and I think that you are the lady who has -nursed her so kindly.” - - - -“I have done my best, sir: but what might be your errand?” - - - -“I wish to see her, ma’am.” - - - -Mrs. Bird looked at him doubtfully, and shook her head, “I don’t -think that she can see any one at present—unless, indeed, you are the -gentleman from Bradmouth whom she expects.” - - - -An inspiration flashed into Samuel’s mind. “I am the gentleman from -Bradmouth,” he answered. - - - -Again Mrs. Bird scanned him curiously. To her knowledge she had never set eyes -upon a baronet, but somehow Samuel did not fulfil her idea of a person of that -class. He seemed too humble, and she felt that there was something wrong about -the red tie and the broad black hat. “Perhaps he is disguising -himself,” she thought: “baronets and earls often do that in -books”; then added aloud, “Are you Sir Henry Graves?” - - - -By now Samuel understood that to hesitate was to lose all chance of seeing -Joan. His aim was to obtain access to the house; once there, it would be -difficult to force him to leave until he had spoken to her. After all he could -only be found out, and if he waited for another opportunity, it was obvious -that his rival, who was expected at any moment, would be beforehand with him. -Therefore he lied boldly, answering,— - - - -“That is my name, ma’am. Sir Henry Graves of Rosham.” - - - -Mrs. Bird asked him into the passage and shut the door. - - - -“I didn’t think you would be here till Friday, sir,” she -said, “but I dare say that you are a little impatient, and that your -mother told you that Joan is well enough to see you now”; for Mrs. Bird -had heard of Lady Graves’s visit, though Joan had not spoken to her of -its object. - - - -“Yes, ma’am, you are right: I am impatient very impatient.” - - - -“That is as it should be, sir, seeing all the lost time you have to make -up for. Well, the past is the past, and you are acting like a gentleman now, -which can never be a sorrow to you, come what may.” - - - -“Quite so, ma’am: but where is Joan?” - - - -“She is in that room at the top of the stairs, sir. Perhaps you would -like to go to her now. I know that she is up and dressed, for I have just left -her. I do not think that I will come with you, seeing that you might feel it -awkward, both of you, if a third party was present at such a meeting. You can -tell me how you got on when you come down.” - - - -“Thank you, ma’am,” said Samuel again. And then he crept up -the stairs, his heart filled with fear, hope, and raging jealousy of the man he -was personating. Arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with a trembling -hand. Joan, who was reading Henry’s note for the tenth time, heard the -knock, and having hastily hidden the paper in her pocket, said “Come -in,” thinking that it was her friend the doctor, for she had caught the -sound of a man’s voice in the passage. In another moment the door had -opened and shut again, and she was on her feet staring at her visitor with -angry, frightened eyes. - - - -“How did you come here, Mr. Rock?” she said in a choked voice: -“how dare you come here?” - - - -“I dare to come here, Joan,” he answered, with some show of -dignity, “because I love you. Oh! I beg of you, do not drive me away -until you have heard me; and indeed, it would be useless, for I shall only wait -in the street till I can speak to you.” - - - -“You know that I do not wish to hear you,” she answered; “and -it is cowardly of you to hunt me down when I am weak and ill, as though I were -a wild beast.” - - - -“I understand, Joan, that you are not too ill to see Sir Henry Graves; -surely, then, you can listen to me for a few minutes; and as for my being -cowardly, I do not care if I am though why a man should be called a coward -because he comes to ask the woman he loves to marry him, I can’t -say.” - - - -“To marry you!” exclaimed Joan, turning pale and sinking back into -her chair; “I thought that we had settled all that long ago, Mr. Rock, -out by the Bradmouth meres.” - - - -“We spoke of it, Joan, but we did not settle it. We both grew angry, and -said and did things which had best be forgotten. You swore that you would never -marry me, and I swore that you should live to beg me to marry you, for you -drove me mad with your cruel words. We were wrong, both of us; so let’s -wipe all that out, for I believe I shall marry you, Joan, and I know that you -will never plead with me to do it, nor would I wish it so. Oh! hear me, hear -me. You don’t know what I have suffered since I lost you; but I tell you -that I have been filled with all the tortures of hell; I have thought of you by -day and dreamed of you by night, till I began to believe my brain would burst -and that I must go mad, as I shall do if I lose you altogether. At last I heard -that you had been ill and got your address, and now once more I come to pray -you to take pity on me and to promise to be my wife. If only you will do that, -I swear to you I will be the best husband that ever a woman had: yes, I will -make myself your slave, and you shall want for nothing which I can give you. I -do not ask your love, I do not even ask that you should treat me kindly. Deal -with me as you will, be bitter and scornful and trample me in the dirt, and I -will be content if only you will let me live where I can see you day by day. -This isn’t a new thing with me, Joan it has gone on for years; and now it -has come to this, that either I must get the promise of you or go mad. Then do -not drive me away, but have mercy as you hope for mercy. Pity me and -consent.” And with an inarticulate sound that was half a sob and half a -groan, he flung himself upon his knees and, clasping his hands, looked up at -her with a rapt face like that of a man lost in earnest prayer. - - - -Joan listened, and as she listened a new and terrible idea crept into her mind. -Here, if she chose to take it if she could bring herself to take it was an easy -path out of her difficulty: here was that which would effectually cure Henry of -any desire to ruin himself by marrying her, and would put her beyond the reach -of temptation. The thought made her faint and sick, but still she entertained -it, so desperate was the case between her love and what she conceived to be her -duty. If it could be done with certain safeguards and reservations why should -it not be done? This man was in a humour to consent to anything; it was but a -question of the sacrifice of her miserable self, whereby, so they said and so -she believed, she would save her lover. In a minute she had made up her mind: -at least she would sound the man and put the matter to proof. - - - -“Do not kneel to me,” she said, breaking the silence; “you do -not know what sort of woman it is to whom you are grovelling. Get up, and now -listen. I love another man; and if I love another man, what do you think that -my feelings are to you?” - - - -“I think that you hate me, but I do not mind that,—in time you -would come to care for me.” - - - -“I doubt it, Mr. Rock; I cannot change my heart so easily. Do you know -what terms I stand on with this man?” - - - -“If you mean Sir Henry Graves, I have heard plenty of all that, and I am -ready to forgive you.” - - - -“You are very generous, Mr. Rock, but perhaps I had better explain a -little. I think it probable that, unless I change my mind, within a week I -shall be married to Sir Henry Graves.” - - - -“Oh! my God!” he groaned; “I never thought that he would -marry you.” - - - -“Well, as it happens he will—that is, if I consent. And now do you -know why?” - - - -He shook his head. - - - -“Then I will tell you, so that you may understand exactly about the woman -whom you wish to make your wife. Do not think that I am putting myself in your -power, for in the first place, if you use my words against me I shall deny -them, and in the second I shall be married to Sir Henry and able to defy you. -This is the reason, Mr. Rock:” and she bent forward and told him all in a -few words, speaking in a low, clear voice. - - - -Samuel’s face turned livid as he heard. - - - -“The villain!” he muttered. “Oh! I should like to kill him. -The villain—the villain!” - - - -“Don’t talk in that kind of way, Mr. Rock, or, if you wish to do -so, leave me. Why should you call him a villain, seeing that he loves me as I -love him, and is ready to marry me to-morrow? Are you prepared to do as much -now? Stop before you answer: you have not heard all the terms upon which, even -if you should still wish it, I might _possibly_ consent to become your -wife, or my reason for even considering the matter, First as to the reason; it -would be that I might protect Sir Henry Graves from the results of his own good -feeling, for it cannot be to his advantage to burden his life with me, and -unless I take some such step, or die, I shall probably marry him. Now as to the -condition upon which I might consent to marry anybody else, you, for instance, -Mr. Rock: it is that I should be left alone to live here or wherever I might -select for a year from the present date, unless of my own free will I chose to -shorten the time. Do you think that you, or any other man, Mr. Rock, could -consent to take a woman upon such terms?” - - - -“What would happen at the end of the year?” he asked. - - - -“At the end of the year,” she answered deliberately, “if I -still lived, I should be prepared to become the faithful wife of that man, -provided, of course, that he did not attempt to violate the agreement in any -particular. If he chose to do so, I should consider the bargain at an end, and -he would never see me again.” - - - -“You want to drive a hard trade, Joan.” - - - -“Yes, Mr. Rock a very hard trade. But then, you see, the circumstances -are peculiar.” - - - -“It’s too much: I can’t see my way to it, Joan!” he -exclaimed passionately. - - - -“I am very glad to hear that, Mr. Rock,” she answered, with evident -relief; “and I think that you are quite right. Good-bye.” - - - -Samuel picked up his hat, and rose as though to go. - - - -“Shall you marry him?” he said hoarsely. - - - -“I do not see that I am bound to answer that question, but it is -probable, for my own sake I hope so.” - - - -He took a step towards the door, then turned suddenly and dashed his hat down -upon the carpet. - - - -“I can’t let you go to him,” he said, with an oath; -“I’ll take you upon your own terms, if you’ll give me no -better ones.” - - - -“Yes, Mr. Rock: but how am I to know that you will keep those -terms?” - - - -“I’ll swear it, but if I swear, when will you marry me?” - - - -“Whenever you like, Mr. Rock. There’s a Bible on the table: if you -are in earnest, take it and swear, for then I know you will be afraid to break -your oath.” - - - -Samuel picked up the book, and swore thus at her dictation: “I swear that -for a year from the date of my marrying you, Joan Haste, I will not attempt to -see you, but will leave you to go your own way without interfering with you by -word or deed, upon the condition that you have nothing to do with Sir Henry -Graves” (this sentence was Samuel’s own), “and that at the -end of the year you come to me, to be my faithful wife.” And, kissing the -book, he threw it down upon the table, adding, “And may God blast me if I -break this oath! Do you believe me now, Joan?” - - - -“On second thoughts I am not sure that I do,” she answered, with a -contemptuous smile, “for I think that the man who can take that vow would -also break it. But if you do break it, remember what I tell you, that you will -see no more of me. After all, this is a free country, Mr. Rock, and even though -I become your wife in name, you cannot force me to live with you. There is one -more thing: I will not be married to you in a church, I will be married before -a registrar, if at all.” - - - -“I suppose that you must have your own way about that too, Joan; though -it seems an unholy thing not to ask Heaven’s blessing on us.” - - - -“There is likely to be little enough blessing about the business,” -she answered; then added, touched by compunction: “You had best leave it -alone, Mr. Rock; it is wicked and wrong from beginning to end, and you know -that I don’t love you, nor ever shall, and the reasons why I consent to -take you. Be wise and have done with me, and find some other woman who has no -such history who will care for you and make you a good wife.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Samuel picked up the book, and swore… -at her dictation.’ - - - - -“No, Joan; you have promised to do that much when the time comes, and I -believe you. No other woman could make up to me for the loss of you, not if she -were an angel.” - - - -“So be it, then,” she answered; “but do not blame me if you -are unhappy afterwards, for I have warned you, and however much I may try to do -my duty, it can’t make up to a man for the want of love. And now, when is -it to be?” - - - -“You said whenever I liked, Joan, and I say the sooner we are married the -sooner the year of waiting will be over. If it can be done, to-morrow or the -next day, as I think for you have been living a long while in this parish I -will go and make arrangements and come to tell you.” - - - -“Don’t do that, Mr. Rock, as I can’t talk any more to-day. -Send me a telegram. And now good-bye: I want to rest.” - - - -He waited for her to offer him her hand, but she did not do so. Then he turned -and went, walking so softly that until she heard the front door close Mrs. Bird -was unaware that he had left the room above. Throwing down her work she ran -upstairs, for her curiosity would not allow her to delay. Joan was seated on -the sofa staring out of the window, with wide-opened eyes and a face so set -that it might have been cut in stone. - - - -“Well, my dear,” said the little woman, “so you have seen Sir -Henry, and I hope that you have arranged everything satisfactorily?” - - - -Joan heard and smiled; even then it struck her as ludicrous that Mrs. Bird -could possibly mistake Samuel Rock for Sir Henry Graves. But she did not -attempt to undeceive her, since to do so would have involved long explanations, -on which at the moment she had neither the wish nor the strength to enter; -moreover, she was sure that Mrs. Bird would disapprove of this strange contract -and oppose it with all her force. Even then, however, she could not help -reflecting how oddly things had fallen out. It was as though some superior -power were smoothing away every difficulty, and, to fulfil secret motives of -its own, was pushing her into this hideous and shameful union. For instance, -though she had never considered it, had not Mrs. Bird fatuously taken it for -granted that her visitor must be Sir Henry and no other man, it was probable -that she would have found means to prevent him from seeing her, or, failing -that, she would have put a stop upon the project by communicating with Henry. -For a moment Joan was tempted to tell her the truth and let her do what she -would, in the hope that she might save her from herself. But she resisted the -desire, and answered simply,— - - - -“Yes; I shall probably be married to-morrow or the next day.” - - - -“To-morrow!” ejaculated Mrs. Bird, holding up her hands. -“Why, you haven’t even got a dress ready.” - - - -“I can do without that,” she replied, “especially as the -ceremony is to be before a registrar.” - - - -“Before a registrar, Joan! Why, if I did such a thing I should never feel -half married; besides, it’s wicked.” - - - -“Perhaps,” said Joan, smiling again; “but it is the only -fashion in which it can be arranged, and it will serve our turn. By the way, -shall you mind if I come back to live here afterwards?” - - - -“What, with your husband? There would not be room for two of you; -besides, a baronet could never put up with a place like this.” - - - -“No, without him. We are going to keep separate for a year.” - - - -“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, “what an extraordinary -arrangement!” - - - -“There are difficulties, Mrs. Bird, and it is the only one that we could -come to. I suppose that I can stay on?” - - - -“Oh! yes, if you like; but really I do not understand.” - - - -“I can’t explain just at present, dear,” said Joan gently. -“I am too tired; you will know all about it soon.” - - - -“Well,” thought Mrs. Bird, as she left the room, “somehow I -don’t like that baronet so much as I did. It is all so odd and secret. I -hope that he doesn’t mean to deceive Joan with a false marriage and then -to desert her. I have heard of people of rank doing such things. But if he -tries it on he will have to reckon with me.” - - - -That afternoon Joan received the following telegram: “All arranged. Will -call for you at two the day after to-morrow. Samuel.” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -THE OPENING OF THE GATE. - - - -It was a quarter to two on the Thursday and Joan, dressed in the black silk -gown that she used to wear when on duty at Messrs. Black & Parker’s, -awaited the arrival of her intended husband in the little sitting-room, where -presently Mrs. Bird joined her, attired in a lilac dress and a bonnet with -white flowers and long tulle strings. - - - -“What, my dear, are you going to be married in black? Pray don’t: -it is so unlucky.” - - - -“It is the best dress that I have,” answered Joan. - - - -“There is the pretty grey one.” - - - -“No,” she replied hastily, “I will not wear that. Besides, -the black one is more suitable.” - - - -“Joan, Joan,” cried Mrs. Bird, “is everything right? You -don’t look as you ought to not a bit happy.” - - - -“Quite right, thank you,” she answered, with an unmoved -countenance. “I have been shut up for so long that the idea of going out -upsets me a little, that is all.” - - - -Then Mrs. Bird collapsed and sat silent, but Joan, moving to the window, looked -down the street. The sight was not an inspiriting one, for it was a wet and -miserable afternoon even for London in November, and the rain trickled -ceaselessly down the dirty window-panes. Presently through the mist Joan saw a -four-wheeled cab advancing towards the house. - - - -“Come,” she said, “here it is.” And she put on a heavy -cloak over her other wrappings. - - - -At the door she paused for a moment, as though her resolution failed her; then -passed downstairs with a steady step. Mr. Rock was already in the passage -inquiring for her from Maria. - - - -“Here I am,” she said; “let us go at once. I am afraid of -catching cold if I stand about.” - - - -Apparently Samuel was too much taken aback to make any answer, and in another -minute they were all three in the cab driving towards the nearest registry. - - - -“I managed it all right, Joan,” he said, bending forward and -raising his voice to make himself heard above the rattling of the crazy cab. -“I was only just in time, though, for I had to give forty-eight -hours’ clear notice at the registry, and to make all sorts of affidavits -about your age, and as to your having been resident in the parish for more than -fifteen days.” - - - -Joan received this information in silence, and nothing more was said until they -arrived at the office. - - - -From that moment till the end of the ceremony, so far as her immediate -surroundings were concerned, Joan’s mind was very much of a blank. She -remembered, indeed, standing before a pleasant-looking gentleman with gold -spectacles and a bald head, who asked her certain questions which she answered. -She remembered also that Samuel put a ring upon her finger, for she noticed how -his long white hands shook as he did so, and their hateful touch for a few -instants stirred her from her lethargy. Then there arose in her mind a vision -of herself standing on a golden summer afternoon by the ruins of an ancient -church, and of one who spoke to her, and whom she must never see again. The -vision passed, and she signed something. While her pen was yet upon the paper, -she heard Mrs. Bird exclaim, in a shrill, excited voice,— - - - -“I forbid it. There’s fraud here, as I believed all along. I -thought that he used the wrong name, and now he’s gone and signed -it.” - - - -“What do you mean, madam?” asked the registrar. “Pray explain -yourself.” - - - -“I mean that he is deceiving this poor girl into a false marriage. His -name is Sir Henry Graves, Bart., and he has signed himself there Samuel -Rock.” - - - -“The good lady is under a mistake,” explained Samuel, clasping his -hands and writhing uncomfortably: “my name is Rock, and I am a farmer, -not a baronet.” - - - -“Well, I must say, sir,” answered the registrar, “that you -look as little like the one as the other. But this is a serious matter, so -perhaps your wife will clear it up. She ought to know who and what you are, if -anybody does.” - - - -“He is Mr. Samuel Rock, of the Moor Farm, Bradmouth,” Joan -answered, in an impassive voice. “My friend here is mistaken. Sir Henry -Graves is quite a different person.” - - - -Mrs. Bird heard, and sank into a chair speechless, nor did she utter another -syllable until she found herself at home again. Then the business went on, and -presently the necessary certificates, of which Samuel was careful to obtain -certified copies, were filled in and signed, and the party left the office. - - - -“There’s something odd about that affair,” said the registrar -to his assistant as he entered the amount of the fee received in a ledger, -“and I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Rock make their -appearance in the Courts before they are much older. However, all the papers -are in order, so they can’t blame me. What a pretty woman she is! but she -looked very sad and ill.” - - - -In the waiting-room of the office Joan held out her hand to Samuel, and said, -“Good-bye.” - - - -“Mayn’t I see you home?” he asked piteously. - - - -She shook her head and answered, “On this day year, if I am alive, you -may see as much of me as you like, but till then we are strangers,” and -she moved towards the door. - - - -He stretched out his arms as though to embrace her; but, followed by the -bewildered Mrs. Bird, she swept past him, and soon they were driving back to -Kent Street, leaving Samuel standing bare-headed upon the pavement in the rain, -and gazing after her. - - - -In the passage of No. 8, Sally was waiting to present Joan with a bouquet of -white flowers, that she had found no opportunity to give her as she went out. -Joan took the flowers and, bending down, kissed the dumb child; and that kiss -was the only touch of nature in all the nefarious and unnatural business of her -marriage. Mrs. Bird followed her upstairs, and so soon as the door was closed, -said,— - - - -“For pity’s sake, Joan, tell me what all this means. Am I mad, or -are you?” - - - -“I am, Mrs. Bird,” she answered. “If you want to know, I have -married this man, who has been in love with me a long while, but whom I hate, -in order to prevent Sir Henry Graves from making me his wife.” - - - -“But why, Joan? but why?” Mrs. Bird gasped. - - - -“Because if I had married Sir Henry I should have ruined him, and also -because I promised Lady Graves that I would not do so. Had I once seen him I -should have broken my promise, so I have taken this means to put myself out of -temptation, having first told Mr. Rock the whole truth, and bargained that I -should not go to live with him for another year.” - - - -“Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Mrs. Bird, wringing her -hands; “and what a reptile the man must be to marry you on such terms, -and knowing that you loathe the sight of him!” - - - -“Do not abuse him, Mrs. Bird, for on the whole I think that he is as much -wronged as anybody; at least he is my husband, whom I have taken with my eyes -open, as he has taken me.” - - - -“He may be your husband, but he is a liar for all that; for he told me -that he was Sir Henry Graves, and that is why I let him come up to see you, -although I thought, from the look of him, that he couldn’t be a baronet. -Well, Joan, you have done it now, and as you’ve sown so you will have to -reap. The wages of sin is death, that’s the truth of it. You’ve -gone wrong, and, like many another, you have got to suffer. I don’t -believe in your arguments that have made you marry this crawling creature. They -are a kind of lie, and, like all lies, they will bring misery. You have a good -heart, but you’ve never disciplined it, and a heart without discipline is -the most false of guides. It isn’t for me to reproach you, Joan, who am, -I dare say, ten times worse than you are, but I can’t hold with your -methods. However, you are married to this man now, so if you’re wise -you’ll try to make the best of him and forget the other.” - - - -“Yes,” she answered, “I shall if I am wise, or if I can find -wisdom.” - - - -Then Mrs. Bird began to cry and went away. When she had gone, Joan sat down and -wrote this letter to catch the post:— - - - -“DEAR SIR, - - - -“I have received your kind letter, and write to tell you that it is of no -use your coming to London to see me to-morrow, as I was married this afternoon -to Mr. Samuel Rock; and so good-bye! With all good wishes, - - - -“Believe me, dear sir, - - - -“Ever yours, - - - -“JOAN.” - - - -Joan was married on a Thursday; and upon the following morning Henry, who had -slept but ill, rose early and went out before breakfast. As it chanced, the -weather was mild, and the Rosham fields and woods looked soft and beautiful in -the hazy November light. Henry walked to and fro about them, stopping here to -admire the view, and there to speak a few kindly words to some labourer going -to his daily toil, or to watch the pheasants drawing back to covert after -filling their crops upon the stubble. Thus he lingered till long past the hour -for breakfast, for he was sad at heart and loath to quit the lands that, as he -thought, he would see no more, since he had determined not to revisit Rosham -when once he had made Joan his wife. - - - -He felt that he was doing right in marrying her, but it was idle to deny that -she was costing him dear. For three centuries his forefathers had owned these -wide, familiar lands; there was no house upon them that they had not built; -with the exception of a few ancient pollards there was scarcely a tree that -they had not planted; and now he must send them to the hammer because he had -been unlucky enough to fall in love with the wrong woman. Well, such was his -fortune, and he must make the best of it. Still he may be pardoned if it wrung -his heart to think that, in all human probability, he would never again see -those fields and friendly faces, and that in his person the race of Graves were -looking their last upon the soil that for hundreds of years had fed them while -alive and covered them when dead. - - - -In a healthy man, however, even sentiment is not proof against hunger, so it -came about that at last Henry limped home to breakfast with a heavy heart, and, -having ordered the dog that trotted at his heels back to its kennel, he entered -the house by the side door and went to the dining-room. On his plate were -several letters. He opened the first, which he noticed had an official frank in -the left-hand corner. It was from his friend the under-secretary, informing him -that, as it chanced, there was a billet open in Africa, and that he had -obtained a promise from a colleague, in whose hands lay the patronage of the -appointment, that if he proved suitable in some particulars, he, Henry, should -have the offer of it. The letter added that, although the post was worth only -six hundred a year, it was in a good climate, and would certainly lead to -better things; and that the writer would be glad if he would come to town to -see about the matter as soon as might be convenient to him, since, when it -became known that the place was vacant, there were sure to be crowds of people -after it who had claims upon the Government. - - - -“Here’s a bit of good news at last, anyway,” thought Henry, -as he put down the letter: “whatever happens to us, Joan and I -won’t starve, and I dare say that we can be jolly enough out there. By -Jove! if it wasn’t for my mother and the thought that some of my -father’s debts must remain unpaid, I should almost be happy,” and -for a moment or two he gave himself over to a reverie in which the thought of -Joan and of her tender love and beauty played the largest part (for he tried to -forget the jarring tone of that second letter) Joan, whom, after so long an -absence, he should see again that day. - - - -Then, remembering that the rest of his correspondence was unread, he took up an -envelope and opened it without looking at the address. In five seconds it was -on the floor beside him, and he was murmuring, with pale lips, “I was -married this afternoon to Samuel Rock.” Impossible! it must be a hoax! -Stooping down, he found the letter and examined it carefully. Either it was in -Joan’s writing, or the forgery was perfect. Then he thought of the former -letter, of which the tenor had disgusted him; and it occurred to him that it -was an epistle which a woman contemplating some such treachery might very well -have written. Had he, then, been deceived all along in this girl’s -character? It would seem so. And yet—and yet! She had sworn that she -loved him, and that she hated the man Rock. What could have been her object in -doing this thing? One only that he could see,—money. Rock was a rich man, -and he was a penniless baronet. - - - -If this letter were genuine, it became clear that she thought him good enough -for a lover but not for a husband; that she had amused herself with him, and -now threw him over in favour of the solid advantages of a prosperous marriage -with a man in her own class of life. Well, he had heard of women playing such -tricks, and the hypothesis explained the attitude which Joan had all along -adopted upon the question of becoming his wife. He remembered that from the -first she disclaimed any wish to marry him. Oh! if this were so, what a blind -fool he had been, and how unnecessarily had he tormented himself with doubts -and searchings for the true path of duty! But as yet he could not believe that -it was true. There must be some mistake. At least he would go to London and -ascertain the facts before he passed judgment on the faith of such evidence. -Why had he not gone before, in defiance of the doctor and Mrs. Bird? - - - -Half an hour later he was driving to the station. As he drew near to Bradmouth -he perceived a man walking along the road, in whom he recognised Samuel Rock. - - - -“There’s an end of that lie,” he thought to himself, with a -sigh of relief; “for if she married him yesterday afternoon he would be -in London with her, since he could scarcely have returned here to spend his -honeymoon.” - - - -At any rate he would settle the question. Giving the reins to the coachman, he -jumped down from the cart, and, bidding him drive on a few yards, waited by the -roadside. - - - -Presently Samuel caught sight of him, and stopped as though he meant to turn -back. If so, he changed his mind almost instantly and walked forward at a quick -pace. - - - -“Good day, Mr. Rock,” said Henry: “I wish to have a word with -you. I have heard some strange news this morning, which you may be able to -explain.” - - - -“What news?” asked Samuel, looking at him insolently. - - - -“That you were married to Joan Haste yesterday.” - - - -“Well, what about that, Sir Henry Graves?” - - - -“Nothing in particular, Mr. Rock, except that I do not believe it.” - - - -“Don’t you?” answered Samuel with a sneer. “Then -perhaps you will throw your eye over this.” And he produced from his -pocket a copy of the marriage certificate. - - - -Henry read it, and turned very white; then he handed it back without a word. - - - -“It is all in order, I think?” said Samuel, still sneering. - - - -“Apparently,” Henry answered. “May I ask if—Mrs. -Rock—is with you?” - - - -“No, she isn’t. Do you think that I am fool enough to bring her -here at present, for you to be sneaking about after her? I know what your game -was, ’cause she told me all about it. You were going up to town to-day to -get hold of her, weren’t you. Well, you’re an hour behind the fair -this time. Joan may have been a bit flighty, but she’s a sensible woman -at bottom, and she knew better than to trust herself to a scamp without a -sixpence, like you, when she might have an honest man and a good home. I told -you I meant to marry her, and you see I have kept my word. And now look you -here, Sir Henry Graves: just you keep clear of her in future, for if I catch -you so much as speaking to her, it will be the worse both for yourself and -Joan, not that she cares a rotten herring about you, although she did fool you -so prettily.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘And now ... get out of my way -before I forget myself.’ - - - - -“You need not fear that I shall attempt to disturb your domestic -happiness, Mr. Rock. And now for Heaven’s sake get out of my way before I -forget myself.” - - - -Samuel obeyed, still grinning and sneering with hate and jealousy; and Henry -walked on to where the dog-cart was waiting for him. Taking the reins, he -turned the horse’s head and drove back to Rosham. - - - -“Thomson,” he said to the butler, who came to open the door, -“I have changed my mind about going to town to-day; you can unpack my -things. Stop a minute, though: I remember I am due at Monk’s Lodge, so -you needn’t meddle with the big portmanteau. When does my mother come -back?” - - - -“To-morrow, her ladyship wrote me this morning, Sir Henry.” - - - -“Oh! very well. Then I sha’n’t see her till Tuesday; but it -doesn’t matter. Send down to the keeper and tell him that I want to speak -to him, will you? I think that I will change my clothes and shoot some rabbits -after lunch. Stop, order the dog-cart to be ready to drive me to Monk’s -Lodge in time to dress for dinner.” - - - -To analyse Henry’s feelings during the remainder of that day would be -difficult, if not impossible; but those of shame and bitter anger were -uppermost in his mind shame that he had laid himself open to such words as Rock -used to him, and anger that his vanity and blind faith in a woman’s soft -speeches and feigned love should have led him into so ignominious a position. -Mingled with these emotions were his natural pangs of jealousy and disappointed -affection, though pride would not suffer him to give way to them. Again and -again he reviewed every detail of the strange and, to his sense, appalling -story; and at times, overpowering as was the evidence, his mind refused to -accept its obvious moral namely, that he had been tricked and made a tool of -yes, used as a foil to bring this man to the point of marriage. How was it -possible to reconcile Joan’s conduct in the past and that wild letter of -hers with her subsequent letters and action? Thus only: that as regards the -first she had been playing on his feelings and inexperience of the arts of -women; and that, as in sleep men who are no poets can sometimes compose verse -which is full of beauty, so in her delirium Joan had been able to set on paper -words and thoughts that were foreign to her nature and above its level. Or -perhaps that letter was a forgery written by Mrs. Bird, who was “so -romantic.” The circumstances under which it reached him were peculiar, -and Joan herself expressly repudiated all knowledge of it. Notwithstanding his -doubts, perplexities and suffering, as might have been expected, the matter in -the end resolved itself into two very simple issues: first, that, whatever may -have been her exact reasons, Joan Haste had broken with him once and for all by -marrying another man; and second, that, as a corollary to her act, many dangers -and difficulties which beset him had disappeared, and he was free, if he wished -it, to marry another woman. - - - -Henry was no fool, and when the first bitterness was past, and he could -consider the matter, if not without passion as yet, at least more calmly, he -saw, the girl being what she had proved herself to be, that all things were -working together for his good and the advantage of his family. Supposing, for -instance, that he had found her out after marriage instead of before it, and -supposing that the story which she told him in her first letter had been true, -instead of what it clearly was a lie? Surely in these and in many other ways -his escape had been what an impartial person might call fortunate. At the -least, of her own act she had put an end to an imbroglio that had many painful -aspects, and there remained no stain upon his honour, for which he was most -truly thankful. - - - -And now, having learnt his lesson in the hard school of experience, he would -write to his friend the under-secretary, saying he could not be in town till -Wednesday. Meanwhile he would pay his visit at Monk’s Lodge. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -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. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -THE DESIRE OF DEATH—AND THE FEAR OF HIM. - - - -Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the first -excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she lapsed into a -condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every week brought her -rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband, most of which she threw -into the fire half-read. At length there came one that she perused eagerly -enough, for it announced the approaching marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss -Levinger tidings which were confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr. -Levinger himself, enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she -would take nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a -copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the dress and -appearance “of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom, Captain Sir -Henry Graves, Bart., R.N.” - - - -“At least I have not done all this for nothing,” said Joan, as she -threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon her bed -moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable despair. - - - -She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never have -found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did she regret -that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock had been careful to -inform her of his interview with Henry, putting his own gloss upon what passed -between them; and the knowledge that her lover must hate and despise her was -the sharpest arrow of the many which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest -she could bear, but than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable -was her state! —scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother, -but who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a man -she hated and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets, however -poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear of it could -avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right—as she had sown so she must -reap. - - - -One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London winter gave -way to spring, and the time of her trial drew near. In health she remained -fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so vigorous a constitution; but the -end of each week found her sadder and more broken in spirit than its beginning. -She had no friends, and went out but little—indeed, her only relaxations -were found in reading, with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry -had once told her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with -Jim and Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the -shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household. Mrs. -Bird’s eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom she -consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase. - - - -“Oh! my dear,” she said to Joan, “what is to happen to us all -if I go blind? I have a little money put away— about a hundred and fifty -pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and then I -suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know, my dear, they -separate husband and wife in those places.” And, quite broken down by -such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep. - - - -“At any rate there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at -present,” answered Joan gently, “since Sally helps, and I can do -the fine work that you cannot manage.” - - - -“It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you in -out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me, and how I -should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to repine, for God has -always looked after us heretofore, and I do not believe that He Who feeds the -ravens will suffer us to starve, or to be separated. So I will try to be brave -and trust in Him.” - - - -“Ah!” answered Joan, “I wish that I could have your faith; -but I suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let me -begin at once. No, don’t thank me any more; it will be a comfort; -besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you.” - - - -Thenceforth Mrs. Bird’s orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever they -had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave her some -relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a new desire entered -into her mind that most terrible of all desires, the desire of Death! Of Death -she became enamoured, and her daily prayer to Heaven was that she might die, -she and her child together, since her imagination could picture no future in -another world more dreadful than that which awaited her in this. - - - -Only once during these months did she hear anything of Henry; and then it was -through the columns of a penny paper, where, under the heading of -“Society Jottings,” she read that “Sir Henry Graves, Bart., -R.N., and his beautiful young bride were staying at Shepheard’s Hotel in -Cairo, where the gallant Captain was very popular and Lady Graves was much -admired.” The paragraph added that they were going to travel in the Holy -Land, and expected to return to their seat at Rosham towards the end of May. - - - -It was shortly after she read this that Joan, who from constantly thinking -about death, had convinced herself that she would die, went through the -formality of making a will on a sixpenny form which she bought for that purpose. - - - -To Sir Henry Graves she left the books that he had given her, and a long -letter, which she was at much trouble to compose, and placed carefully in the -same envelope with the will. All the rest of her property, of any sort -whatsoever, whereof she might die possessed it amounted to about thirty pounds -and some clothes she devised to Mrs. Bird for the use of her unborn child, -should it live, and, failing that, to Mrs. Bird absolutely. - - - -At last the inevitable hour of her trouble came upon her, and left her pale and -weak, but holding a little daughter in her arms. From the first the child was -sickly, for the long illness of the mother had affected its constitution; and -within three weeks from the day of its birth it was laid to rest in a London -cemetery, leaving Joan to drink the cup of a new and a deeper agony than any -that it had been her lot to taste. - - - -Yet, when her first days of grief and prostration had gone by, almost could she -find it in her heart to rejoice that the child had been taken from her and -placed beyond the possibilities of such a life as she had led; for, otherwise, -how would things have gone with it when she, its mother, passed into the power -of Samuel Rock? Surely he would have hated and maltreated it, and, if fate had -left it without the protection of her love in the hands of such a guardian, its -existence might have been made a misery. Still, after the death of that infant -those about her never saw a smile upon Joan’s face, however closely they -might watch for it. Perhaps she was more beautiful now than she had ever been, -for the chestnut hair that clustered in short curls upon her shapely head, and -her great sorrowful eyes shining in the pallor of her sweet face, refined and -made strange her loveliness; moreover, if the grace of girlhood had left her, -it was replaced by another and a truer dignity the dignity of a woman who has -loved and suffered and lost. - - - -One morning, it was on the ninth of June, Joan received a letter from her -husband, who now wrote to her every two or three days. Before she opened it she -knew well from past experience what would be the tenor of its contents: an -appeal to her, more or less impassioned, to shorten the year of separation for -which she had stipulated, and come to live with him as his wife. She was not -mistaken, for the letter ended thus: - - - -“Oh! Joan, have pity on me and come to me, for if you don’t I think -that I shall go crazed. I have kept my promise to you faithful so far, so if -you are made of flesh and blood, show mercy before you drive me to something -desperate. It’s all over now; the child’s dead, you tell me, and -the man’s married, so let’s turn a new leaf and begin afresh. After -all, Joan, you are my wife before God and man, and it is to me that your duty -lies, not to anybody else. Even if you haven’t any fondness for me, I ask -you in the name of that duty to listen to me, and I tell you that if you -don’t I believe that I shall go mad with the longing to see your face, -and the sin of it will be upon you. I’ve done up the house comfortable -for you, Joan; no money has been spared, and if you want anything more you -shall have it. Then don’t go on hiding yourself away from me, but come -and take the home that waits you.” - - - -“I suppose he is right, and that it is my duty,” said Joan to -herself with a sigh, as she laid down the letter. “Love and hope and -happiness have gone from me, nothing is left except duty, so I had better hold -fast to it. I will write and say that I will go soon within a few days; though -what the Birds will do without me I do not know, unless he will let me give -them some of my allowance.” - - - -Having come to this determination, Joan wrote her letter and posted it, fearing -lest, should she delay, her virtuous resolution might fail her. As she returned -from the pillar box, a messenger, who was standing on the steps of No. 8, -handed her a telegram addressed to herself. Wondering what it might be, she -opened it, to read this message:— - - - -“Come down here at once. I am ill and must see you before it is too late. -The carriage will meet the five o’clock train at Monk’s Vale -station. Wire reply. - - - -“LEVINGER, - - - -“_Monk’s Lodge._” - - - -“I wonder what he can want to see me for,” thought Joan; then, -asking the boy to wait in the passage, she went in to consult Mrs. Bird. - - - -“You had best go, my dear,” she said; “I have always thought -that there was some mystery about this Mr. Levinger, and now I expect that it -is coming out. If you take a cab at once, you will just have time to catch the -twelve o’clock train at Liverpool Street.” - - - -Joan nodded, and writing one word upon the prepaid answer “Coming,” -gave it to the boy and ran upstairs to pack a few things in a bag. In ten -minutes a hansom was at the door and she was ready to start. First she bade -good-bye to the two invalids, who were much disturbed at this hurried -departure; and then to Mrs. Bird, who followed her into the passage kissing her -again and again. - - - -“Do you know, Joan,” she said, beginning to cry, “I feel as -if you were going away for good and I should never see you any more.” - - - -“Nonsense, dear,” she answered briefly, for a queer contraction in -her throat made a lengthened speech impossible, “I hope to be back in a -day or two if all is well.” - - - -“Yes, Joan—if all is well, and there’s hope for everybody. -Well, good-bye, and God bless you wherever you go—God bless you here and -hereafter, for ever and ever!” - - - -Then Joan drove away, and as she went it came into her mind that it would be -best if she returned no more. She had promised to join her husband in a few -days. Why should she not do so at once, and thus avoid the pain of a formal -parting with the Birds, her true and indeed her only friends? - - - -By half-past four that afternoon the train pulled up at Bradmouth, where she -must change into the light railway with tramcar carriages that runs for fifteen -or twenty miles along the coast, Monk’s Vale being the second station -from the junction. - - - -The branch train did not start for ten minutes, and Joan employed the interval -in walking up and down the platform, looking at the church tower, the roofs of -the fishing village, the boats upon the beach, and the familiar view of land -and sea. Everything seemed quite unchanged; she alone was changed, and felt as -though a century of time had passed over her head since that morning when she -ran away to London. - - - -“Hullo, Joan Rock!” said a half-remembered voice at her elbow. -“I’m in luck, it seems: I saw you off, and here I am to welcome you -back. But you shouldn’t have married him, Joan; you should have waited -for me as I told you. I’m in business for myself now, four saddle donkeys -and a goat chaise, and doing grand. I shall die a rich man, you bet.” - - - -Joan turned round to see a youth with impudent blue eyes and hair of flaming -red, in whom she recognised Willie Hood, much elongated, but otherwise the same. - - - -“Oh! Willie, is that you?” she said, stretching out her hand, for -she was pleased to see a friendly face; “how are you, and how do you know -that I am married?” - - - -“Know? Why, if you sent the crier round with a bell to call it, folks -would hear, wouldn’t they? And that’s just about what Mr. Samuel -Rock has done, talking of ‘my wife, Joan Haste as was,’ here, there -and everywhere; and telling how as you were stopping in foreign parts awhile -for the benefit of your health, which seems a strange tale to me, and I know a -thing or two, I do. Not that it has done you much good, anyway, to judge from -the air of you, for you look like the ghost of what you used to be. I’ll -tell you what, Joan: for the sake of old times you shall have a ride every -morning on my best donkey, all for love, if Sammy won’t be jealous. -That’ll bring the colour back into your cheeks, you bet.” - - - -“How are my uncle and aunt?” asked Joan, hastening to change the -conversation. - - - -“How are they? Will you promise to bear up if I tell you? Well, then, -Mrs. G. is lodging for three months at the public expense in Ipswich jail, -which the beaks gave her for assault ‘with intent to do grievous bodily -harm’ —them was the words, for I went to hear the -case,—‘upon the person of her lawful husband, John -Gillingwater,’ and my! she did hammer him too—with a rolling pin! -His face was like a squashed pumpkin, with no eyes left for a sinner to swear -by. The guardians have taken pity on him too, and are nursing him well again, -all for nothing, in the Union. I saw him hoeing taters there the other day, and -he asked me if I couldn’t smuggle him a bottle of gin—yes, and -nearly cried when I told him that it wasn’t to be done unless I had the -cash in hand and a commission.” - - - -At this moment Willie’s flow of information was interrupted by the guard, -who told Joan that she must get into the train if she did not wish to be left. - - - -“Ta-ta, Mrs. Rock,” cried Willie after her: “see you again -soon; and remember that the donkey is always ready. Now,” he added to -himself, “I wonder why the dickens she is going that way instead of home -to her loving Sammy? He’s a nasty mean beast, he is, and it’s a rum -go her having married him at all, but it ain’t no affair of mine. All the -same, I mean to let my dickies run down by the meres to-night, for I’m -sure he can’t grudge an armful of rough grass to an old friend of his -wife’s as has been the first to welcome her home. By the way, why -ain’t the holy Samuel here, to welcome her home himself?” and -Master Willie scratched his red head and departed speculating, with the full -intention of pasturing his donkeys that night upon lands in the possession or -hire of the said Samuel. - - - -At Monk’s Vale station Joan found a dog-cart waiting for her. When she -had taken her seat she asked the groom if Mr. Levinger was ill. He replied that -he didn’t rightly know, but that his master had kept the house almost -ever since Miss Emma he meant Lady Graves had married, and that last night, -feeling queer, he had sent for a doctor. - - - -Then Joan asked if Lady Graves was at Monk’s Lodge, and was informed that -she and her husband were not expected home at Rosham from abroad till this -night or the next morning. - - - -By this time they had reached the house, which was not more than half a mile -distant from the station. The servant who opened the door took Joan to a -bedroom and said that tea was waiting for her. When she was ready she went -downstairs to the dining-room, where presently she received a message that Mr. -Levinger would be glad to see her, and was shown to his room on the first -floor. She found him seated in an armchair by a fire, although the weather was -warm for June; and noticed at once that he was much changed since she had last -seen him, his face being pale and thin and his form shrunken. His eyes, -however, retained their brightness and intelligence, and his manner its -vivacity. As she entered the room he attempted to rise to receive her, only to -sink back into his chair with a groan, where for a while he remained speechless. - - - -“It is very good of you to come to see me, Joan,” he said -presently. “Pray be seated.” - - - -“I am sorry to hear that you have not been well, sir,” she answered. - - - -“No, Joan, I have not; there never was a man further from health or much -nearer to death than I am at this moment, and that is why I have sent for you, -since what I have to say cannot be put off any longer. But you do not look very -well yourself, Joan.” - - - -“I feel quite strong, thank you, sir. You know I had a bad illness, for -you very kindly came to see me, and it has taken me a while to recover.” - - - -“I hear that you are married, Joan, although you are not living with your -husband, Samuel Rock. It would, perhaps, have been well if you had consulted me -before taking such a step, but you have a right to manage your own affairs. I -trust that you are happy; though, if so, I do not understand why you keep -away.” And he looked at her anxiously. - - - -“I am as happy as I ever shall be, sir, and I go to live with Mr. Rock -to-morrow: till now I have been detained in town by business.” - - - -“You know that my daughter is married to Sir Henry Graves,” he went -on after a pause, again searching her face with his eyes. “They return -home to-night or to-morrow; and not too soon if they wish to see me alive, -though they know nothing of that, for I have told them little of my state of -health.” - - - -“Yes, sir,” she answered imperturbably, though her hands shook as -she spoke. “But I suppose that you did not send for me to tell me that, -sir.” - - - -“No, Joan, no. Is the door shut? I sent for you— O my God, that I -should have to say it! to throw myself upon your mercy, since I dare not die -and face the Judgment-seat till I have told you all the truth. Listen to -me—” and his voice fell to a piercing whisper—“Joan, -_you are my daughter!_” - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH. - - - -“Your daughter!” she said, rising in her astonishment, “you -must be mad! If I were your daughter, could you have lied to me as you did, and -treated me as you have done?” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Your daughter!’ - - - - -“I pray you to listen before you judge, and at present spare your -reproaches, for believe me, Joan, I am not fit to bear them. Remember that I -need have told you nothing of this; the secret might have been buried in my -grave—” - - - -“As it would have been, sir, had you not feared to die with such -falsehood on your soul.” - - - -He made an imploring gesture with his hand, and she ceased. - - - -“Joan,” he went on, “I will tell you the whole truth. You are -not only my child, you are also legitimate.” - - - -“And Miss Levinger—Lady Graves, I mean—is she legitimate -too?” - - - -“No, Joan.” - - - -She heard, and bit her lip till the blood ran, but even so she could not keep -silence. - - - -“Oh!” she cried, “I wonder if you will ever understand what -you have done in hiding this from me. Do you know that you have ruined my -life?” - - - -“I pray that you may be mistaken, Joan. Heaven is my witness that I have -tried to act for the best. Listen: many years ago, when I was still a youngish -man, it was my fate to meet and to fall in love with your mother, Jane Lacon. -Like you, she was beautiful, but unlike you she was hot-tempered, violently -jealous, and, when she was angered, rough of speech. Such as she was, however, -she obtained a complete empire over my mind, for I was headstrong and -passionate; indeed, so entirely did I fall into her power that in the end I -consented to marry her. This, however, I did not dare to do here, for in those -days I was poor and struggling, and it would have ruined me. Separately, and -without a word being said to any one, we went to London, and there were -secretly married in an obscure parish in the East End. In proof of my words -here is a copy of the certificate,”—and, taking a paper from a -despatch-box that stood on the table beside him, he handed it to Joan, then -went on:— - - - -“As you may guess, a marriage thus entered into between two people so -dissimilar in tastes, habits and education did not prove successful. For a -month or so we were happy, then quarrels began. I established her in lodgings -in London, and, while ostensibly carrying on my business as a land agent here, -visited her from time to time. With this, however, she was not satisfied, for -she desired to be acknowledged openly as my wife and to return with me to -Bradmouth. I refused to comply indeed, I dared not do so whereupon she reviled -me with ever-increasing bitterness. Moreover she became furiously jealous, and -extravagant beyond the limit of my means. At length matters reached a climax, -for a chance sight that she caught of me driving in a carriage with another -woman, provoked so dreadful an outburst that in my rage and despair I told her -a falsehood. I told her, Joan, that she was not really my wife, and had no -claim upon me, seeing that I had married her under a false name. This in itself -was true, for my own name is not Levinger; but it is not true that the marriage -was thereby invalidated, since neither she nor those among whom I had lived for -several years knew me by any other. When your mother heard this she replied -only that such conduct was just what she should have expected from me; and that -night I returned to Bradmouth, having first given her a considerable sum of -money, for I did not think that I should see her again for some time. Two days -afterwards I received a letter from her,—here it is,” and he read -it:— - - - -“‘GEORGE, - - - -“‘Though I may be what you call me, a common woman and a jealous -scold, at least I have too much pride to go on living with a scoundrel who has -deceived me by a sham marriage. If I were as bad as you think, I might have the -law of you, but I won’t do that, especially as I dare say that we shall -be best apart. Now I am going straight away where you will never find me, so -you need not trouble to look, even if you care to. I haven’t told you yet -that I expect to have a child. If it comes to anything, I will let you know -about it; if not, you may be sure that it is dead, or that I am. Good-bye, -George: for a week or two we were happy, and though you hate me, I still love -you in my own way; but I will never live with you again, so don’t trouble -your head any more about me. - - - -‘Yours, - - - -‘JANE——? - - - “‘P.S. Not knowing what my name is, I can’t sign -it.’ - - - - - - -“When I received this letter I went to London and tried to trace your -mother, but could hear nothing of her. Some eight or nine months passed by, and -one day a letter came addressed to me, written by a woman in New York—I -have it here if you wish to see it—enclosing what purports to be a -properly attested American certificate of the death of Jane Lacon, of Bradmouth -in England. The letter says that Jane Lacon, who passed herself off as a widow, -and was employed as a housekeeper in an hotel in New York, died in childbirth -with her infant in the house of the writer, who, by her request, forwarded the -certificate of death, together with her marriage ring and her love. - - - -“I grieved for your mother, Joan; but I made no further inquiries, as I -should have done, for I did not doubt the story, and in those days it was not -easy to follow up such a matter on the other side of the Atlantic. - - - -“A year went by and I married again, my second wife being Emma Johnson, -the daughter of old Johnson, who owned a fleet of fishing boats and a great -deal of other property, and lived at the Red House in Bradmouth. Some months -after our marriage he died, and we came to live at Monk’s Lodge, which we -inherited from him with the rest of his fortune. A while passed, and Emma was -born; and it was when her mother was still confined to her room that one -evening, as I was walking in front of the house after dinner, I saw a woman -coming towards me carrying a fifteen-months’ child in her arms. There was -something in this woman’s figure and gait that was familiar to me, and I -stood still to watch her pass. She did not pass, however; she came straight up -to me and said:— - - - -“‘How are you, George? You ought to know me again, though you -won’t know your baby.’ - - - -“It was your mother, and, Joan, _you_ were that baby. - - - -“‘I thought that you were dead, Jane,’ I said, so soon as I -could speak. - - - -“‘That’s just what I meant you to think, George,’ she -answered, ‘for at that time I had a very good chance of marrying out -there in New York, and didn’t want you poking about after me, even though -you weren’t my lawful husband. Also I couldn’t bear to part with -the baby; though it’s yours sure enough, and I’ve been careful to -bring its birth papers with me to show you that it is not a fraud; and here -they are, made out in your name and mine, or at least in the name that you -pretended to marry me under.’ And she gave me this certificate, which, -Joan, I now pass on to you. - - - -“‘The fact of the matter is,’ she went on, ‘that when -it came to the point I found that I couldn’t marry the other man after -all, for in my heart I hated the sight of him and was always thinking of you. -So I threw him up and tried to get over it, for I was doing uncommonly well out -there, running a lodging-house of my own. But it wasn’t any use: I just -thought of you all day and dreamed of you all night, and the end of it was that -I sold up the concern and started home. And now if you will marry me -respectable so much the better, and if you won’t—well, I must put -up with it, and sha’n’t show you any more temper, for I’ve -tried to get along without you and I can’t, that’s the fact. You -seem to be pretty flourishing, anyway; somebody in the train told me that you -had come into a lot of money and bought Monk’s Lodge, so I walked here -straight, I was in such a hurry to see you. Why, what’s the matter with -you, George? You look like a ghost. Come, give me a kiss and take me into the -house. I’ll clear out by-and-by if you wish it.’ - - - -“These, Joan, were your mother’s exact words, as she stood there in -the moonlight near the roadway, holding you in her arms. I have not forgotten a -syllable of them. - - - -“When she finished I was forced to speak. ‘I can’t take you -in there,’ I said, because I am married and it is my wife’s -house.’ She turned ghastly white, and had I not caught her I think that -she would have fallen. - - - -“‘O My God!’ she said, ‘I never thought of this. Well, -George, you won’t cast me off for all that, will you? I was your wife -before she was, and this is your daughter.’ - - - -“Then, Joan, though it nearly choked me, I lied to her again, for what -else was I to do? ‘You never were my wife,’ I said, ‘and -I’ve got another daughter now. Also all this is your own fault, for had I -known that you were alive, I would not have married. You have yourself to -thank, Jane, and no one else. Why did you send me that false certificate?’ - - - -“‘I suppose so,’ she answered heavily. ‘Well, I’d -best be off; but you needn’t have been so ready to believe things. Will -you look after the child if anything happens to me, George? She’s a -pretty babe, and I’ve taught her to say Daddy to nothing.’ - - - -“I told your mother not to talk in that strain, and asked her where she -was going to spend the night, saying that I would see her again on the morrow. -She answered, at her sister’s, Mrs. Gillingwater, and held you up for me -to kiss. Then she walked away, and that was the last time that I saw her alive. - - - -“It seems that she went to the Crown and Mitre, and made herself known to -your aunt, telling her that she had been abroad to America, where she had come -to trouble, but that she had money, in proof of which she gave her notes for -fifty pounds to put into a safe place. Also she said that I was the agent for -people who knew about her in the States, and was paid to look after her child. -Then she ate some supper, and saying that she would like to take a walk and -look at the old place, as she might have to go up to London on the morrow, she -went out. Next morning she was found dead beneath the cliff, though how she -came there, there was nothing to show. - - - -“That, Joan, is the story of your mother’s life and death.” - - - -“You mean the story of my mother’s life and murder,” she -answered. “Had you not told her that lie she would never have committed -suicide.” - - - -“You are hard upon me, Joan. She was more to blame than I was. Moreover, -I do not believe that she killed herself. It was not like her to have done so. -At the place where she fell over the cliff there stood a paling, of which the -top rail, that was quite rotten, was found to have been broken. I think that my -poor wife, being very unhappy, walked along the cliff and leaned upon this rail -wondering what she should do, when suddenly it broke and she was killed, for I -am sure that she had no idea of making away with herself. - - - -“After her death Mrs. Gillingwater came to me and repeated the tale which -her sister had told her, as to my having been appointed agent to some person -unknown in America. Here was a way out of my trouble, and I took it, saying -that what she had heard was true. This was the greatest of my sins; but the -temptation was too strong for me, for had the truth come out I should have been -utterly destroyed, my wife would have been no wife, her child would have been a -bastard, I should have been liable to a prosecution for bigamy, and, worst of -all, my daughter’s heritage might possibly have passed from her to -you.” - - - -“To me?” said Joan. - - - -“Yes, to you; for under my father-in-law’s will all his property is -strictly settled first upon his daughter, my late wife, with a life interest to -myself, and then upon my lawful issue. _You_ are my only lawful issue, -Joan; and it would seem, therefore, that you are legally entitled to your -half-sister’s possessions, though of course, did you take them, it would -be an act of robbery, seeing that the man who bequeathed them certainly desired -to endow his own descendants and no one else, the difficulty arising from the -fact of my marriage with his daughter being an illegal one. I have taken the -opinions of four leading lawyers upon the case, giving false names to the -parties concerned. Of these, two have advised that you would be entitled to the -property, since the law is always strained against illegitimate issue, and two -that equity would intervene and declare that her grandfather’s -inheritance must come to Emma, as he doubtless intended, although there was an -accidental irregularity in the marriage of the mother. - - - -“I have told you all this, Joan, as I am telling you everything, because -I wish to keep nothing back; but I trust that your generosity and sense of -right will never allow you to raise the question, for this money belongs to -Emma and to her alone. For you I have done my best out of my savings, and in -some few days or weeks you will inherit about four thousand pounds, which will -give you a competence independent of your husband.” - - - -“You need not be afraid, sir,” answered Joan contemptuously; -“I would rather cut my fingers off than touch a farthing of the money to -which I have no right at all. I don’t even know that I will accept your -legacy.” - - - -“I hope that you will do so, Joan, for it will put you in a position of -complete independence, will provide for your children, and will enable you to -live apart from your husband, should you by any chance fail to get on with him. -And now I have told you the whole truth, and it only remains for me to most -humbly beg your forgiveness. I have done my best for you, Joan, according to my -lights; for, as I could not acknowledge you, I thought it would be well that -you should be brought up in your mother’s class—though here I did -not make sufficient allowance for the secret influences of race, seeing that, -not withstanding your education, you are in heart and appearance a lady. I -might, indeed, have taken you to live with me, as I often longed to do; but I -feared lest such an act should expose me to suspicion, suspicion should lead to -inquiry, and inquiry to my ruin and to that of my daughter Emma. Doubtless it -would have been better, as well as more honest, if I had faced the matter out; -but at the time I could not find the courage, and the opportunity went by. My -early life had not been altogether creditable, and I could not bear the thought -of once more becoming the object of scandal and of disgrace, or of imperilling -the fortune and position to which after so many struggles I had at length -attained. That, Joan, is my true story; and now again I say that I hope to hear -you forgive me before I die, and promise that you will not, unless it is -absolutely necessary, reveal these facts to your half-sister, Lady Graves, for -if you do I verily believe that it will break her heart. The dread lest she -should learn this history has haunted me for years, and caused me to strain -every nerve to secure her marriage with a man of position and honourable name, -so that, even should it be discovered that she had none, she might find a -refuge in her disgrace. Thank Heaven that I, who have failed in so many things, -have at least succeeded in this, so that, come what may when I am dead, she is -provided for and safe.” - - - -“I suppose, sir, that Sir Henry Graves knows all this?” - - - -“Knows it! Of course not. Had he known it I doubt if he would have -married her.” - - - -“Possibly not. He might even have married somebody else,” Joan -answered. “It seems, then, that you palmed off Miss Emma upon him under a -false description.” - - - -“I did,” he said, with a groan. “It was wrong, like the rest; -but one evil leads to another.” - - - -“Yes, sir, one evil leads to another, as I shall show you presently. You -ask me to forgive you, and you talk about the breaking of Lady Graves’s -heart. Perhaps you do not know that mine is already broken through you, or to -what a fate you have given me over. I will tell you. Your daughter’s -husband, Sir Henry Graves, and I loved each other, and I have borne his child. -He wished to marry me, though, believing myself to be what you have taught me -to believe, I was against it from the first. When he learned my state he -insisted upon marrying me, like the honourable man that he is, and told his -mother of his intention. She came to me in London and pleaded with me, almost -on her knees, that I should ward off this disgrace from her family, and -preserve her son from taking a step which would ruin him. I was moved by her -entreaties, and I felt the truth of what she said; but I knew well that, should -he come to marry me, as within a few days he was to do, for our child’s -and our love’s sake, if not for my own, I could never find the strength -to deny him. - - - -“What was I to do? I was too ill to run away, and he would have hunted me -out. Therefore it came to this, that I must choose between suicide—which -was both wicked and impossible, for I could not murder another as well as -myself—and the still more dreadful step that at length I took. You know -the man Samuel Rock, my husband, and perhaps you know also that for a long -while he has persecuted me with his passion, although again and again I have -told him that he was hateful to me. While I was ill he obtained my address in -London—I believe that he bought it from my aunt, Mrs. Gillingwater, the -woman in whose charge you were satisfied to leave me—and two days after I -had seen Lady Graves, he came to visit me, gaining admission by passing himself -off as Sir Henry to my landlady, Mrs. Bird. - - - -“You can guess the rest. To put myself out of temptation, and to save the -man I loved from being disgraced and contaminated by me, I married the man I -hated—a man so base that, even when I had told him all, and bargained -that I should live apart from him for many months, he was yet content to take -me. I did more than this even: I wrote in such a fashion to Sir Henry as I knew -must shock and revolt him; and then I married, leaving him to believe that I -had thrown him over because the husband whom I had chosen was richer than -himself. Perhaps you cannot guess why I should thus have dishonoured both of -us, and subjected myself to the horrible shame of making myself vile in Sir -Henry’s eyes. This was the reason: had I not done so, had he once -suspected the true motives of my sacrifice, the plot would have failed. I -should have sold myself for nothing, for then he would never have married Emma -Levinger. And now, that my cup may be full, my child is dead, and to-morrow I -must give myself over to my husband according to the terms of my bond. This, -sir, is the fruit of all your falsehoods; and I say, Ask God to forgive you, -but not the poor girl—your own daughter—whom you have robbed of -honour and happiness, and handed over to misery and shame.” - - - -Thus Joan spoke to him, in a quiet, an almost mechanical voice indeed, but -standing on her feet above the dying man, and with eyes and gestures that -betrayed her absorbing indignation. When she had finished, her father, who was -crouched in the chair before her, let fall his hands, wherewith he had hidden -his face, and she saw that he was gasping for breath and that his lips were -blue. - - - -“‘The way of transgressors is hard,’ as we both have -learned,” he muttered, with a deathly smile, “and I deserve it all. -I am sorry for you, Joan, but I cannot help you. If it consoles you, you may -remember that, whereas your sorrows and shame are but temporal, mine, as I fear -will be eternal. And now, since you refuse to forgive me, farewell; for I can -talk no more, and must make ready, as best I can, to take my evil doings hence -before another, and, I trust, a more merciful Judge.” - - - -Joan turned to leave the room, but ere she reached the door the rage died out -of her heart and pity entered it. - - - -“I forgive you, father,” she said, “for it is Heaven’s -will that these things should have happened, and by my own sin I have brought -the worst of them upon me. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. But oh! I -pray that my time here may be short.” - - - -“God bless you for those words, Joan!” he murmured. - - - -Then she was gone. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -A GHOST OF THE PAST. - - - -Lady Graves sat at breakfast in the dining-room at Rosham, where she had -arrived from London on the previous evening, to welcome home her son and her -daughter-in-law. Just as she was rising from the table the butler brought her a -telegram. - - - -“Your master and mistress will be here by half-past eleven, -Thomson,” she said. “This message is from Harwich, and they seem to -have had a very bad crossing.” - - - -“Indeed, my lady!” answered the old man, whose face, like the house -of Graves, shone with a renewed prosperity; “then I had better give -orders about the carriage meeting them. It’s a pity we hadn’t a -little more notice, for there’s many in the village as would have liked -to give Sir Henry and her ladyship a bit of a welcome.” - - - -“Yes, Thomson; but perhaps they can manage something of that sort in a -day or two. Everything is ready, I suppose? I have not had time to go round -yet.” - - - -“Well, I can’t say that, my lady. I think that some of them there -workmen won’t have done till their dying day; and the smell of paint -upstairs is awful. But perhaps your ladyship would like to have a look?” - - - -“Yes, I should, Thomson, if you will give the orders about the carriage -and to have some breakfast ready.” - - - -Thomson bowed and went, and, reappearing presently, led Lady Graves from room -to room, pointing out the repairs that had been done to each. Emma’s -money had fallen upon the nakedness of Rosham like spring rains upon a desert -land, with results that were eminently satisfactory to Lady Graves, who for -many years had been doomed to mourn over threadbare carpets and shabby walls. -At last they had inspected everything, down to the new glass in the windows of -the servants’ bedrooms. - - - -“I think, Thomson,” said Lady Graves, with a sigh of relief, -“that, taking everything into consideration, we have a great deal to be -thankful for.” - - - -“That’s just what I says upon my knees every night, my lady. When I -remember that if it hadn’t been for the new mistress and her money (bless -her sweet face!) all of us might have been sold up and in the workhouse by now, -or near it, I feel downright sick.” - - - -“Well, you can cheer up now, Thomson, for, although for his position your -master will not be a rich man, the bad times are done with.” - - - -“Yes, my lady, they are done with; and please God they won’t come -no more in my day. If your ladyship is going to walk outside I’ll call -March, as I know he’s very anxious to show you the new vinery.” - - - -“Thank you, Thomson, but I think I will sit quiet and enjoy myself till -Sir Henry comes, and then we can all go and see the gardens together. Mr. and -Mrs. Milward are coming over this afternoon, are they not?” - - - -“Yes, I believe so, my lady; that is, Miss Ellen—I mean Mrs. -Milward—drove round with her husband yesterday to look at the new -furniture in the drawing-room, and said that they should invite themselves to -dinner to-night to welcome the bride. He’s grown wonderful pleasant of -late, Mr. Milward has, and speaks quite civil to the likes of us since Sir -Henry’s marriage; though March, he do say it’s because he wants our -votes for I suppose you’ve heard, my lady, that he’s putting up for -Parliament in this division— but then March never was no believer in the -human heart.” - - - -“Yes, I have heard, and I am told that Miss Ellen will pull him through. -However, we need not think of that yet. By the way, Thomson, tell March to cut -a bowlful of sweet peas and have them put in your mistress’s room. I -remember that when she was here as a girl, nearly three years ago, she said -that they were her favourite flower.” - - - -When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door of the -hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds and the light -shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond, to read the morning -psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon, however, the book dropped -from her hand and she fell to musing on the past, and how strangely, after all -its troubles, the family that she loved, and with which her life was -interwoven, had been guided back into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than -a year ago there had been nothing before them but ruin and extinction, and now! -It was not for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were -for the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she must -follow them; but rather for her dead husband’s sake, and for the sake of -the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their descendants. - - - -Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her knees when -she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit to Joan Haste, -things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since heard that this poor -girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she had seen in the train when -she went to London; for Henry had told her as much and spoken very bitterly of -her conduct. The story seemed a little curious, and she could not altogether -understand it, but she supposed that her son was right, and that on -consideration the young woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a -wise marriage with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a -poor gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue was -most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their gratitude. -Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little doze, from which she was -awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and went to the front door to find -Henry, looking very well and bronzed, helping his wife out of the carriage. - - - -“Why, mother, is that you?” he said, with a pleasant laugh. -“This is first-rate: I didn’t expect from your letter that you -would be down before to-morrow,” and he kissed her. “Look, here is -my invalid; I have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did -not imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don’t know how she -survived it.” - - - -“Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way, that -I may say how do you do to your mother.” - - - -“Well, Emma,” said Lady Graves, “I must say that, -notwithstanding your bad crossing, you look very well and happy.” - - - -“Thank you, Lady Graves,” she answered, colouring slightly; -“I am both well and happy.” - - - -“Welcome home, dear!” said Henry; and putting his arm round his -wife, he gave her a kiss, which she returned. “By the way,” he -added, “I wonder if there is any news of your father.” - - - -“Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand,” answered -Lady Graves. “But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing; -here it is.” - - - -Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It said: - - - -“Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look -to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over on the -following morning? - - - -“Yours affectionately, - - - -“G. L.” - - - -“He seems pretty well,” said Henry. “But I’ll drive to -Bradmouth and take the two o’clock train to Monk’s Vale, coming -back to-night.” - - - -“Ellen and her husband are going to be here to dinner,” said Lady -Graves. - - - -“Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps you and Emma will look after them. I dare say -that I shall be home before they go. No, don’t bother about meeting me. -Probably I shall return by the last train and walk from Bradmouth. I must go, -as you remember I wrote to your father from abroad saying that I would come and -see him to-day, and he will have the letter this morning.” - - - -After her interview with Mr. Levinger, for the first time in her life Joan -slept beneath her father’s roof—or rather she lay down to sleep, -since, notwithstanding her weariness, the scene through which she had passed, -together with the aching of her heart for all that she had lost, and its -rebellion against the fate which was in store for her on the morrow, made it -impossible that she should rest. Once towards morning she did doze off indeed, -and dreamed. - - - -She dreamt that she stood alone upon a point of rock, out of all sight or hope -of shore, while round her raged a sea of troubles. From every side they poured -in upon her to overwhelm her, and beneath the black sky above howled a dreary -wind, which was full of voices crying to each other of her sins and sorrows -across the abysm of space. Wave after wave that sea rolled on, and its waters -were thick with human faces, or rather with one face twisted and distorted into -many shapes, as though reflected from a thousand faulty mirrors—now long, -now broad, and now short; now so immense that it filled the ocean and -overflowed the edge of the horizon, and now tiny as a pin’s point, yet -visible and dreadful. Gibbering, laughing, groaning, and shouting aloud, still -the face was one face—that of Samuel Rock, her husband. Nearer it surged -and nearer, till at length it flowed across her feet, halving itself against -them; then the one half shouted with laughter and the other screamed in agony, -and, joining themselves together, they rose on the waters of that sea, which of -a sudden had grown red, and, smiting her upon the breast, drove her down and -down and down into the depths of an infinite peace, whence the voice of a child -was calling her. - - - -Then she awoke, and rejoiced to see the light of day streaming into the room; -for she was frightened at her nightmare, though the sense of peace with which -it closed left her strangely comforted. Death must be like that, she thought. - - - -At breakfast Joan inquired of the servant how Mr. Levinger was; and, being of a -communicative disposition, the girl told her that he had gone to bed late last -night, after sitting up to burn and arrange papers, and said that he should -stop there until the doctor had been. She added that a letter had arrived from -Sir Henry announcing his intention of coming to see her master after lunch. -Joan informed the woman that she would wait at Monk’s Lodge to hear Dr. -Childs’s report, but that Mr. Levinger need not be troubled about her, -since, having only a handbag with her, she could find her own way back to -Bradmouth, either on foot or by train. Then she went to her room and sat down -to think. - - - -Henry was coming here, and she was glad of it; for, dreadful as such an -interview would be, already she had made up her mind that she must see him -alone and for the last time. Everything else she could bear, but she could no -longer bear that he should think her vile and faithless. To-day she must go to -her husband, but first Henry should learn why she went. He was safely married -now, and no harm could come of it, she argued. Also, if she did not take this -opportunity, how could she know when she might find another? An instinct warned -her that her career in Bradmouth as the wife of Mr. Rock would be a short one; -and at least she was sure that, when once she was in his power, he would be -careful that she should have no chance of speaking with the man whom he knew to -have been her lover. Yes, it might be unheroic and inconsistent, but she could -keep silence no longer; see him she must and would, were it only to tell him -that his child had lived, and was dead. - - - -Moreover, there was another matter. She must warn him to guard against the -secret which she had learned on the previous night being brought directly or -indirectly to the knowledge of his wife. Towards Emma her feelings, if they -could be defined at all, were kindly; and Joan guessed that, should -Henry’s wife discover how she had been palmed off upon an unsuspecting -husband, it would shatter her happiness. For her own part, Joan had quickly -made up her mind to let all this sad history of falsehood and dishonour sink -back into the darkness of the past. It mattered to her little now whether she -was legitimate or not, and it was useless to attempt to clear the reputation of -a forgotten woman, who had been dead for twenty years, at the expense of -blasting that of her own father. Also, she knew that if Samuel got hold of this -story, he would never rest from his endeavours to wring from its rightful owner -the fortune that might pass to herself by a quibble of the law. No, she had the -proofs of her identity; she would destroy them, and if any others were to be -found among her father’s papers after his death Henry must do likewise. - - - -When Dr. Childs had gone, about one o’clock, Joan saw the servant, who -told her the doctor said that Mr. Levinger remained in much the same condition, -and that he yet might live for another month or two. On the other hand, he -might die at any moment, and, although he did not anticipate such immediate -danger, he had ordered him to stay in bed, and had advised him to send for a -clergyman if he wished to see one; also to write to his daughter, Lady Graves, -asking her to come on the morrow and to stay with him for the present. Joan -thanked the maid, and leaving a message for Mr. Levinger to the effect that she -would come to see him again if he wished it, she started on her way, carrying -her bag in her hand. - - - -There were only two roads by which Henry could approach Monk’s Lodge: the -cliff road; and that which ran, through woodlands for the most part, to the -Yale station, half a mile away. Joan knew that about three hundred yards from -the Lodge at the end of the shrubberies, there was a summer-house commanding a -view of the cliff and sea, and standing within twenty paces of the station -road. Here she placed herself, so as to be able to intercept Henry by whichever -route he should come; for she wished their meeting to be secret, and, for -obvious reasons, she did not dare to await him in the immediate neighbourhood -of the house. - - - -She came to the summer-house, a rustic building surrounded at a little distance -by trees, and much overgrown with masses of ivy and other creeping plants. Here -Joan sat herself down, and picking up a mouldering novel left there long ago by -Emma, she held it in her hand as though she were reading, while over the top of -it she watched the two roads anxiously. - - - -Nearly an hour passed, and as yet no one had gone by whom even at that distance -she could possibly mistake for Henry; when suddenly her heart bounded within -her, for a hundred yards or more away, and just at the turn of the station -road, a view of which she commanded through a gap in the trees and fence, she -caught sight of the figure of a man who walked with a limp. Hastening from the -summer-house, she pushed her way through the under-growth and the hedge beyond, -taking her stand at a bend in the path. Here she waited, listening to the sound -of approaching footsteps and of a man’s voice, Henry’s voice, -humming a tune that at the time was popular in the streets of London. A few -seconds passed, which to her seemed like an age, and he was round the corner -advancing towards her, swinging his stick as he came. So intent was he upon his -thoughts, or on the tune that he was humming, that he never saw her until they -were face to face. Then, catching sight of a lady in a grey dress, he stepped -to one side, lifting his hand to his hat,—looked up at her, and stopped -dead. - - - -“Henry,” she said in a low voice. - - - -“What! are you here, Joan,” he asked, “and in that dress? For -a moment you frightened me like a ghost—a ghost of the past.” - - - -“I am a ghost of the past,” she answered. “Yes, that is all I -am—a ghost. Come in here, Henry; I wish to speak to you.” - - - -He followed her without a word, and presently they were standing together in -the summer-house. - - - -Henry opened his lips as though to speak; but apparently thought better of it, -for he said nothing, and it was Joan who broke that painful silence. - - - -“I have waited for you here,” she began confusedly, “because -I have things that I must tell you in private.” - - - -“Yes, Mrs. Rock,” he answered; “but do you not think, under -all the circumstances, that it would be better if you told them to me in -public? You know this kind of meeting might be misunderstood.” - - - -“Do not speak to me like that, I beg,” she said, clasping her hands -and looking at him imploringly; then added, “and do not call me by that -name: I cannot bear it from you, at any rate as yet.” - - - -“I understand that it is your name, and I have no title to use any -other.” - - - -“Yes, it is my name,” she answered passionately; “but do you -know why?” - - - -“I know nothing except what your letters and your husband have told me, -and really I do not think that I have any right to inquire further.” - - - -“No, but I have a right to tell you. You think that I threw you over, do -you not, and married Mr. Rock for my own reasons?” - - - -“I must confess that I do; you would scarcely have married him for -anybody else’s reasons.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘I have waited for you here … -because I have things that I must tell you in private.’ - - - - -“So you believe. Now listen to me: I married Samuel Rock in order that -you might marry Emma Levinger. I meant to marry you, Henry, but your mother -came to me and implored me not to do so, so I took this means of putting myself -out of the reach of temptation.” - - - -“My mother came to you, and you did _that!_ Why, you must be -mad!” - - - -“Perhaps; but so it is, and the plot has answered very well, especially -as our child is dead.” - - - -“Our child!” he said, turning deathly pale: “was there any -child?” - - - -“Yes, Henry; and she was very like you. Her name was Joan. I thought that -you would wish her to be called Joan. I buried her about a month ago.” - - - -For a moment he hid his face in his hands, then said, “Perhaps, Joan, you -will explain, for I am bewildered.” - - - -So she told him all. - - - -“Fate and our own folly have dealt very hardly with us, Joan,” he -said in a quiet voice when she had finished; “and now I do not see what -there is to be done. We are both of us married, and there is nothing between us -except our past and the dead child. By Heaven! you are a noble woman, but also -you are a foolish one. Why could you not consult me instead of listening to my -mother, or to any one else who chose to plead with you in my -interests—and their own?” - - - -“If I had consulted you, Henry, by now I should have been your -wife.” - - - -“Well, and was that so terrible a prospect to you? As you know, I asked -nothing better; and it chanced that I was able to obtain a promise of -employment abroad which would have supported both of us in comfort. -Or—answer me truly, Joan—did you, on the whole, as he told me, -think that you would do better to marry Mr. Rock?” - - - -“If Mr. Rock said that,” she answered, looking at him steadily, -“he said what he knew to be false, since before I married him I told him -all the facts and bargained that I should live apart from him for a while. Oh! -Henry, how can you doubt me? I tell you that I hate this man whom I have -married for your sake, that the sight of him is dreadful to me, and that I had -sooner live in prison than with him. And yet to-day I go to him.” - - - -“I do not doubt you, Joan,” he answered, in a voice that betrayed -the extremity of his distress; “but the thing is so appalling that it -paralyses me, and I know neither what to do nor to say. Do you want help to get -away from him?” - - - -She shook her head sadly, and answered, “I can escape from him in one way -only, Henry—by death, for my bargain was that when the time of grace was -ended I would come to be his faithful wife. After all he is my husband, and my -duty is towards him.” - - - -“I suppose so,—curse him for a cringing hound. Oh, Joan! the -thought of it drives me mad, and I am helpless. I cannot in honour even say the -words that lie upon my tongue.” - - - -“I know,” she answered; “say nothing, only tell me that you -believe me.” - - - -“Of course I believe you; but my belief will not save you from Samuel -Rock, or me from my remorse.” - - - -“Perhaps not, dear,” she answered quietly, “but since there -is no escape we must accept the inevitable; doubtless things will settle -themselves sooner or later. And now there is another matter of which I want to -speak to you. You know your father-in-law is very ill, dying indeed, and -yesterday he telegraphed for me to come to see him from London. What do you -think that he had to tell me?” - - - -Henry shook his head. - - - -“This: that I am his legitimate daughter; for it seems that in marrying -your wife’s mother he committed bigamy, although he did not mean to do -so.” - - - -“Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken, -Joan, or we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.” - - - -“I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect -clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told her on the -previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates of her mother’s -marriage and of her own birth. - - - -“Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old -rogue has betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious -that I should marry his daughter. Did _she_ know anything of this, -Joan?” - - - -“Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is in -order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to you. Look, -there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the two -certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered them to the -winds. - - - -“What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they -are only copies.” - - - -“It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered, -with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the name -of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the registration of -my birth.” - - - -“I will get those out of _him,_ he said grimly, nodding his head -towards the house. - - - -“If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the -sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can -well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret of her -birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.” - - - -“That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was ever -man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is just, for it is -Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.” - - - -“Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name, -attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.” - - - -“By whom?” - - - -“By my husband, to whose house I must now be going.” - - - -For a few moments there was silence, then Joan spoke again:— - - - -“I forgot, Henry: I have something to give you that you may like to -keep,” and she took a tiny packet from her breast. - - - -“What is it?” he said, shrinking back a little. - - - -“Only—a lock of the—baby’s hair.” And she kissed -it and gave it to him. - - - -He placed the paper in his purse calmly enough. Then he broke down. - - - -“Oh! my God,” he said, with a groan, “forgive me, but this is -more than I can bear.” - - - -Another second, and they were sobbing in each other’s arms, seeing -nothing of a man, with a face made devilish by hate and jealousy, who craned -his head forward to watch them from the shelter of a thick bush some few yards -away. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -HUSBAND AND WIFE. - - - -When Joan parted from Henry she walked quickly to Monk’s Vale station to -catch the train. Arriving just in time, she bought a third-class ticket to -Bradmouth, and got into an empty carriage. Already they were starting, when the -door opened, and a man entered the compartment. At first she did not look at -him, so intent was she upon her own thoughts, till some curious influence -caused her to raise her eyes, and she saw that the man was her husband, Samuel -Rock. - - - -She gazed at him astonished, although it was not wonderful that she should -chance to meet a person within a few miles of his own home; but she said -nothing. - - - -“How do you do, Joan?” Samuel began, and as he spoke, she noticed -that his eyes were bloodshot and wild, and his face and hands twitched: -“I thought I couldn’t be mistook when I saw you on the -platform.” - - - -“Have you been following me, then?” she asked. - - - -“Well, in a way I have. You see it came about thus: this morning I find -that young villain, Willie Hood, driving his donkeys off my foreshore pastures, -and we had words, I threatening to pull him, and he giving me his sauce. - - - -“Presently he says, ‘You’d be better employed looking after -your wife than grudging my dickies a bellyful of sea thistles; for, as we all -know, you are a very affectionate husband, and would like to see her down here -after she’s been travelling so long for the benefit of her health.’ -Then, of course, I ask him what he may chance to mean; for though I have your -letter in my pocket saying that you were coming home shortly, I didn’t -expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-day, Joan; and he tells me that he -met you last night bound for Monk’s Vale. So you see to Monk’s Vale -I come, and there I find you, though what you may happen to be doing, naturally -I can’t say.” - - - -“I have been to see Mr. Levinger,” she answered; “he is very -ill, and telegraphed for me yesterday.” - - - -“Did he now! Of course that explains everything; though why he should -want to see you it isn’t for me to guess. And now where might you be -going, Joan? Is it ‘home, sweet home’ for you?” - - - -“I propose to go to Moor Farm, if you find it convenient.” - - - -“Oh, indeed! Well, then, that’s all right, and you’ll be -heartily welcome. The place has been done up tidy for you, Joan, by the same -man that has been working at Rosham to make ready for the bride. She’s -come home to-day too, and it ain’t often in these parts that we have two -brides home-coming together. It makes one wonder which of the husbands is the -happier man. Well, here we are at Bradmouth, so if you’ll come along to -the Crown and Mitre I’ll get my cart and we’ll drive together. -There are new folks there now. Your aunt’s in jail, and your uncle is in -the workhouse; and both well suited, say I, though p‘raps you will think -them a loss.” - - - -To all this talk, and much more like it, Joan made little or no answer. She was -not in a condition to observe people or things closely, nevertheless it struck -her that there was something very strange about Samuel’s manner. It -occurred to her even that he must have been drinking, so wild were his looks -and so palpable his efforts to keep his words and gestures under some sort of -control. - - - -Presently they were seated in the cart and had started for Moor Farm. The horse -was a young and powerful animal, but Samuel drove it quietly enough till they -were clear of the village. Then he commenced to shout at it and to lash it with -his whip, till the terrified beast broke into a gallop and they were tearing -along the road at a racing pace. - - - -“We can’t get home too fast, can we, darling?” he yelled into -her ear, “and the nag knows it. Come on, Sir Henry,—come on! You -know that a pretty woman likes to go the pace, don’t you?” and -again he brought down his heavy whip across the horse’s flanks. - - - -Joan clung to the rail of the cart, clenched her teeth and said nothing. -Luckily the last half-mile of the road ran up a steep incline, and, -notwithstanding Rock’s blows and urgings, the horse, being grass-fed, -became blown, and was forced to moderate its pace. Opposite the door of the -house Rock pulled it up so suddenly that Joan was almost thrown on to her head; -but, recovering her balance, she descended from the cart; which her husband -gave into the charge of a labourer. - - - -“Here’s your missus come home at last, John,” he said, with -an idiotic chuckle. “Look at her: she’s a sight for sore eyes, -isn’t she?” - - - -“Glad to see her, I’m sure,” answered the man. “But if -you drive that there horse so you’ll break his wind, that’s all, or -he’ll break your neck, master.” - - - -“Ah! John, but you see your missus likes to go fast. We’ve been too -slow up at Moor Farm, but all that’s going to be changed now.” - - - -As he spoke two great dogs rushed round the corner of the house baying, and one -of them, seeing that Joan was a stranger, leapt at her and tore the sleeve of -her dress. She cried out in fear, and the man, John, running from the head of -the horse, beat the dogs back. - - - -“Ah! you would, Towser, would you?” said Rock. “You wait a -moment, and I’ll teach you that no one has a right to touch a lady except -her husband,” and he ran into the house. - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘Come on, Sir Henry—come on!’ - - - - -“Don’t go, pray,” said Joan to the man; “I am -frightened,” —and she shrank to his side for protection, for the -dogs were still walking round her growling, their hair standing up upon their -backs. - - - -By way of answer John tapped his forehead significantly and whispered, -“You look out for yourself, missus; he’s going as his grandfather -did. He’s allus been queer, but I never did see him like this -before.” - - - -Just then Rock reappeared from the house, carrying his double-barrelled gun in -his hand. - - - -“Towser, old boy! come here, Towser!” he said, addressing the dog -in a horrible voice of pretended affection, that, however, did not deceive it, -for it stood still, eyeing him suspiciously. - - - -“Surely,” Joan gasped, “you are not going——” - - - -The words were scarcely out of her mouth when there was a report, and the -unfortunate Towser rolled over on to his side dying, with a charge of No. 4 -shot in his breast. The horse, frightened by the noise, started off, John -hanging to the reins. - - - -“There, Towser, good dog,” said Rock, with a brutal laugh, -“that’s how I treat them that try to interfere with my wife. Now -come in, darling, and see your pretty home.” - - - -Joan, who had hidden her eyes that she might not witness the dying struggles of -the wretched dog, let fall her hand, and looked round wildly for help. Seeing -none, she took a few steps forward with the idea of flying from this fiend. - - - -“Where are you going, Joan?” he asked suspiciously. “Surely -you are never thinking of running away, are you? Because I tell you, you -won’t do that; so don’t you try it, my dear. If I’m to be a -widower again, it shall be a real one next time.” And he lifted the gun -towards her and grinned. - - - -Then, the man John having vanished with the cart, Joan saw that her only chance -was to appear unconcerned and watch for an opportunity to escape later. - - - -“Run away!” she said, “what are you thinking of? I only -wanted to see if the horse was safe,” and she turned and walked through -the deserted garden to the front door of the house, which she entered. - - - -Rock followed her, locking the door behind her as he had done when Mrs. -Gillingwater came to visit him, and with much ceremonious politeness ushered -her into the sitting-room. This chamber had been re-decorated with a flaring -paper, that only served to make it even more incongruous and unfit to be lived -in by any sane person than before; and noting its gloom, which by contrast with -the brilliant June sunshine without was almost startling, and the devilish -faces of carved stone that grinned down upon her from the walls, Joan crossed -its threshold with a shiver of fear. - - - -“Here we are at last!” said Samuel. “Welcome to your home, -Joan Rock!” And he made a movement as though to embrace her, which she -avoided by walking straight past him to the farther side of the table. - - - -“You’ll be wanting something to eat, Joan,” he went on. -“There’s plenty in the house if you don’t mind cooking it. -You see I haven’t got any servants here at present,” he added -apologetically, “as you weren’t expected so soon; and the old woman -who comes in to do for me is away sick.” - - - -“Certainly I will cook the food,” Joan answered. - - - -“That’s right, dear—I was afraid that you might be too grand -but perhaps you would like to wash your hands first while I light the fire in -the kitchen stove. Come here,” and he led the way through the door near -the fireplace to the foot of an oaken stair. “There,” he said, -“that’s our room, on the right. It’s no use trying any of the -others, because they’re all locked up. I shall be just here in the -kitchen, so you will see me when you come down.” - - - -Joan went upstairs to the room, which was large and well furnished, though, -like that downstairs, badly lighted by one window only, and secured with iron -bars, as though the place had been used as a prison at some former time. -Clearly it was Samuel’s own room, for his clothes and hats were hung upon -some pegs near the door, and other of his possessions were arranged in -cupboards and on the shelves. - - - -Almost mechanically she washed her hands and tidied her hair with a brush from -her handbag. Then she sat down and tried to think, to find only that her mind -had become incapable, so numbed was it by all that she had undergone, and with -the terrors mental and bodily of her present position. Nor indeed was much time -allowed her for thought, since presently she heard the hateful voice of her -husband calling to her that the fire was ready. At first she made no answer, -whereon Samuel spoke again from the foot of the stairs, saying,— - - - -“If you won’t come down, dear, I must come up, as I can’t -bear to lose sight of you for so long at a time.” - - - -Then Joan descended to the kitchen, where the fire burnt brightly and a -beef-steak was placed upon the table ready for cooking. She set to work to fry -the meat and to boil the kettle and the potatoes; while Samuel, seated in a -chair by the table, followed her every movement with his eyes. - - - -“Now, this is what I call real pleasant and homely,” he said, -“and I’ve been looking forward to it for many a month as I sat by -myself at night. Not that I want you to be a drudge, Joan—don’t you -think it. I’ve got lots of money, and you shall spend it: yes, you shall -have your carriage and pair if you like.” - - - -“You are very kind,” she murmured, “but I don’t wish to -live above my station. Perhaps you will lay the table and bring me the teapot, -as I think that the steak is nearly done.” - - - -He rose to obey with alacrity, but before he left the room Joan saw with a -fresh tremor that he was careful to lock the kitchen door and to put the key -into his pocket. Evidently he suspected her of a desire to escape. - - - -In a few more minutes the meal was ready, and they were seated -_tête-à-tête_ in the parlour. - - - -When he had helped her Joan asked him if she should pour out the tea. - - - -“No, never mind that wash,” he said; “I’ve got -something that I have been keeping against this day.” And going to a -cupboard he produced glasses and two bottles, one of champagne and the other of -brandy. Opening the first, he filled two tumblers with the wine, giving her one -of them. - - - -“Now, dear, you shall drink a toast,” he said. “Repeat it -after me. ‘Your health, dearest husband, and long may we live -together.’” - - - -Having no option but to fall into his humour, or run the risk of worse things, -Joan murmured the words, although they almost choked her, and drank the -wine—for which she was very thankful, for by now it was past seven -o’clock, and she had touched nothing since the morning. Then she made -shift to swallow some food, washing it down with sips of champagne. If she ate -little, however, her husband ate less, though she noticed with alarm that he -did not spare the bottle. - - - -“It isn’t often that I drink wine, Joan,” he said, “for -I hold it sinful waste not but what there’ll always be wine for you if -you want it. But this is a night to make merry on, seeing that a man -isn’t married every day,” and he finished the last of the -champagne. “Oh! Joan,” he added, “it’s like a dream to -think that you’ve come to me at last. You don’t know how I’ve -longed for you all these months; and now you are mine, mine, my own beautiful -Joan for those whom God has joined together no man can put asunder, however -much they may try. I kept my oath to you faithful, didn’t I, Joan? and -now it’s your turn to keep yours to me. You remember what you swore that -you would be a true and good wife to me, and that you wouldn’t see -nothing of that villain who deceived you. I suppose that you haven’t seen -him during all these months, Joan?” - - - -“If you mean Sir Henry Graves,” she answered, “I met him -to-day as I walked to Monk’s Vale station.” - - - -“Did you now?” he said, with a curious writhing of the lips: -“that’s strange, isn’t it, that you should happen to go to -Monk’s Lodge without saying nothing to your husband about it, and that -there you should happen to meet him within a few hours of his getting back to -England? I suppose you didn’t speak to him, did you?” - - - -“I spoke a few words.” - - - -“Ah! a few words. Well, that was wrong of you, Joan, for it’s -against your oath; but I dare say that they were to tell him just to keep clear -in future?” - - - -Joan nodded, for she dared not trust herself to speak. - - - -“Well, then, that’s all right, and he’s done with. And now, -Joan, as we’ve finished supper, you come here like a good wife, and put -your arms round my neck and kiss me, and tell me that you love me, and that you -hate that man, and are glad that the brat is dead.” - - - -Joan sat silent, making no answer. For a few moments he waited as though -expecting her to move, then he rose and came towards her with outstretched arms. - - - -Seeing his intention, she sprang from her chair and slipped to the other side -of the table. - - - -“Come,” he said, “don’t run from me, for our courting -days are over, and it’s silly in a wife. Are you going to say what I -asked you, Joan?” - - - -“No,” she answered in a quiet voice, for her instincts overcame her -fears; “I have promised to live with you, though you know why I married -you, and I’ll do it till it kills me, even if you are mad; but I’ll -not tell you a lie, for I never promised to love you, and I hate you now more -than ever I did.” - - - -Samuel turned deadly white, then poured out a glass of neat brandy and drank it -before he answered. - - - -“That’s straight, anyway, Joan. But it’s queer that while you -won’t lie to me of one thing you ain’t above doing it about -another. P’raps you didn’t know it, but I was there to-day when you -had your ‘few words’ with your lover. He never saw me, but I -followed him from Bradmouth step for step, though sometimes I had to hide -behind trees and hedges to do it. You see I thought he would lead me to you; -and so he did, for I saw you kissing and hugging —yes, you who belong to -me—I saw you holding that man in your arms. Mad, do you say I am? Yes, I -went mad then, though mayhap if you’d done what I asked you just now I -might have got over it, for I felt my brain coming right; but now it is going -again, going, going! And, Joan, since you hate me so bad, there is only one -thing left to do, and that is——” And with a wild laugh he -dashed towards the mantelpiece to reach down the gun which hung above it. - - - -Then Joan’s nerve broke down, and she fled. From the house itself there -was no escape, for every door was locked; so, followed by the madman, she ran -panting with terror upstairs to the room where she had washed her hands, and, -shutting the door, shot the strong iron bolt not too soon, for next instant her -husband was dashing his weight against it. Very shortly he gave up the attempt, -for he could make no impression upon oak and iron; and she heard him lock the -door on the outside, raving the while. Then he tramped downstairs, and for a -time there was silence. Presently she became aware of a scraping noise at the -lattice; and, creeping along under shelter of the wall, she peeped round the -corner of the window place. Already the light was low, but she could see the -outlines of a white face glowering into the room through the iron bars without. -Next instant there was a crash, and fragments of broken glass fell tinkling to -the carpet. Then a voice spoke, saying, “Listen to me, Joan: I am here, -on a ladder. I won’t hurt you, I swear it; I was mad just now, but I am -sane again. Open the door, and let us make it up.” - - - -Joan crouched upon the floor and made no answer. - - - -Now there came the sounds of a man wrenching at the bars, which apparently -withstood all the strength that he could exert. For twenty minutes or more this -went on, after which there was silence for a while, and gradually it grew dark -in the room. At length through the broken pane she heard a laugh, and -Samuel’s voice saying: - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘A white face glowering into the room.’ - - - - -“Listen to me, my pretty: you won’t come out, and you won’t -let me in, but I’ll be square with you for all that. You -sha’n’t have any lover to kiss to-morrow, because I’m going -to make cold meat of him. It isn’t you I want to kill; I ain’t such -a fool, for what’s the use of you to me dead? I should only sit by your -bones till I died myself. I’ve gone through too much to win you to want -to be rid of you so soon. You’d be all right if it wasn’t for the -other man, and once he’s gone you’ll tell me that you love me fast -enough; so now, Joan, I’m going to kill him. If he sticks to what I heard -him tell his servant this morning, he should be walking back to Rosham in about -an hour’s time, by one of the paths that run past Ramborough Abbey wall. -Well, I shall be waiting for him there, at the Cross-Roads, so that I -can’t miss him whichever way he comes, and this time we will settle our -accounts. Good-bye, Joan: I hope you won’t be lonely till I get home. I -suppose that you’d like me to bring you a lock of his hair for a -keepsake, wouldn’t you? or will you have that back again which you gave -him this day the dead brat’s, you know? You sit in there and say your -prayers, dear, that it may please Heaven to make a good wife of you; for one -thing’s certain, you can’t get out,” and he began to descend -the ladder. - - - -Joan waited awhile and then peered through the window. She believed little of -Samuel’s story as to his design of murdering Henry, setting it down as an -idle tale that he had invented to alarm her. Therefore she directed her -thoughts to the possibility of escape. - - - -While she was thus engaged she saw a sight which terrified her indeed: the -figure of her husband vanishing into the shadows of the twilight, holding in -his hand the double-barrelled gun with which he had shot the dog and threatened -her. Could it, then, be true? He was walking straight for Ramborough, and -swiftly walking like a man who has some purpose to fulfil. She called to him -wildly, but no answer came; though once he turned, looking towards the house, -threw up his arm and laughed. - - - -Then he disappeared over the brow of the slope. - - - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -FULL MEASURE, PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER. - - - -Joan staggered back from the window, gasping in her terror. Her husband was mad -with jealousy and hate and every other passion. She could see now that he had -always been more or less mad, and that his frantic love for herself was but a -form of insanity, which during the long months of their separation had deepened -and widened until it obtained a complete mastery over his mind. Then by an evil -fortune he had witnessed the piteous and passionate scene between Henry and -herself, or some part of it, and at the sight the last barriers of his reason -broke down, and he became nothing but an evil beast filled with the lust of -revenge and secret murder. Now he had gone to shoot down his rival in cold -blood; and this was the end of her scheming and self-sacrifice that she had -given herself to a lunatic and her lover to a bloody death! - - - -So awful was the thought that for a while Joan felt as though her own brain -must yield beneath it. Then of a sudden the desperate nature of the emergency -came home to her, and her mind cleared. Henry was still unharmed, and perhaps -he might be saved. Oh! if only she could escape from this prison, surely it -would be possible for her to save him, in this way or in that. But how? If she -could find any one about she might send to warn him and to obtain help; but -this she knew was not likely, for nobody lived at Moor Farm except its master, -and by now the labourers would have gone to their homes in the valley, a mile -away. Well, once out of the house she might run to meet him herself? No, for -then possibly she would be too late. Besides, there were at least three ways by -which Henry could walk from Bradmouth by the cliff road, by the fen path, or -straight across the heath; and all these separate routes converged at a spot -beneath the wall of the old Abbey known as the Cross-Roads. That was why Samuel -had chosen this place for his deed of blood: as he had told her, he knew that -if he came at all his victim must pass within a few paces of a certain portion -of the ruined churchyard fence. - - - -What, then, could be done? Joan flung herself upon the bed and thought for a -while, and as she lay thus a dreadful inspiration came into her mind. - - - -If she could get free it would be easy for her to personate Henry. There upon -the pegs hung a man’s coat and a hat, not unlike those which he was -wearing that day. They were much of a height, her hair was short, and she could -copy the limp in his gait. Who then would know them apart, in the uncertain -glimmer of the night? Surely not the maddened creature crouching behind some -bush that he might satisfy his hate in blood. But so, if things went well, and -if she did not chance to meet Henry in time to save him, as she hoped to do, -she herself must die within an hour, or at the best run the risk of death! What -of it? At least he would escape, for, whether or not her husband discovered his -error, after all was over, she was sure that one murder would satiate his -vengeance. Also would it not be better to die than to live the life that lay -before her? Would it not even be sweet to die, if thereby she could preserve -the man she loved more than herself a thousand times? She had made many a -sacrifice for him; and this, the last, would be the lightest of them, for then -he would learn how true she was to him, and always think of her with -tenderness, and long to greet her beyond the nothingness of death. Besides, it -might not come to this. Providence might interpose to rescue her and him. She -might see him in time coming by the cliff road, or she might find her husband -and turn him from his purpose. - - - -Oh! her mind was mazed with terror for Henry, and torn by perplexities as to -how she best might save his life. Well, there was no more leisure to search out -a better plan; if she would act, it must be at once. Springing from the bed, -she ran to the window, and throwing it wide, screamed for help. Her cries -echoed through the silent air, but the only answer to them was the baying of -the dog. There were matches on the mantelpiece, she had seen them; and, groping -in the dark, she found the box and lit the candles. Then she tried the door; it -was locked on the outside, and she could not stir it. Next she examined the -window place, against which the ladder that Rock had set there was still -standing. It was secured by three iron bars let into the brickwork at the top -and screwed to the oaken sill at the bottom. - - - -Scrutinising these bars closely, she saw that, although her husband had not -been able to wrench them away, he had loosened the centre one, for in the -course of many years the rust of the iron mixing with the tannin in the oak had -widened the screw holes, so that the water, settling in them, had rotted that -portion of the sill. Could she but force out this bar she would be able to -squeeze her body through the gap and to set her feet upon the ladder. - - - -There was a fireplace in the room, and, resting on the dogs in front of it, lay -a heavy old-fashioned poker. Seizing it, she ran to the window and struck the -bottom of the centre bar again and again with all her strength. The screws -began to give. Now they were half-way out of the decaying woodwork, but she -could force them no farther with blows. For a moment Joan seemed to be baffled, -then she took refuge in a new expedient. Thrusting the poker outside of the bar -to the right, and the end of it inside that which she was seeking to dislodge, -she obtained a powerful leverage and pulled in jerks. At the third jerk her -hand came suddenly in contact with the sharp angle of the brickwork, that -rasped the skin from the back of it; the screws gave way, and the bar, slipping -from the hole in which its top end was set, fell clattering down the ladder. - - - -Now the road was open, and it remained only for her to dress herself to the -part. Half crying with the pain of her hurt and bleeding hand, quickly Joan put -on the hat and overcoat, remembering even then that they were the same which -Rock had worn when he came to see her in London, and, going to the window, she -struggled through the two remaining bars on to the ladder. Reaching the ground, -she ran through the garden to the heathland, for she feared lest the surviving -dog should espy and attack her. But no dog appeared: perhaps the corpse of its -brother that still lay by the gate kept it away. - - - -Now she was upon the heathland and heading straight for the ruins of -Ramborough, which lay at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile from the -house. The night was fine and the air soft, but floating clouds now and again -obscured the face of the half-moon, that lay low in the sky, causing great -shadows to strike suddenly across the moor. Her way ran past the meres, where -the wind whispered drearily amongst the growing reeds and the nesting wild-fowl -called to each other across the water. There was a great loneliness about the -place; no living creature was to be seen; and, at the moment, this feeling of -solitude weighed more heavily upon her numbed heart than the sense of the death -that she was courting. The world was still with her, and its moods and -accidents affected her as they had always done; but the possibilities of that -other unrisen world upon whose brink she stood, and the fear of it, moved her -but little, and she scarcely thought of what or where she might or might not be -within an hour. Those terrors were to come. - - - -She was past the meres, and standing on a ridge of ground that lies between -them and the cliff. Before her, when the moon shone out, she could see the -glimmer of the ocean, the white ribbon of the road, and the ruins of Ramborough -showing distinctly against the delicate beauty of the twilight summer sky. On -she went, scanning the heath and the cliff with eager eyes, in the hope that -she might discover the man she sought. It was in vain; the place was empty and -desolate, a home of solitude. - - - -At length she stood upon the border of the cliff road, and the Abbey was in a -line with her some two hundred yards to the right. Here she paused awhile, -staring into the shadows and listening earnestly. But there was nothing to be -seen except the varying outlines of the clouds, and nothing to be heard save -the murmur of the sea, the stirring of the wind among the grasses, and now and -again the cry of some gull seeking its food by night. - - - -Now it was, as she stood thus, that a great fear of death took her, and it -seemed as though all her past life went before her eyes in pictures, full, -every one of them, of exact and bewildering detail. For the most part these -pictures were not pleasant, yet it chilled her to remember that the series -might so soon be ended. At the least they were human and comprehensible, -whereas what lay beyond might be inhuman and above her understanding. Also it -came home to her that she was not fit to die: until her child was taken from -her, she had never turned much to religion, and of late she had thought more of -her own cruel misfortunes and of her lost lover than of her spiritual -responsibilities, or the future welfare of her soul. - - - -She was minded to fly; she had escaped from her prison, and no law could force -her to live with a madman. Why should she not go back to Monk’s Lodge, or -to London, to seek a new existence for herself, leaving these troubles behind -her? After all, she was young and beautiful, and it was sweet to live; and now -that she was near to it the death which once she had so passionately desired -seemed a grim, unfriendly thing. - - - -But then there was Henry. He was lost to her, indeed, and the husband of -another woman; yet, if she deserted him now, what would become of him? His -career was before him a long and happy career and it was pitiable to think that -within some few minutes he might be lying in the grass murdered for her sake by -a wretched lunatic. And yet, if she offered herself up for him, what must be -the end of it? It would be that after a period of shock and disturbance his -life would fall back into its natural courses, and, surrounded by the love of -wife and children, he would forget her, or, at the best, remember her at times -with a vague, affectionate regret. No man could spend his days in mourning -continually over a passionate and inconvenient woman, who had brought him much -sorrow and anxiety, even though in the end she chanced to have given him the -best proof possible of her affection, by laying down her life for his. - - - -Well, so let it be. Afraid or not afraid, she would offer what she had, and the -gift must be valued according to its worth in the eyes of him to whom it was -given. Existence was a tangle which she had been quite unable to loose, and -now, although her dread was deep, she was willing that Death should cut its -knot; for here she had no hope, and, unless it pleased fate that it should be -otherwise, to Death she would consign herself. - - - -All these thoughts, and many others, passed through her mind in that brief -minute, while, tossed between love and terror, Joan stood to search the -landscape and recover her breath. Then, with one last glance over the moorland, -she stepped on to the road and began to walk slowly towards the Abbey. Fifty -yards away the three paths met, but the ground lay so that to reach the -Cross-Roads, their junction, and to see even a little distance along the other -two of them, she must pass the corner of the broken churchyard wall. Dared she -do it, knowing that perchance there her death awaited her? Coward that she was, -while she lingered Henry might be murdered! Even now, perhaps this very -instant, he was passing to his doom by one of the routes which she could not -see. - - - -She paused a moment, looking up the main road in the hope that she might catch -sight of Henry advancing down it. But she could perceive no one; an utter -loneliness brooded on the place. Moreover, the moon at this moment was obscured -by a passing cloud. For aught she knew, the deed was already done only then she -would have heard the shot or perhaps Henry had driven to Rosham, or had gone by -the beach, or the fit of homicidal mania had passed from her husband’s -mind. Should she go on, or wait there, or run away? No, she must reach the -Cross-Roads: she would not run; she would play the hand out. - - - -Of a sudden a strange excitement or exaltation of mind took possession of her; -her nerves tingled, and the blood drummed in her ears. She felt like some -desperate gambler staking his wealth and reputation on a throw, and tasted of -the gambler’s joy. For a moment, under the influence of this new mood, -the uncertainty of her fate became delightful to her, and she smiled to think -that few have played such a game as this, of which the issues were the -salvation of her lover and the hazard of her mortal breath. - - - -Now she began to act her part, walking forward with a limp like Henry’s, -till she was opposite to and some five yards away from the angle of the -churchyard wall. Here a swift change came over her; the false excitement passed -away, and again she grew mortally afraid. She could not do it! The Cross-Roads -were now not twenty paces from her, and once there she might see him and save -him. But never could she walk past that wall, knowing that behind it a murderer -might be lurking, that every stone and bush and tuft of grass might hide him -who would send her to a violent and cruel death. It was very well to make these -heroic resolutions at a distance, but when the spot and moment of their -execution were at hand ah! then the thing was different! She prayed God that -Henry had escaped, or might escape, but she could not take this way to preserve -him. Her mind was willing, but the poor flesh recoiled from it. She would call -aloud to her husband, and reveal herself to him if he were there. No, for then -he would guess her mission, render her helpless in this way or that what chance -had she against a madman? and afterwards do the deed. So it came to this: she -must go back and wait, upon the chance of meeting Henry on the cliff road, for -forward she dared not go. - - - -Already she had turned to fly, when her ear caught a sound in the intense -silence such a sound as might have been made by some beast of prey dragging -itself stealthily towards its victim. Instantly Joan became paralysed; the -extremity of terror deprived her of all use of her limbs or voice, and so she -stood with her back towards the wall. Now there was a new sound, as of -something rising quickly through deep grass or brushwood, and then she heard -the dull noise of the hammer of a gun falling upon an uncapped nipple. In a -flash she interpreted its meaning: her husband had forgotten to reload that -barrel with which he shot the dog! There was still a chance of life for her, -and in this hope Joan’s vital powers returned. Uttering a great cry, she -swung round upon her heel so swiftly that the hat fell from her head, and the -moonlight passing from the curtain of a cloud, shone upon her ashy face. As she -turned, her eyes fell upon another face, the face of a devil of Samuel Rock. He -was standing behind the wall, that reached to his breast, and the gun in his -hand was levelled at her. A tongue of flame shot out, and, in the glare of it, -it seemed to her that his countenance of hellish hate had changed its aspect to -one of agony. Then Joan became aware of a dull shock at her breast, and down -she sank senseless on the roadway. - - - -Joan was right. Perceiving her from the Cross-Roads knoll, his place of -outlook, whence, although himself invisible, he commanded a view of the three -paths, Rock, deceived by her disguise and assumed lameness, into the belief -that his wife was Henry advancing by the cliff road, had crept towards her -under shelter of the wall to kill her as she stood. But in that last moment he -learned his error too late! Yes, before the deed was done he tasted the agony -of knowing that he was wreaking murder upon the woman he desired, and not upon -the man she loved. Too late! Already his finger had contracted on the trigger, -and the swift springs were at their work. He tried to throw up the gun, but as -the muzzle stirred, the charge left it to bury itself in the bosom of his wife. - - - -Casting down the gun, he sprang over the wall and ran to her. She was lying on -her back, dead as he thought, with opened eyes and arms thrown wide. Once he -looked, then with yells of horror the madman bounded from her side and rushed -away, he knew not whither. - - - -When Henry parted with Joan in the Monk’s Lodge summer-house that -morning, anger and bitter resentment were uppermost in his mind, directed first -against his father-in-law, and next against his family, more particularly his -mother. He had been trapped and deluded, and now, alas! it was too late to -right the wrong. Indeed, so far as his wife was concerned, he could not even -speak of it. Joan spoke truly when she said that Emma must never hear of these -iniquities, or learn that both the name she had borne and the husband whom she -loved had been filched from another woman. Poor girl! at least she was -innocent; it must be his duty to protect her from the consequences of the guilt -of others, and even from a knowledge of it. - - - -But Levinger, her father, was not innocent, and towards him he was under no -such obligation. Therefore, sick or well, he would pour out his wrath upon him, -and to his face would call him the knave and liar that he was. - - - -But it was not fated that in this world Mr. Levinger should ever listen to the -reproaches of his son-in-law. When Henry reached the house he was informed that -the sick man had fallen into a restless sleep, from which he must not be -disturbed. Till nine o’clock that sleep endured, while Henry waited with -such patience as he could command; then suddenly there was a cry and a stir, -and the news was brought to him that, without the slightest warning or -premonition of immediate danger, Mr. Levinger had passed from sleep into death. - - - -Sobered and calmed by the shock of such tidings, Henry gave those orders which -were necessary, and then started for home, where he must break the fact of her -father’s death to Emma. He had arranged to return to Bradmouth by the -last train; but it was already gone, so he drove thither in the dog-cart that -went to advise Dr. Childs and others of what had happened, and thence set out -to walk to Rosham half an hour or so later than he had intended. He might have -hired a cart and driven, but being the bearer of this heavy news, naturally -enough he had no wish to hurry; moreover he was glad of the space of quiet that -a lonely walk by night afforded him, for he had much to think of and to grieve -over. It was, he felt, a good thing that the old man should have died before he -spoke with him; for though certainly he would have done it, there was little -use in reproaching him with falsehoods and treachery the results of which could -not now be remedied. - - - -Poor Joan! Hers was indeed a hard lot harder even than his own! It was a year -this day, he remembered, since first he had met her yonder by the ruins of -Ramborough Abbey. Who could know all that she had suffered during this eventful -year, or measure what was left for her to suffer in the time to come? Alas! he -could see no escape for her; she had entered on an unnatural marriage, but -still it was a marriage, and she must abide by her bargain, from which nothing -could free her except the death of her husband or of herself. And this she had -done for his sake, to safeguard him: ah! there was the bitterest part of it. - - - -While Henry walked on, chewing the cud of these unhappy reflections, suddenly -from the direction of Ramborough Abbey, that was a quarter of a mile or more -away, there floated to his ear the sound of a single cry far off, indeed, but -strangely piercing, followed almost instantly by the report of a gun loaded -with black powder. He halted and listened, trying to persuade himself that the -cry was that of some curlew which a poacher had shot out of season; only to -abandon the theory so soon as he conceived it, for something in his heart told -him that this scream was uttered by mortal lips by the lips of a woman in -despair or agony. A few seconds passed, and he heard other sounds, those of -short, sharp yells uttered in quick succession, but of so inhuman a note that -he was unable to decide if they proceeded from a man or from some wounded -animal. - - - -He started forward at a run to solve the mystery, and as he went the yells grew -louder and came nearer. Presently he halted, for there, from over the crest of -a little rise in the road, and not fifteen paces away, appeared the figure of a -man running with extraordinary swiftness. His hat had fallen from him, his long -hair seemed to stand up upon his head, his eyes stared wide in terror and were -ablaze with the fire of madness, his face was contorted and ashy white, and -from his open mouth issued hideous and unearthly sounds. So shocking was his -aspect in the moonlight that Henry sprang to one side and bethought him of the -tale of the Ramborough goblin. Now the man was level with him, and as he went -by he turned his head to look at him, and Henry knew the face for that of -Samuel Rock. - - - -“Dead!” shrieked the madman, wringing his hands— “dead, -_dead!_” and he was gone. - - - -Henry gasped, for his heart grew cold with fear. Joan had left him to join her -husband; and now, what had happened? That cry, the gunshot, and the sight that -he had seen, all seemed to tell of suicide or murder. No, no, he would not -believe it! On he went again, till presently he saw a lad running towards him -who called to him to stop. - - - -“Who are you?” he gasped, “and what is the matter here?” - - - -“I’m Willie Hood, and that’s just what I should like to know, -Sir Henry,” was the answer, “more especial as not five minutes -since I thought that I saw you walking up to the Abbey yonder.” - - - -“You saw _me_ walking there! Rubbish! I have just come from -Bradmouth. Did you see that man, Rock, run by?” - - - -“Yes, I see’d him fast enough. I should say by the looks of him -that he has been doing murder and gone mad. Half an hour ago, before you came -along, or begging your pardon, some one as limped like you, he had a gun in his -hand, but that’s gone now.” - - - -“Look here, young man,” said Henry, as they went forward, -“what are you doing here, that you come to see all these things?” - - - -“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I was driving my donkeys to feed on -Rock’s land, and when I saw him coming along with a gun I hid in the -bracken; for we had words about my taking his feed this very morning, and he -swore then that if he caught me at it again he’d shoot me and the dickies -too; so I lay pretty close till I saw the other man go by and heard the shriek -and the shot.” - - - - - -[Illustration: ] - -‘It is Joan Haste.’ - - - - -“Come along, for Heaven’s sake!” said Henry: “that -devil must have killed some one.” - - - -Now they were near to the Abbey wall, and Willie, catching his companion by the -arm, pointed to a dark shape which lay in the white dust of the roadway, and in -a terrified whisper said, “Look there! what’s that?” - - - -Henry dashed forward and knelt down beside the shape, peering at its face. Then -of a sudden he groaned aloud and said, “It is Joan Haste, and he has shot -her!” - - - -“Look at her breast!” whispered Willie, peeping over his shoulder. -“I told her how it would be. It was I who found you both a year ago just -here and looking like that, and now you see we have all come together again. I -told her it was a bad beginning, and would come to a bad end.” - - - -“Be silent, and help me to lift her,” said Henry in a hollow voice; -“perhaps she still lives.” - - - -Then together they raised her, and at that moment Joan opened her eyes. - - - -“Listen, you!” Henry said: “she is alive. Now run as you -never ran before, to Dr. Childs at Bradmouth, to the police, and anybody else -you can think of. Tell them what has happened, and bid them come here as fast -as horses can bring them. Do you understand?” - - - -“Yes, sir.” - - - -“Then go.” - - - -Willie sprang forward like an arrow, and presently the sound of his footsteps -beating on the road grew faint and faded away. - - - -“Oh! Joan, Joan, my darling,” Henry whispered as he leant over her, -pressing her cold hands. “Cannot you speak to me, Joan?” - - - -At the sound of his voice the great empty eyes began to grow intelligent, and -the pale lips to move, faintly at first, then more strongly. - - - -“Is that you, Henry?” she said in a whisper: “I cannot -see.” - - - -“Yes. How did you come thus?” - - - -“He was going to murder you. I—I passed myself off for you—at -least, I tried to—but grew afraid, and was running away when -he—shot me.” - - - -“Oh! my God! my God!” groaned Henry: “to think that such a -thing should have been allowed to be!” - - - -“It is best,” she answered, with a faint smile; “and I do not -suffer—much.” - - - -Then he knelt down beside her and held her in his arms, as once on a bygone day -she had held him. The thought seemed to strike her, for she said:— - - - -“A year ago to-night; do you remember? Oh! Henry, if I have sinned, it -has been paid back to me to the uttermost. Surely there can be nothing more to -suffer. And I am happy because—I think that you will love me better dead -than ever you did alive. ‘The way of transgressors —the way -of——’”and she ceased, exhausted. - - - -“I shall love you now, and then, and always—that I swear before -God,” he answered. “Forgive me, Joan, that I should ever have -doubted you even for a moment. I was deceived, and did not understand -you.” - - - -Again she smiled, and said, “Then I have done well to die, for in death I -find my victories—the only ones. But you must love the child -also—our child—Henry, since we shall wait for you together in the -place—of peace.” - - - -A while went by, and she spoke again, but not of herself or him:— - - - -“I have left Mrs. Bird in London—some money. When Mr. Levinger is -dead—there will be a good deal; see that—she gets it, for they were -kind to me. And, Henry, try to shield my husband—for I have sinned -against him—in hating him so much. Also tell your wife nothing—or -you will make her wretched—as I have been.” - - - -“Yes,” he answered, “and your father is dead; he died some -hours ago.” - - - -After this Joan closed her eyes, and, bleeding inwardly from her pierced lungs, -grew so cold and pulseless that Henry thought she must be gone. But it was not -so, for when half an hour or more had passed she spoke, with a great effort, -and in so low a whisper that he could scarcely hear her words, though his ear -was at her mouth. - - - -“Pray God to show me mercy, Henry—pray now and always. Oh, one hour -of love—and life and soul to pay!” she gasped, word by word. Then -the change came upon her face, and she added in a stronger voice, “Kiss -me: I am dying!” - - - -So he pressed his lips on hers; and presently, in the midst of the great -silence, Joan Haste’s last sobbing breath beat upon them in a sigh, and -the agony was over. - - - -Two hours later Henry arrived at Rosham, to find his mother and Mr. and Mrs. -Milward waiting to receive him. - - - -“My dear Henry, where have you been?” said Lady Graves. “It -is twelve o’clock, and we were beginning to fear that something had gone -wrong at Monk’s Lodge.” - - - -“Or that you had met with another accident, dear,” put in Ellen. -“But I haven’t given you a kiss yet, to welcome you home. Why, how -pale you look! and what is the matter with your coat?” - - - -“Where is Emma?” he asked, waving her back. - - - -“She was so dreadfully tired, dear,” said Lady Graves, “that -I insisted upon her going to bed. But has anything happened, Henry?” - - - -“Yes, a great deal. Mr. Levinger is dead: he died in his sleep this -evening.” - - - -Lady Graves sank back shocked; and Ellen exclaimed, “How dreadfully sad! -However, his health was very bad, poor man, so it is something of a release. -Also, though you won’t care to think of such things now, there will be -advantages for Emma——” - - - -“Be silent, Ellen. I have something more to tell you. Joan Haste, or -rather Joan Rock, is dead also.” - - - -“Dead!” they both exclaimed. - - - -“Yes, dead, or, to be more accurate, murdered.” - - - -“Who murdered her?” asked Milward. - - - -“Her husband. I was walking back from Bradmouth, and found her dying in -the road. But there is no need to tell you the story now—you will hear -plenty of it; and I have something else to say. Do you mind leaving the room -for a moment, Mr. Milward? I wish to speak to my mother and my sister.” - - - -“Edward is my husband, Henry, and a member of the family.” - - - -“No doubt, Ellen, but I do not desire that he should hear what I have to -say. If you feel strongly about the matter I will go into the library with my -mother.” - - - -“Oh! pray don’t trouble about me,” answered Edward; “I -am accustomed to this sort of thing here, and I shall only be too glad to smoke -a cigar in the hall, if Sir Henry does not object”; and he left the room, -an example which Ellen did not follow. - - - -“Now that we are quite alone, Henry, perhaps you will condescend to -unbosom yourself,” she said. - - - -“Certainly, Ellen. I have told you that this unhappy woman has been -murdered. She died in my arms”—and he glanced at his -coat—“now I will tell you why and how. She was shot down by her -husband, who mistook her for me, ‘whom he meant to murder. She discovered -his plan and personated me, dying in my stead. I do not wish to reproach either -of you; the thing is too fearful for reproaches, and that account you can -settle with your own consciences, as I must settle mine. But you worked so, -both of you, that, loving me as she did, and feeling that she would have no -strength to put me away otherwise, she gave herself in marriage to a man she -hated, to the madman who to-night has slaughtered her in his blind jealousy, -meaning to slaughter me. Do you know who this woman was, mother? She was Mr. -Levinger’s legitimate daughter: it is Emma who is illegitimate; but she -died begging me to keep the secret from my wife, and if you are wise you will -respect her wish, as I shall. I have nothing more to say. Things have gone -amiss between us, whoever is to blame; and now her life is lost, and mine is -ruined.” - - - -“Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Lady Graves. “God -knows that, whatever I have done, I acted for what I believed to be the -best.” - - - -“Yes, mother,” said Ellen boldly, “and not only for what you -believed to be the best, but for what is the best. This unfortunate girl is -dead, it seems, not through any deed of ours, but by the decrees of Providence. -Henry says that his life is ruined; but do not grieve, mother,—he is not -himself, and he will think very differently in six months’ time. Also he -is responsible for this tragedy and no one else, since it springs from his own -sin. ‘_Les désirs accomplis,_’—you know the -saying. Well, he has accomplished his desire; he sowed the seed, and he must -reap the fruit and harvest it as best he may. - - - -“And now, with your permission, Henry, I will order the carriage. I -suppose that there will be policemen and reporters here presently, and you can -understand that just at this moment, with the elections coming on, Edward and I -do not wish to be mixed up in a most painful scandal.” - - - -FINIS. - - - -PRINTED FROM AMERICAN PLATES - - - -BY - - - -SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE, LONDON - - - -July, 1895. - - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOAN HASTE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Rider Haggard</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Joan Haste</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: H. Rider Haggard</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: F.S. Wilson</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 13, 2021 [eBook #66528]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Larry Dunn</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOAN HASTE ***</div> - -<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> -</div> - -<p class="center"> -BY THE SAME AUTHOR<br/> -</p> - -<p class="caption"> -CETYWAYO AND HIS WHITE NEIGHBOURS<br/> - -DAWN<br/> - -THE WITCH’S HEAD<br/> - -KING SOLOMON’S MINES<br/> - -SHE<br/> - -JESS<br/> - -ALLAN QUATERMAIN<br/> - -MAIWA’S REVENGE<br/> - -MR. MEESON’S WILL<br/> - -COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.<br/> - -CLEOPATRA<br/> - -ALLAN’S WIFE<br/> - -BEATRICE<br/> - -ERIC BRIGHTEYES<br/> - -NADA THE LILY<br/> - -MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER<br/> - -THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST<br/> - -JOAN HASTE<br/> - -THE WORLD’S DESIRE (IN COLLABORATION WITH ANDREW LANG)<br/> -</p> - -<h1>JOAN HASTE</h1> - -<h2 class="no-break">by H. Rider Haggard</h2> -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="caption"> -AUTHOR OF ‘KING SOLOMON’S MINES,’  ‘SHE, -’  -‘ALLAN QUATERMAIN,’  ETC.<br/><br/> -</p> - -<p class="caption"> -‘Il y a une page effrayante dans le livre des destinées -humaines; on y lit en tête ces mots “les désirs -accomplis.”’—GEORGES SAND<br/> -</p> -<p class="p2"> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -WITH 20 ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. S. WILSON<br/><br/> -</p> -<p class="p2"> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -LONDON<br/> -</p> -<p class="p2"> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br/> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -AND NEW YORK<br/> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -1895<br/> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -All rights reserved<br/> -</p> -<p class="p2"> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -To<br/> -</p> -<p class="caption"> -I. H.<br/> -</p> - -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name="illus01"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig01.jpg" width="392" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Indeed, in that moment she was lovely.’ -</p> -</div> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="" style=""> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. JOAN HASTE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. MR. LEVINGER PUTS A CASE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. TWO CONVERSATIONS.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. MUTUAL ADMIRATION.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. AZRAEL’S WING </a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. ELLEN GROWS ALARMED.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. ELLEN FINDS A REMEDY.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. A MEETING BY THE MERE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. SOWING THE WIND.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. THE FIRSTFRUITS.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. FORTITER IN RE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. BETWEEN DUTY AND DUTY.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. CONGRATULATIONS.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. “LET IT REMAIN OPEN.”</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. A LUNCHEON PARTY.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. AN INTERLUDE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. A NEW DEPARTURE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. “I FORBID YOU.”</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. A LOVE LETTER.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. LUCK AT LAST.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. THE GATE OF PARADISE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GATE OF HELL.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. THE OPENING OF THE GATE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. DISENCHANTMENT.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DESIRE OF DEATH— -AND THE FEAR OF HIM.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. A GHOST OF THE PAST.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE.</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL. FULL MEASURE, -PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER.</a></td> -</tr> - -</table> - -<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table summary="style="> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus01">INDEED, IN THAT MOMENT SHE WAS LOVELY</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus02">SAMUEL ROCK</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus03">AND THESE TWO LAY SILENT</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus04">I’D MARRY A RUSSIAN JEW RATHER -THAN SEE THE OLD PLACE GO TO THE DOGS</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus05">SO WE MEET AT LAST</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus06">FORGIVE ME, MR. LEVINGER, -THERE IS ANOTHER SIDE TO THE QUESTION</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus07">A VIVID SUNBEAM FELL UPON THE GIRL’S -PALE COUNTENANCE</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus08">THEY SET OUT UPON THE LONG TRUDGE BACK -TO BRADMOUTH</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus09">MY NAME? OH! MY NAME! GASPED JOAN</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus10">HER FEW BOOKS WITH WHICH SHE COULD NOT -MAKE UP HER MIND TO PART</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus11">“THERE, MY DEAR, YOU ARE INTRODUCED,” -SAID MRS. BIRD. “THIS IS MY FAMILY”</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus12">GO BACK: I FORBID YOU!</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus13">YOU REMEMBER MY WORDS WHEN YOU LIE A-DYING</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus14">SAMUEL PICKED UP THE BOOK, AND -SWORE THUS AT HER DICTATION</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus15">AND NOW ... GET OUT OF MY WAY -BEFORE I FORGET MYSELF</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus16">YOUR DAUGHTER!</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus17">I HAVE WAITED FOR YOU HERE BECAUSE I HAVE -THINGS THAT I MUST TELL YOU IN PRIVATE</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus18">COME ON, SIR HENRY—COME ON!</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus19">A WHITE FACE GLOWERING INTO THE ROOM</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td> <a href="#illus20">IT IS JOAN HASTE</a></td> -</tr> - -</table> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> -JOAN HASTE.</h2> - -<p> -Alone and desolate, within hearing of the thunder of the waters of the North -Sea, but not upon them, stand the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. Once there was a -city at their feet, now the city has gone; nothing is left of its greatness -save the stone skeleton of the fabric of the Abbey above and the skeletons of -the men who built it mouldering in the earth below. To the east, across a waste -of uncultivated heath, lies the wide ocean; and, following the trend of the -coast northward, the eye falls upon the red roofs of the fishing village of -Bradmouth. When Ramborough was a town, this village was a great port; but the -sea, advancing remorselessly, has choked its harbour and swallowed up the -ancient borough which to-day lies beneath the waters. -</p> - -<p> -With that of Ramborough the glory of Bradmouth is departed, and of its priory -and churches there remains but one lovely and dilapidated fane, the largest -perhaps in the east of England—that of Yarmouth alone excepted—and, -as many think, the most beautiful. At the back of Bradmouth church, which, -standing upon a knoll at some distance from the cliff, has escaped the fate of -the city that once nestled beneath it, stretch rich marsh meadows, ribbed with -raised lines of roadway. But these do not make up all the landscape, for -between Bradmouth and the ruins of Ramborough, following the indentations of -the sea coast and set back in a fold or depression of the ground, lie a chain -of small and melancholy meres, whose brackish waters, devoid of sparkle even on -the brightest day, are surrounded by coarse and worthless grass land, the haunt -of the shore-shooter, and a favourite feeding-place of curlews, gulls, coots -and other wild-fowl. Beyond these meres the ground rises rapidly, and is -clothed in gorse and bracken, interspersed with patches of heather, till it -culminates in the crest of a bank that marks doubtless the boundary of some -primeval fiord or lake, where, standing in a ragged line, are groups of -wind-torn Scotch fir trees, surrounding a grey and solitary house known as Moor -Farm. -</p> - -<p> -The dwellers in these parts—that is, those of them who are alive to such -matters,—think that there are few more beautiful spots than this slope of -barren land pitted with sullen meres and bordered by the sea. Indeed, it has -attractions in every season: even in winter, when the snow lies in drifts upon -the dead fern, and the frost-browned gorse shivers in the east wind leaping on -it from the ocean. It is always beautiful, and yet there is truth in the old -doggerel verse that is written in a quaint Elizabethan hand upon the fly-leaf -of one of the Bradmouth parish registers,— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -‘Of Rambro’, north and west and south,<br/> -Man’s eyes can never see enough;<br/> -Yet winter’s gloom or summer’s light,<br/> -Wide England hath no sadder sight.’<br/> -</p> - -<p> -And so it is; even in the glory of June, when lizards run across the grey -stonework and the gorse shows its blaze of gold, there is a stamp of native -sadness on the landscape which lies between Bradmouth and Ramborough, that -neither the hanging woodlands to the north, nor the distant glitter of the sea, -on which boats move to and fro, can altogether conquer. Nature set that seal -upon the district in the beginning, and the lost labours of the generations now -sleeping round its rotting churches have but accentuated the primal impress of -her hand. -</p> - -<p> -Though on the day in that June when this story opens, the sea shone like a -mirror beneath her, and the bees hummed in the flowers growing on the ancient -graves, and the larks sang sweetly above her head, Joan felt this sadness -strike her heart like the chill of an autumn night. Even in the midst of life -everything about her seemed to speak of death and oblivion: the ruined church, -the long neglected graves, the barren landscape, all cried to her with one -voice, seeming to say, “Our troubles are done with, yours lie before you. -Be like us, be like us.” -</p> - -<p> -It was no high-born lady to whom these voices spoke in that appropriate spot, -nor were the sorrows which opened her ears to them either deep or poetical. To -tell the truth, Joan Haste was but a village girl, or, to be more accurate, a -girl who had spent most of her life in a village. She was lovely in her own -fashion, it is true,—but of this presently; and, through circumstances -that shall be explained, she chanced to have enjoyed a certain measure of -education, enough to awaken longings and to call forth visions that perhaps she -would have been happier without. Moreover, although Fate had placed her humbly, -Nature gave to her, together with the beauty of her face and form, a mind -which, if a little narrow, certainly did not lack for depth, a considerable -power of will, and more than her share of that noble dissatisfaction without -which no human creature can rise in things spiritual or temporal, and having -which, no human creature can be happy. -</p> - -<p> -Her troubles were vulgar enough, poor girl: a scolding and coarse-minded aunt, -a suitor toward whom she had no longings, the constant jar of the talk and jest -of the ale-house where she lived, and the irk of some vague and half-understood -shame that clung to her closely as the ivy clung to the ruined tower above her. -Common though such woes be, they were yet sufficiently real to Joan—in -truth, their somewhat sordid atmosphere pressed with added weight upon a mind -which was not sordid. Those misfortunes that are proper to our station and -inherent to our fate we can bear, if not readily, at least with some show of -resignation: those that fall upon us from a sphere of which we lack experience, -or arise out of a temperament unsuited to its surroundings, are harder to -endure. To be different from our fellows, to look upwards where they look down, -to live inwardly at a mental level higher than our circumstances warrant, to -desire that which is too far from us, are miseries petty in themselves, but -gifted with Protean reproductiveness. -</p> - -<p> -Put briefly, this was Joan’s position. Her parentage was a mystery, at -least so far as her father was concerned. Her mother was her aunt’s -younger sister; but she had never known this mother, whose short life closed -within two years of Joan’s birth. Indeed, the only tokens left to link -their existences together were a lock of soft brown hair and a faded photograph -of a girl not unlike herself, who seemed to have been beautiful. Her aunt, Mrs. -Gillingwater, gave her these mementos of the dead some years ago, saying, with -the brutal frankness of her class, that they were almost the only property that -her mother had left behind her, so she, the daughter, might as well take -possession of them. -</p> - -<p> -Of this mother, however, there remained one other memento— a mound in the -churchyard of the Abbey, where until quite recently the inhabitants of -Ramborough had been wont to be laid to sleep beside their ancestors. This mound -Joan knew, for, upon her earnest entreaty, Mr. Gillingwater, her uncle by -marriage, pointed it out to her: indeed, she was sitting by it now. It had no -headstone, and when Joan asked him why, he replied that those who were neither -wife nor maid had best take their names with them six feet underground. -</p> - -<p> -The poor girl shrank back abashed at this rough answer, nor did she ever return -to the subject. But from this moment she knew that she had been unlucky in her -birth, and though such an accident is by no means unusual in country villages, -the sense of it galled her, lowering her in her own esteem. Still she bore no -resentment against this dead and erring mother, but rather loved her with a -strange and wondering love than which there could be nothing more pathetic. The -woman who bore her, but whom she had never seen with remembering eyes, was -often in her thoughts; and once, when some slight illness had affected the -balance of her mind, Joan believed that she came and kissed her on the -brow—a vision whereof the memory was sweet to her, though she knew it to -be but a dream. Perhaps it was because she had nothing else to love that she -clung thus to the impalpable, making a companion of the outcast dead whose -blood ran in her veins. At the least this is sure, that when her worries -overcame her, or the sense of incongruity in her life grew too strong, she was -accustomed to seek this lowly mound, and, seated by it, heedless of the -weather, she would fix her eyes upon the sea and soothe herself with a sadness -that seemed deeper than her own. -</p> - -<p> -Her aunt, indeed, was left to her, but from this relation she won no comfort. -From many incidents trifling in themselves, but in the mass irresistible, Joan -gathered that there had been little sympathy between her mother and Mrs. -Gillingwater—if, in truth, their attitude was not one of mutual dislike. -It would appear also that in her own case this want of affection was an -hereditary quality, seeing that she found it difficult to regard her aunt with -any feeling warmer than tolerance, and was in turn held in an open aversion, -which to Joan’s mind, was scarcely mitigated by the very obvious pride -Mrs. Gillingwater took in her beauty. In these circumstances Joan had often -wondered why she was not dismissed to seek her fortune. More than once, when -after some quarrel she sought leave to go, she found that there was no surer -path to reconciliation than to proffer this request; and speeches of apology, -which, as she knew well, were not due to any softening of Mrs. -Gillingwater’s temper, or regret for hasty misbehaviour, were at once -showered upon her. -</p> - -<p> -To what, then, were they due? The question was one that Joan took some years to -answer satisfactorily. Clearly not to love, and almost as clearly to no desire -to retain her services, since, beyond attending to her own room, she did but -little work in the way of ministering to the wants and comforts of the few -customers of the Crown and Mitre, nor was she ever asked to interest herself in -such duties. -</p> - -<p> -Gradually a solution to the riddle forced itself into Joan’s -intelligence—namely, that in some mysterious way her aunt and uncle lived -on her, not she on them. If this were not so, it certainly became difficult to -understand how they did live, in view of the fact that Mr. Gillingwater -steadily consumed the profits of the tap-room, if any, and that they had no -other visible means of subsistence. Yet money never seemed to be wanting; and -did Joan need a new dress, or any other luxury, it was given to her without -demur. More, when some years since she had expressed a sudden and spontaneous -desire for education; after a few days’ interval, which, it seemed to -her, might well have been employed in reference to superior powers in the -background, she was informed that arrangements had been made for her to be sent -to a boarding school in the capital of the county. She went, to find that her -fellow-pupils were for the most part the daughters of shop-keepers and large -farmers, and that in consequence the establishment was looked down upon by the -students of similar, but higher-class institutions in the same town, and by all -who belonged to them. Joan being sensitive and ambitious, resented this state -of affairs, though she had small enough right to do so, and on her return home -informed her aunt that she wished to be taken away from that school and sent to -another of a better sort. The request was received without surprise, and again -there was a pause as though to allow of reference to others. Then she was told -that if she did not like her school she could leave it, but that she was not to -be educated above her station in life. -</p> - -<p> -So Joan returned to the middle-class establishment, where she remained till she -was over nineteen years of age. On the whole she was very happy there, for she -felt that she was acquiring useful knowledge which she could not have obtained -at home. Moreover, among her schoolfellows were certain girls, the daughters of -poor clergymen and widows, ladies by birth, with whom she consorted -instinctively, and who did not repel her advances. -</p> - -<p> -At the age of nineteen she was informed suddenly that she must leave her -school, though no hint of this determination had been previously conveyed to -her. Indeed, but a day or two before her aunt had spoken of her return thither -as if it were a settled thing. Pondering over this decision in much grief, Joan -wondered why it had been arrived at, and more especially whether the visit that -morning of her uncle’s landlord, Mr. Levinger, who came, she understood, -to see about some repairs to the house, had anything to do with it. To Mr. -Levinger himself she had scarcely spoken half a dozen times in her life, and -yet it seemed to her that whenever they met he regarded her with the keenest -interest. Also on this particular occasion Joan chanced to pass the bar-parlour -where Mr. Levinger was closeted with her aunt, and to overhear his parting -words, or rather the tag of them which was “too much of a lady,” a -remark that she could not help thinking had to do with herself. Seeing her go -by, he stopped her, keeping her in conversation for some minutes, then abruptly -turned upon his heel and left the house with the air of a man who is determined -not to say too much. -</p> - -<p> -Then it was that Joan’s life became insupportable to her. Accustomed as -she had become to more refined associations, from which henceforth she was cut -off, the Crown and Mitre, and most of those connected with it, grew hateful in -her sight. In her disgust she racked her brain to find some means of escape, -and could think of none other than the time-honoured expedient of “going -as a governess.” This she asked leave to do, and the permission was -accorded after the usual pause; but here again she was destined to meet with -disappointment. Her surroundings and her attainments were too humble to admit -of her finding a footing in that overcrowded profession. Moreover, as one lady -whom she saw told her frankly, she was far too pretty for this walk of life. At -length she did obtain a situation, however, a modest one enough, that of -nursery governess to the children of the rector of Bradmouth, Mr. Biggen. This -post she held for nine months, till Mr. Biggen, a kind-hearted and scholarly -man, noting her beauty and intelligence, began to take more interest in her -than pleased his wife—a state of affairs that resulted in Joan’s -abrupt dismissal on the day previous to the beginning of this history. -</p> - -<p> -To come to the last and greatest of her troubles: it will be obvious that such -a woman would not lack for admirers. Joan had several, all of whom she -disliked; but chiefly did she detest the most ardent and persistent of them, -the favoured of her aunt, Mr. Samuel Rock. Samuel Rock was a Dissenter, and the -best-to-do agriculturist in the neighbourhood, farming some five hundred acres, -most of them rich marsh-lands, of which three hundred or more were his own -property inherited and acquired. Clearly, therefore, he was an excellent match -for a girl in the position of Joan Haste, and when it is added that he had -conceived a sincere admiration for her, and that to make her his wife was the -principal desire of his life, it becomes evident that in the nature of things -the sole object of hers ought to have been to meet his advances half-way. -Unfortunately this was not the case. For reasons which to herself were good and -valid, however insufficient they may have appeared to others, Joan would have -nothing to do with Samuel Rock. It was to escape from him that she had fled -this day to Ramborough Abbey, whither she fondly hoped he would not follow her. -It was the thought of him that made life seem so hateful to her even in the -golden afternoon; it was terror of him that caused her to search out every -possible avenue of retreat from the neighbourhood of Bradmouth. -</p> - -<p> -She might have spared herself the trouble, for even as she sighed and sought, a -shadow fell upon her, and looking up she saw Samuel Rock standing before her, -hat in hand and smiling his most obsequious smile. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus02"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig02.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">Samuel Rock. -</p> -</div> -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> -SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF.</h2> - -<p> -Mr. Samuel Rock was young-looking rather than young in years, of which he might -have seen some thirty-five, and, on the whole, not uncomely in appearance. His -build was slender for his height, his eyes were blue and somewhat shifty, his -features sharp and regular except the chin, which was prominent, massive, and -developed almost to deformity. Perhaps it was to hide this blemish that he wore -a brown beard, very long, but thin and straggling. His greatest peculiarity, -however, was his hands, which were shaped like those of a woman, were long, -white notwithstanding their exposure to the weather, and adorned with -almond-shaped nails that any lady might have envied. These hands were never -still; moreover, there was something furtive and unpleasant about them, capable -as they were of the strangest contortions. Mr. Rock’s garments suggested -a compromise between the dress affected by Dissenters who are pillars of their -local chapel and anxious to proclaim the fact, and those worn by the ordinary -farmer, consisting as they did of a long-tailed black coat rather the worse for -wear, a black felt wide-awake, and a pair of cord breeches and stout riding -boots. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Miss Haste?” said Samuel Rock, in his soft, -melodious voice, but not offering to shake hands, perhaps because his fingers -were engaged in nervously crushing the crown of his hat. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do?” answered Joan, starting violently. “How did -you——” (‘find me here,’ she was about to add; -then, remembering that such a remark would show a guilty knowledge of being -sought after, substituted) “get here?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I walked, Miss Haste,” he replied, looking at his legs and -blushing, as though there were something improper about the fact; then added, -“You are quite close to my house, Moor Farm, you know, and I was told -that—I thought that I should find you here.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you mean that you asked my aunt, and she sent you after -me?” said Joan bluntly. -</p> - -<p> -Samuel smiled evasively, but made no other reply to this remark. -</p> - -<p> -Then came a pause, while, with a growing irritation, Joan watched the long -white fingers squeezing at the black wide-awake. -</p> - -<p> -“You had better put your hat on, or you will catch cold,” she -suggested, presently. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, Miss Haste, it is not what I am liable to, not but what I -take it kindly that you should think of my health;” and he carefully -replaced the hat upon his head in such a fashion that the long brown hair -showed beneath it in a ragged fringe. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, please don’t thank me,” said Joan rudely, dreading lest -her remark should be taken as a sign of encouragement. -</p> - -<p> -Then came another pause, while Samuel searched the heavens with his wandering -blue eyes, as though to find inspiration there. -</p> - -<p> -“You are very fond of graves, Miss Haste,” he said at length. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Rock; they are comfortable to sit on,—and I don’t -doubt very good beds to sleep in,” she added, with a touch of grim humour. -</p> - -<p> -Samuel gave a slight but perceptible shiver. He was a highly strung man, and, -his piety notwithstanding, he did not appreciate the allusion. When you wish to -make love to a young woman, to say the least of it, it is disagreeable if she -begins to talk of that place whither no earthly love can follow. -</p> - -<p> -“You shouldn’t think of such things at your age—you should -not indeed, Miss Haste,” he replied; “there are many things you -have got to think of before you think of them.” -</p> - -<p> -“What things?” asked Joan rashly. -</p> - -<p> -Again Samuel blushed. -</p> - -<p> -“Well—husbands, and—cradles and such-like,” he answered -vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, I prefer graves,” Joan replied with tartness. -</p> - -<p> -By this time it had dawned upon Samuel that he was “getting no -forwarder.” For a moment he thought of retreat; then the native -determination that underlay his soft voice and timid manner came to his aid. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Haste—Joan,” he said huskily, “I want to speak to -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan felt that the hour of trial had come, but still sought a feeble refuge in -flippancy. -</p> - -<p> -“You have been doing that for the last five minutes, Mr. Rock,” she -said; “and I should like to go home.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, not yet—not till you have heard what I have to say.” -And he made a movement as though to cut off her retreat. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, be quick then,” she answered, in a voice in which vexation -and fear struggled for the mastery. -</p> - -<p> -Twice Samuel strove to speak, and twice words failed him, for his agitation was -very real. At last they came. -</p> - -<p> -“I love you,” he said, in an intense whisper. “By the God -above you and the dead beneath your feet, I love you, Joan, as you have never -been loved before and never will be loved again!” -</p> - -<p> -She threw her head back and looked at him, frightened by his passion. The -realities of his declaration were worse than she had anticipated. His thin face -was fierce with emotion, his sensitive lips quivered, and the long lithe -fingers of his right hand played with his beard as though he were plaiting it. -Joan grew seriously alarmed: she had never seen Samuel Rock look like this -before. -</p> - -<p> -“I am sorry,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be sorry,” he broke in; “why should you be -sorry? It is a great thing to be loved as I love you, Joan, a thing that does -not often come in the way of a woman, as you will find out before you die. Look -here: do you suppose that I have not fought against this? Do you suppose that I -wanted to fall into the power of a girl without a sixpence, without even an -honest name? I tell you, Joan, I have fought against it and I have prayed -against it since you were a chit of sixteen. Chance after chance have I let -slip through my fingers for your sake. There was Mrs. Morton yonder, a handsome -body as a man need wish for a wife, with six thousand pounds invested and house -property into the bargain, who as good as told me that she would marry me, and -I gave her the go-by for you. There was the minister’s widow, a lady -born, and a holy woman, who would have had me fast enough, and I gave her the -go-by for you. I love you, Joan—I tell you that I love you more than land -or goods, more than my own soul, more than anything that is. I think of you all -day, I dream of you all night. I love you, and I want you, and if I don’t -get you then I may as well die for all the world is worth to me.” And he -ceased, trembling with passion. -</p> - -<p> -If Joan had been alarmed before, now she was terrified. The man’s -earnestness impressed her artistic sense—in a certain rude way there was -something fine about it but it awoke no answer within her heart. His passion -repelled her; she had always disliked him, now she loathed him. Swiftly she -reviewed the position in her mind, searching a way of escape. She knew well -enough that he had not meant to affront her by his references to her poverty -and the stain upon her birth—that these truths had broken from him -together with that great truth which animated his life; nevertheless, with a -woman’s wit putting the rest aside, it was on these unlucky sayings that -she pounced in her emergency. -</p> - -<p> -“How, Mr. Rock,” she asked, rising and standing before him, -“how can you ask me to marry you, for I suppose that is what you mean, -when you throw my poverty—and the rest—in my teeth? I think, Mr. -Rock, that you would do well to go back to Mrs. Morton, or the minister’s -widow who was born a lady, and to leave me in peace.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t be angry with me,” he said, with something like a -groan; “you know that I did not mean to offend you. Why should I offend -you when I love you so, and want to win you? I wish that I had bitten out my -tongue before I said that, but it slipped in with the rest. Will you have me, -Joan? Look here: you are the first that ever I said a sweet word to, and that -ought to go some way with a woman; and I would make you a good husband. There -isn’t much that you shall want for if you marry me, Joan. If any one had -told me when I was a youngster that I should live to go begging and craving -after a woman in this fashion, I’d have said he lied; but you have put me -off, and pushed me aside, and given me the slip, till at length you have worked -me up to this, and I can’t live without you—I can’t live -without you, that’s the truth.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I am afraid you will have to, Mr. Rock,” said Joan more -gently, for the tears which trembled in Samuel’s light blue eyes touched -her somewhat; and after all, although he repelled her, it was flattering that -any man should value her so highly: “I do not love you.” -</p> - -<p> -His chin dropped upon his breast dejectedly. Presently he looked up and spoke -again. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not expect that you would,” he said: “it had been too -much luck for a miserable sinner. But be honest with me, Joan—if a woman -can—and tell me, do you love anybody else?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a soul,” she answered, opening her brown eyes wide. “Who -is there that I should love here?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! that’s it,” he answered, with a sigh of relief: -“there is nobody good enough for you in these parts. You are a lady, -however you were born, and you want to mate with your own sort. It is no use -denying it: I have watched you, and I’ve seen how you look down upon us; -and all I’ve got to say is:—Be careful that it does not bring you -into trouble. Still, while you don’t love anybody else—and the man -you do love had better keep out of my way, curse him!—there is hope for -me. Look here, Joan: I don’t want to press you—take time to think -it over. I’m in no hurry. I could wait five years if I were sure of -getting you at last. I dare say I frightened you by my roughness: I was a fool; -I should have remembered that it is all new to you, though it is old enough for -me. Listen, Joan: tell me that I may wait awhile and come again,—though, -whether you tell me or not, I shall wait and I shall come, while there is -breath in my body and I can find you out.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the use?” said Joan. “I don’t love you, -and love does not grow with waiting; and if I do not love you, how can I marry -you? We had better make an end of the business once and for all. I am very -sorry, but it has not been my fault.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the use? Why, all in the world! In time you will come to -think differently; in time you will learn that a Christian man’s honest -love and all that goes with it isn’t a thing to be chucked away like -dirty water; in time, perhaps, your aunt and uncle will teach you reason about -it, though you do despise me since you went away for your fine -schooling——” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t tell them!” broke in Joan imploringly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, I have told them. I spoke to your aunt this very day about it, and -she wished me God-speed with all her heart, and I am sure she will be vexed -enough when she learns the truth.” -</p> - -<p> -As Joan heard these words her face betrayed the perturbation of her mind. Her -aunt’s fury when she understood that she, Joan, had rejected Samuel Rock -would indeed be hard to bear. Samuel, watching, read her thoughts, and, growing -cunning in his despair, was not slow to turn them to his advantage. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen, Joan,” he said: “say that you will take time to -think it over, and I will make matters easy for you with Mrs. Gillingwater. I -know how to manage her, and I promise that not a rough word shall be said to -you. Joan, Joan, it is not much to ask. Tell me that I may come again for my -answer in six months. That can’t hurt you, and it will be hope to -me.” -</p> - -<p> -She hesitated. A warning sense told her that it would be better to have done -with this man at once; but then, if she obeyed it, the one thing which she -truly feared—her aunt’s fury—would fall upon her and crush -her. If she gave way, on the other hand, she knew well enough that Samuel would -shelter her from this storm for his own sake if not for hers. What could it -matter, she argued weakly, if she did postpone her final decision for six -months? Perhaps before that time she might be able to escape from Bradmouth and -Samuel Rock, and thus avoid the necessity of giving any answer. -</p> - -<p> -“If I do as you wish, will you promise not to trouble me, or interfere -with me, or to speak to me about this kind of thing in the meanwhile?” -she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; I swear that I will not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very good: have your own way about it, Mr. Rock; but understand that I -do not mean to encourage you by this, and I don’t think it likely that my -answer six months hence will be any different from what it is to-day.” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand, Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then: good-bye.” And she held out her hand. -</p> - -<p> -He took it, and, overmastered by a sudden impulse, pressed it to his lips and -kissed it twice or thrice. -</p> - -<p> -“Leave go,” she said, wrenching herself free. “Is that the -way you keep your promise?” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon,” he answered humbly. “I could not help -it—Heaven knows that I could not help it. I will not break my word -again.” And he turned and left her, walking through the grass of the -graves with a slow and somewhat feline step. -</p> - -<p> -At last he was gone, and Joan sat down once more, with a gasp of relief. Her -first feelings were those of exultation at being rid of Mr. Rock; but they did -not endure. Would he keep his promise, she wondered, and hide from her aunt the -fact that he had proposed and been rejected? If he did not, one thing was clear -to her,—that she would be forced to fly from Bradmouth, since by many a -hint she knew well that it was expected of her that she should marry Samuel -Rock, who was considered to have honoured her greatly by his attentions. This, -in view of their relative social positions in the small society of Bradmouth, -was not wonderful; but Joan’s pride revolted at the thought. -</p> - -<p> -“After all,” she said aloud, “how is he so much higher than I -am? and why should my aunt always speak of him as though he were a king and I a -beggar girl? My blood is as good as his, and better,” and she glanced at -a row of ancient tombstones, whereof the tops were visible above the herbage of -rank grass, yellow crowsfoot, and sheep’s parsley still white with bloom, -that marked the resting-places of the Lacons. -</p> - -<p> -These Lacons had been yeomen farmers for many generations, until the last of -them, Joan’s grandfather, took to evil courses and dissipated his -ancestral patrimony, the greater part of which was now in the possession of -Samuel Rock. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, that side of her pedigree was well enough, and were it not for the mystery -about her father she could have held her head up with the best of them. Oh, it -was a bitter thing that, through no fault of her own, Samuel Rock should be -able to reproach her with her lack of an “honest name”! So it was, -however—she was an outcast, a waif and a stray, and it was useless to -cloak this fact. But, outcast or no, she was mistress of herself, and would not -be driven into marriage, however advantageous, with Samuel Rock or any other -man who was repellent to her. -</p> - -<p> -Having come to this conclusion, Joan’s spirits rose. After all, she was -young and healthy, and, she believed, beautiful, with the wide world before -her. There were even advantages in lacking an “honest name,” since -it freed her from responsibilities and rendered it impossible for her to -disgrace that which she had not got. As it was, she had only herself to please -in the world, and within reasonable and decent limits Joan meant to please -herself. Most of all did she mean to do so in connection with these matters of -the heart—Nobody had ever loved her, and she had never found anybody to -love; and yet, as in all true women, love of one sort or another was the great -desire and necessity of her life. Therefore on this point she was determined: -she would never marry where she could not love. -</p> - -<p> -Thus thought Joan; then, weary of the subject, she dismissed it from her mind -for a while, and, lying back upon the grass in idle contentment, watched the -little clouds float across the sky till, far out to sea, they melted into the -blue of the horizon. It was a perfect afternoon, and she would enjoy what was -left of it before she returned to Bradmouth to face Samuel Rock and all her -other worries. Grasshoppers chirped in the flowers at her feet, a beautiful -butterfly flitted from tombstone to grey tombstone, sunning itself on each, and -high over her head flew the jackdaws, taking food to their young in the -crumbling tower above. -</p> - -<p> -For a while Joan watched these jackdaws through her half-shut eyes, till -suddenly she remembered that her late employer Mr. Biggen’s little boy -had confided to her his ardent desire for a young bird of that species, and she -began to wonder if she could reach the nest and rob it as a farewell gift to -him. -</p> - -<p> -Speculation led to desire, and desire to endeavour. The ruined belfry stairway -still ran up the interior of the tower for twenty feet or more—to a spot, -indeed, in the stonework where a huge fragment of masonry had fallen bodily, -leaving a V-shaped opening that reached to the battlements. Ivy grew upon this -gap in the flint rubble, and the nest of the two jackdaws that Joan had been -watching particularly, did not appear to be more than a dozen feet above the -top of the broken stair. This stair she proceeded to climb without further -hesitation. It was not at all safe, but she was active, and her head being -good, she reached the point where it was broken away without accident, and, -taking her stand on the thickness of the wall, supported herself by the ivy and -looked up. There, twice her own height above her, was the window slit with the -nest in it, but the mortar and stone upon which she must cling to reach it -looked so crumbling and insecure that she did not dare to trust herself to -them. So, having finished her inspection, Joan decided to leave those young -jackdaws in peace and descend to earth again. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> -THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE.</h2> - -<p> -It was at this juncture that Captain Henry Archibald Graves, R.N., pursuing his -way by the little-frequented sea road that runs along the top of the cliff past -the Ramborough ruins to Bradmouth, halted the cob on which he was riding in -order that he might admire the scene at leisure. Presently his eye, following -the line of the ruined tower, lit upon the figure of a girl standing twenty -feet from the ground in a gap of the broken wall. He was sixty yards away or -more, but there was something so striking and graceful about this figure, -poised on high and outlined against the glow of the westering sun, that his -curiosity became excited to know whose it was and what the girl might be doing. -So strongly was it excited, indeed, that, after a fateful moment of hesitation, -Captain Graves, reflecting that he had never examined Ramborough Abbey since he -was a boy, turned his horse and rode up the slope of broken ground that -intervened between him and the churchyard, where he dismounted and made the -bridle fast to a stunted thorn. Possibly the lady might be in difficulty or -danger, he explained to himself. -</p> - -<p> -When he had tied up the cob to his satisfaction, he climbed the bank whereon -the thorn grew, and reached the dilapidated wall of the churchyard, whence he -could again see the lower parts of the tower which had been hidden from his -view for a while by the nature of the ground. Now the figure of the woman that -had stood there was gone, and a genuine fear seized him lest she should have -fallen… With some haste he walked to the foot of the tower, to halt -suddenly within five paces of it, for before him stood the object of his -search. She had emerged from behind a thicket of briars that grew among the -fallen masonry; and, holding her straw hat in her hand, was standing with her -back towards him, gazing upwards at the unattainable nest. -</p> - -<p> -“She is safe enough, and I had better move on,” thought Captain -Graves. -</p> - -<p> -At that moment Joan seemed to become aware of his presence; at any rate, she -wheeled round quickly, and they were face to face. -</p> - -<p> -She started and blushed—perhaps more violently than the occasion -warranted, for Joan was not accustomed to meet strange men of his class thus -unexpectedly. Captain Graves scarcely noticed either the start or the blush, -for, to tell the truth, he was employed in studying the appearance of the -loveliest woman that he had ever beheld. Perhaps it was only to him that she -seemed lovely, and others might not have rated her so highly; perhaps his -senses deceived him, and Joan was not truly beautiful; but, in his judgment, -neither before nor after did he see her equal, and he had looked on many women -in different quarters of the world. -</p> - -<p> -She was tall, and her figure was rounded without being coarse, or even giving -promise of coarseness. Her arms were somewhat long for her height, and set on -to the shoulders with a peculiar grace, her hands were rather thin, and -delicately shaped, and her appearance conveyed an impression of vigour and -perfect health. These gifts, however, are not uncommon among English girls. -What, to his mind, seemed uncommon was Joan’s face as it appeared then, -in the beginning of her two-and-twentieth year, with its curved lips, its -dimpled yet resolute chin, its flawless oval, its arched brows, and the steady, -tender eyes of deepest brown that shone beneath them. For the rest, her head -was small and covered with rippling chestnut hair gathered into a knot at the -back, her loose-bodied white dress, secured about the waist with a leather -girdle, was clean and simple, and her bearing had a grace and dignity that -Nature alone can give. Lastly, though from various indications he judged that -she did not belong to his own station in life, she looked like a person of some -refinement. -</p> - -<p> -Such was Joan’s outward appearance. It was attractive enough, and yet it -was not her beauty only that fascinated Henry Graves. There was something about -this girl which was new to him; a mystery more beautiful than beauty shone upon -her sweet face—such a mystery as he had noted once or twice in the -masterpieces of ancient art, but never till that hour on human lips or eyes. In -those days Joan might have posed as a model of Psyche before Cupid kissed her. -</p> - -<p> -Now let us turn for a moment to Henry Archibald Graves, the man destined to be -the hero of her life’s romance. -</p> - -<p> -Like so many sailors, he was short, scarcely taller than Joan herself indeed, -and stout in build. In complexion he was fair, though much bronzed by exposure -to foreign climates; his blue eyes were keen and searching, as might be -expected in one who had watched at sea by night for nearly twenty years; and he -was clean shaved. His features were good though strongly marked, especially as -regards the nose and chin; but he could not be called handsome, only a -distinguished-looking man of gentlemanly bearing. At first sight the face might -strike a stranger as hard, but more careful examination showed it to be rather -that of a person who made it a practice to keep guard over his emotions. In -repose it was a somewhat proud face, that of one accustomed to command and to -be obeyed; but frank and open withal, particularly if its owner smiled, when it -became decidedly pleasing. -</p> - -<p> -For a few seconds they stood still in their mutual surprise, looking at each -other, and the astonishment and admiration written in the stranger’s eyes -were so evident, and yet so obviously involuntary, that Joan blushed more -deeply than before. -</p> - -<p> -Captain Graves felt the situation to be awkward. His first impulse was to take -off his hat and go, his next and stronger one to stay and explain. -</p> - -<p> -“I really beg your pardon,” he said, with a shyness which was -almost comic; “I saw a lady standing on the tower I was riding by, and -feared that she might be in difficulties.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan turned her head away, being terribly conscious of the blush which would -not fade. This stranger’s appearance pleased her greatly; moreover, she -was flattered by his notice, and by the designation of “lady.” -Hitherto her safety had not been a matter of much moment to any one, except, -perhaps, to Samuel Rock. -</p> - -<p> -“It is very kind of you,” she answered, with hesitation; “but -I was in no danger—I got down quite easily.” -</p> - -<p> -Again Captain Graves paused. He was puzzled. The girl’s voice was as -sweet as her person,—low and rich in tone—but she spoke with a -slight Eastern-counties accent. Who and what was she? -</p> - -<p> -“Then I must apologise for troubling you, -Miss—Miss——?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am only Joan Haste of Bradmouth, sir,” she interrupted -confusedly, as though she guessed his thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed! and I am Captain Graves of Rosham—up there, you know. -Bradmouth is—I mean, is the view good from that tower?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think so; but I did not go up to look at it. I went to try to get -those young jackdaws. I wanted them for a little boy in Bradmouth, the -clergyman’s son.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” he said, his face lighting up, for he saw an opportunity of -prolonging the acquaintance, which interested him not a little; “then -perhaps I may be of service after all. I think that I can help you -there.” And he stepped towards the tower. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t believe that it is quite safe, sir,” said Joan, in -some alarm; “please do not take the trouble,”—and she -stretched out her hand as though to detain him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it is no trouble at all, I assure you: I like climbing. You see, I -am well accustomed to it. Once I climbed the second Pyramid, the one with the -casing on it, though I won’t try <i>that</i> again,” he replied, -with a pleasant laugh. And before she could interfere further he was mounting -the broken stair. -</p> - -<p> -At the top of it Henry halted, surveying the crumbling slope of wall -doubtfully. Then he took his coat off, threw it down into the churchyard, and -rolled his shirt sleeves up above his elbows, revealing a pair of very powerful -and fair-skinned arms. -</p> - -<p> -“Please don’t—please!” implored Joan from below. -</p> - -<p> -“I am not going to give in now,” he answered; and, grasping a firm -and projecting stone with his right hand, he set his foot upon a second -fragment and began the ascent of the broken wall. Soon he reached the head of -the slope in safety, but only to be encountered by another difficulty. The -window slit containing the jackdaws’ nest was round the corner, a little -above him on the surface of the wall, and it proved impossible to reach it from -where he stood. Very cautiously he bent to one side and looked round the angle -of the masonry. Close to him a strong stem of ivy grew up the tower, dividing -into two branches some five feet below the nest. He knew that it would be -dangerous to trust his weight to it, and still more dangerous to attempt the -turning of the corner; but at this moment he was more set upon getting the -young birds which this village beauty desired, than on his own safety or any -other earthly thing. Henry Graves was a man who disliked being beaten. -</p> - -<p> -Very swiftly he shifted his hold, and, stretching out his left hand, he felt -about until it gripped the ivy stem. Now he must go on. Exactly how it happened -would be difficult to describe on paper, but in two more seconds his foot was -in the fork of ivy and his face was opposite to the window slit containing the -nest. -</p> - -<p> -“I can see the young ones,” he said. “I will throw them out, -and you must catch them in your hat, for I can’t carry them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray take care,” gasped Joan. -</p> - -<p> -He laughed by way of answer; and next second, with loud squawks and an impotent -flapping of untried wings, a callow jackdaw was launched upon its first flight, -to be deftly caught in Joan’s broad hat before it touched the earth. A -second followed, then another and another. The last bird was the strongest of -the four, and flew some yards in its descent. Joan ran to catch it, a process -that took a little time, for it lay upon its back behind a broken tombstone, -and pecked at her hand in a fashion necessitating its envelopment in her -handkerchief. Just as she secured it she heard Captain Graves say: -“That’s the lot. Now I am coming down.” -</p> - -<p> -Next instant there was a sound as of something being torn. Joan looked up, to -see him hanging by one arm against the sheer face of the tower. In attempting -to repass the corner Henry’s foot had slipped, throwing all his weight on -to the stem of ivy which he held; but it was not equal to the strain, and a -slab of it had come away from the wall. To this ivy he clung desperately, -striving to find foothold with his heels, his face towards her, for he had -swung round. Uttering a low cry of fear, Joan sped back to the tower like a -swallow. She knew that he <i>must</i> fall; but that was not the worst of it, -for almost immediately beneath where he hung stood a raised tomb shaped like a -stone coffin, having its top set thickly with rusted iron spikes, three inches -or more in length, especially designed to prevent the idle youth of all -generations from seating themselves upon this home of the dead. -</p> - -<p> -If he struck upon these! -</p> - -<p> -Joan rushed round the spiked tomb, and halted almost, but not quite, beneath -Henry’s hanging shape. His eyes fell upon her agonised and upturned face. -</p> - -<p> -“Stand clear! I am coming,” he said in a low voice. -</p> - -<p> -Watching, she saw the muscles of his arm work convulsively. Then the rough stem -of ivy began to slip through his clenched fingers. Another second, and he -dropped like a stone from a height of twenty feet or more. Instinctively Joan -stretched out her arms as though to catch him; but he struck the ground legs -first just in front of her, and, with a sharp exclamation, pitched forward -against her. -</p> - -<p> -The shock was tremendous. Joan saw it coming, and prepared to meet it as well -as she might by bending her body forward, since, at all hazards, he must be -prevented from falling face foremost on the spiked tomb, there to be impaled. -His brow cut her lip almost through, his shoulder struck her bosom, knocking -the breath out of her, then her strong arms closed around him like a vice, and -down they went together. -</p> - -<p> -All this while her mind remained clear. She knew that she <i>must</i> not go -down backwards, or the fate from which she strove to protect him would overtake -her—the iron spikes would pierce her back and brain. By a desperate -effort she altered the direction of their fall, trusting to come to earth -alongside the tomb. But she could not quite clear it, as a sudden pang in the -right shoulder told her. For a moment they lay on the edge of the tomb, then -rolled free. Captain Graves fell undermost, his head striking with some -violence on a stone, and he lay still, as did Joan for nearly a minute, since -her breath was gone. -</p> - -<p> -Presently the pain of breathlessness passed a little, and she began to recover. -Glancing at her arm, she saw that a stream of blood trickled along her sleeve, -and blood from her cut lips was falling on the bosom of her dress and upon the -forehead of Henry Graves beneath her, staining his white face. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he is dead!” mourned Joan aloud; “and it is my -fault.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment Henry opened his eyes. Apparently he had overheard her, for he -answered: “Don’t distress yourself: I am all right.” -</p> - -<p> -As he spoke, he tried to move his leg, with the result that a groan of agony -broke from him. Glancing at the limb, Joan saw it was twisted beneath him in a -fashion so unnatural that it became evident even to her inexperience that it -must be broken. At this discovery her distress overpowered her to so great an -extent that she burst into tears. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! your leg is broken,” she sobbed. “What shall I do?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think,” he whispered, with a ghastly smile, biting his lips to -keep back any further expression of his pain, “that you will find a flask -in my coat pocket, if you do not mind getting it.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan rose from her knees, and going to the coat, which lay hard by, took from -it a little silver flask of whiskey-and-water; then, returning, she placed one -arm beneath the injured man’s head and with the other contrived to pour -some of the liquid down his throat. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you,” he said: “I feel better”; then suddenly -fainted away. -</p> - -<p> -In great alarm she poured some more of the spirit down his throat; for now a -new terror had taken her that he might be suffering from internal injuries -also. To her relief, he came to himself again, and caught sight of the red -stain growing upon her white dress. -</p> - -<p> -“You are hurt,” he said. “What a selfish fellow I am, -thinking only of myself!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t think of me,” Joan answered: “it is nothing, -—a mere scratch. What is to be done? How can I get you from here? Nobody -lives about, and we are a long way from Bradmouth.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is my horse,” he murmured, “but I fear that I cannot -ride him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will go,” said Joan; “yet how can I leave you by -yourself?” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall get on for a while,” Henry answered. “It is very -good of you.” -</p> - -<p> -Then, since there was no help for it, Joan rose, and running to where the horse -was tied, she loosed it. But now a new difficulty confronted her: her wounded -arm was already helpless and painful, and without its aid she could not manage -to climb into the saddle, for the cob, although a quiet animal enough, was not -accustomed to a woman’s skirts, and at every effort shifted itself a foot -or two away from her. At length Joan, crying with pain, grief and vexation, -determined to abandon the attempt and to set out for Bradmouth on foot, when -for the first time fortune favoured her in the person of a red-haired lad whom -she knew well, and who was returning homewards from an expedition in search of -the eggs of wild-fowl. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Willie Hood,” she cried, “come and help me. A gentleman -has fallen from the tower yonder and broken his leg. Now do you get on this -horse and ride as hard as you can to Dr. Child’s, and tell him that he -must come out here with some men, and a door or something to carry him on. Mind -you say his leg is broken, and that he must bring things to tie it up with. Do -you understand?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why you’re all bloody!” answered the boy, whose face -betrayed his bewilderment; “and I never did ride a horse in my -life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes, I am hurt too; but don’t think of that. You get on to -him, and you’ll be safe enough. Why, surely you’re not afraid, -Willie Hood?” -</p> - -<p> -“Afraid? No, I aren’t afraid,” answered the boy, colouring, -“only I like my legs better than his’n, that’s all. Here -goes.” And with a prodigious and scuffling effort Willie landed himself -on the back of the astonished cob. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop,” said Joan; “you know what to say?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he answered proudly; “don’t you fret—I -know right enough. I’ll bring the doctor back myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Willie: you go on to the Crown and Mitre, and tell my aunt that a -gentleman, Captain Graves of Rosham, has hurt himself badly, and that she must -get a room ready for him. It had best be mine, for it’s the -nicest,” she added; “and there is nowhere else that he can -go.” -</p> - -<p> -Willie nodded, and with a loud “gee-up” to the horse, started on -his journey, his legs hanging clear of the stirrups, and gripping the pommel of -the saddle with his right hand. -</p> - -<p> -Having watched him disappear, Joan returned to where the wounded man lay. His -eyes were shut, but apparently he heard her come, for presently he opened them. -</p> - -<p> -“What, back so soon?” he said; “I must have been -asleep.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no: I could not leave you. I found a boy and sent him on the horse -for the doctor. I only trust that he may get there safely,” she added to -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well: I am glad you have come back,” he said faintly. -“I am afraid that I am giving you a great deal of trouble, but do you -mind rubbing my hand? It feels so cold.” -</p> - -<p> -She sat down on the grass beside him, having first wrapped his coat round him -as best she could, and began to chafe his hand. Presently the pain, which had -subsided for a while, set in more sharply then ever, and his fingers, that had -been like ice, were now burning hot. Another half-hour passed, while the -shadows lengthened and the evening waned, and Henry’s speech became -incoherent. He fancied himself on board a man-of-war, and uttered words of -command; he talked of foreign countries, and mentioned many names, among them -one that was not strange to Joan’s ears—that of Emma Levinger; -lastly even he spoke of herself: -</p> - -<p> -“What a lovely girl!” he muttered. “It’s worth risking -one’s neck to please her. Worth risking one’s neck to please -her!” -</p> - -<p> -A third half-hour passed; the fever lessened, and he grew silent. Then the cold -fit took him again—his flesh shivered. -</p> - -<p> -“I am frozen,” he murmured through his chattering teeth: “for -Heaven’s sake help me! Can’t you see how cold I am?” -</p> - -<p> -Joan was in despair. Alas and alas! she had nothing to put on him, for even if -she took it off, her thin white dress would be no protection. Again and again -he prayed for warmth, till at length her tender pity overcame her natural -shrinking, and she did the only thing she could. Lying down beside him, she put -her arms about him, and held him so, to comfort him if she might. -</p> - -<p> -Apparently it did comfort him, for his moaning ceased, and by slow degrees he -sank into stupor. Now twilight was upon them, and still no help came. Where -could Willie have gone, Joan wondered: oh, if he did not come quickly, the man -would surely die! Her own strength was failing her she felt it going with the -blood that ebbed continually from the wound in her shoulder. Periods of mist -and oblivion alternated in her mind with times of clearest reason. Quick they -came and quicker, till at last all was a blank and she knew no more. -</p> - -<p> -And now the twilight had grown into darkness, and these two lay silent, locked -in each other’s arms among the graves, and the stars shed their light -upon them. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> -THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES.</h2> - -<p> -Henry Graves, a man of thirty-three years of age, was the second and only -surviving son of Sir Reginald Graves, of Rosham Hall, a place situated about -four miles from Bradmouth. When a lad he chose the Navy as a profession, and to -that profession he clung with such unusual earnestness, that during the last -eighteen years or so but little of his time had been passed at home. Some -months previous to his meeting with Joan Haste, however, very much against his -own will, he was forced to abandon his calling. He was cruising in command of a -gunboat off the coast of British Columbia, when one evening a telegram reached -him informing him of the death of his elder brother, Reginald, who met his end -through an accident whilst riding a steeplechase. There had never been much -sympathy or affection between the two brothers, for reasons to be explained -presently; still this sudden and terrible intelligence was a heavy shock to -Henry, nor did the fact that it left him heir to an entailed property, which he -believed to be considerable, greatly mitigate it in his mind. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus03"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig03.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘And these two lay silent.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -When there are but two sons, it is almost inevitable that one should be -preferred before the other. Certainly this was the case in the Graves family. -As children Reginald, the elder, had been wayward, handsome, merry and -attractive; whereas Henry was a somewhat plain and silent boy, with a habit of -courting his own society, and almost aggressive ideas of honour and duty. -Naturally, therefore, the love of father, mother and sister went out to the -brilliant Reginald, while Henry was left very much to his own devices. He said -nothing, and he was too proud to be jealous, but nobody except the lad himself -ever knew what he suffered under this daily, if unintentional, neglect. Though -his constitutional reserve prevented him from showing his heart, in truth he -was very affectionate, and almost adored the relations who looked on him as a -dullard, and even spoke of him at times as “poor Henry,” as though -he were deficient in intellect. -</p> - -<p> -Thus it came about that very early in his young life, with characteristic -determination, Henry arrived at the conclusion that he would be happier away -from the home where he was little wanted. Once in the Navy, he applied himself -to his profession with industry and intelligence, and as a result did better in -the service than most young men who cannot bring to their support any -particular interest, or the advantage of considerable private means. In -whatever capacity he served, he won the confidence and the respect both of his -subordinates and of his superiors. He was a hard-working man, so hard work was -thrust upon him; and he never shirked it, though often enough others got the -credit of his efforts. At heart, moreover, he was ambitious. Henry could never -forget the slights that he had experienced as a child, and he was animated by a -great but secret desire to show the relatives who disparaged him in favour of -his more showy brother that he was made of better stuff than they were disposed -to believe. -</p> - -<p> -To this purpose he subordinated his life. His allowance was small, for their -father’s means were not in proportion to his nominal estate, and as time -went on his brother Reginald grew more and more extravagant. But, such as it -was, Henry never exceeded it, though few were aware of the straits to which he -was put at times. In the same way, though by nature he was a man of strong -passions and genial temperament, he rarely allowed either the one or the other -to master him. Geniality meant expense, and he observed that indulgence in -passion of any sort, more especially if it led to mixing with the other sex, -spelt anxiety and sorrow at the best, or at the worst disgrace and ruin. -Therefore he curbed these inclinations till what began in the pride of duty -ended in the pride of habit. -</p> - -<p> -Thus time wore on till he received the telegram announcing his brother’s -shocking death. A fortnight or so afterwards it was followed by a letter from -his father, a portion of which may be transcribed. It began: -</p> - -<p> -“MY DEAR HENRY,— -</p> - -<p> -“My telegram has informed you of the terrible loss which has overtaken -our family. Your brother Reginald is no more; it has pleased Providence to -remove him from the world in the fulness of his manhood, and we must accept the -fact that we cannot alter with such patience as we may.” -</p> - -<p> -Here followed particulars of the accident, and of arrangements for the -interment. The letter went on: -</p> - -<p> -“Your mother and sister are prostrated, and for myself I can only say -that my heart is broken. Life is a ruin to me henceforward, and I think that -when the time comes I shall welcome its close. It does indeed seem cruel that -one so brilliant and so beloved as your brother should be snatched from us -thus, but God’s will be done. Though you have been little together of -late years, I know that we shall have your sympathy in our overwhelming sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -“To turn to other matters, of which this event makes it necessary that I -should speak: of course your beloved brother’s death puts you in the -place he held—that is, so far as temporal things are concerned. I may as -well tell you at once that the finances of this property are in great -confusion. Latterly Reginald had the largest share in its management, and as -yet I cannot therefore follow all the details. It seems, however, that, -speaking generally, affairs are much worse than I supposed, and already, though -he lies unburied, some very heavy claims have come in against his estate, which -of course must be met for the honour of the family. -</p> - -<p> -“And now, my dear boy, I—or rather your mother, your sister, and -I—must ask you to make a sacrifice, should you look at it in that light: -namely, to give up your profession and take the place at home to which the -death of your brother has promoted you. This request is not made lightly; but, -as you know, my health is now very feeble, and I find myself quite unable to -cope with the difficulties of the time and the grave embarrassments by which I -am hampered. Indeed, it would be idle to disguise from you that unless matters -are speedily taken in hand and some solution is found to our troubles, there is -every prospect that before long Rosham will be foreclosed on a probability of -which I can scarcely bear to think, and one that will be equally painful to -yourself when you remember that the property has been in our family for full -three hundred years, and that we have no resources beyond those of the -land.” -</p> - -<p> -Then the letter went into details that were black enough, and ended by hinting -at some possible mode of escape from the family troubles which would be -revealed to him on his return to England. -</p> - -<p> -The receipt of this epistle plunged Henry Graves into a severe mental struggle. -As has been said, he was fond of his profession, and he had no wish to leave -it. His prospects in the Navy were not especially brilliant, indeed, but his -record at the Admiralty was good, and he was popular in the service both with -his brother officers and the men, though perhaps more so with the latter than -the former. Moreover, he had confidence in himself, and was filled with a -sincere ambition to rise to the top of the tree, or near it. Now, after serving -many years as a lieutenant, when at last he had earned an independent command, -he was asked to abandon his career, and with it the hopes of half a lifetime, -in order that he might undertake the management of a bankrupt estate, a task -for which he did not conceive himself to be suited. -</p> - -<p> -At first he was minded to refuse altogether; but while he was still hesitating -a second letter arrived, from his mother, with whom he was in greater sympathy -than with any other member of the family. This epistle, which did not enter -into details, was written in evident distress, and implored him to return to -England at all hazards if he wished to save them from ruin. In conclusion, like -that received from his father, it hinted mysteriously at an unknown something -by means of which it would be in his power, and his alone, to restore the -broken fortunes of their house. -</p> - -<p> -Duty had always been the first consideration with Henry Graves, and so it -remained in this emergency of his life. He had no longer any doubt as to what -he ought to do, and, sacrificing his private wishes and what he considered to -be his own advantage, he set himself to do it. -</p> - -<p> -An effort to obtain leave on urgent private affairs having failed, he was -reduced to the necessity of sending in his papers and begging the Lords of the -Admiralty for permission to retire from the service on the ground of his -brother’s death. -</p> - -<p> -The night that he posted this application was an unhappy one for him: the -career he had hoped to make for himself and the future honour which he dreamed -of had melted away, and the only prospect left to him was that of one day -becoming a baronet without a sixpence to support his title, and the nominal -owner of a bankrupt estate. Moreover, however reasonable and enlightened he may -be, no sailor is entirely without superstition, and on this matter Henry Graves -was superstitious. Something in his heart seemed to tell him that this new -start would bring him little luck, whatever advantage might result to his -family. Once again he felt the awe of an imaginative boy who for the first time -understands that the world is before him, and that he must fight his way -through its cruel multitudes, or be trampled to death of them. -</p> - -<p> -In due course my Lords of the Admiralty signified to Commander Graves that his -request had been taken into favourable consideration, and that he was granted -leave pending the arrangements necessary to his retirement from Her -Majesty’s Navy. His feelings as for the last time he was rowed away from -the ship in the gig which had been his especial property need not be dwelt -upon. They were bitter enough, and the evident regret of his messmates at -parting from him did not draw their sting: indeed, it would not be too much to -say that in this hour of farewell Henry Graves went as near to tears as he had -done since he attained to manhood. -</p> - -<p> -But he got through it somehow, and even laughed and waved his hat when the crew -of the <i>Hawk</i>—that was the name of the gunboat he had -commanded—cheered him as he left her deck for ever. -</p> - -<p> -Eighteen days later he stood in the library of Rosham Hall. Although the season -was mid-May the weather held bitterly cold, and such green as had appeared upon -the trees did not suffice to persuade the traveller that winter was done with. -An indescribable air of gloom hung about the great white house, which, shaped -like an early Victorian mausoleum, and treed up to the windows with funereal -cedars, was never a cheerful dwelling even in the height of summer. The shadow -of death lay upon the place and on the hearts of its inmates, and struck a -chill through Henry as he crossed the threshold. His father, a tall and -dignified old gentleman with snowy hair, met him in the hall with a show of -cordiality that soon flickered away. -</p> - -<p> -“How are you, my dear boy?” he said. “I am very glad to see -you home and looking so well. It is most kind of you to have fallen in with our -wishes as to your leaving the Navy. I scarcely expected that you would myself. -Indeed, I was never more surprised than when I received your letter saying that -you had sent in your papers. It is a comfort to have you back again, though I -doubt whether you will be able to do any good.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then perhaps I might as well have stopped where I was, father,” -answered Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, you did well to come. For many reasons which you will understand -soon you did well to come. You are looking for your mother and Ellen. They have -gone to the church with a wreath for your poor brother’s grave. The train -is generally late you were not expected so soon. That was a terrible blow to -me, Henry: I am quite broken down, and shall never get over it. Ah! here they -are.” -</p> - -<p> -As Sir Reginald spoke Lady Graves and her daughter entered the hall and greeted -Henry warmly enough. His mother was a person of about sixty, still handsome in -appearance, but like himself somewhat silent and reserved in manner. Trouble -had got hold of her, and she showed it on her face. For the rest, she was an -upright and a religious woman, whose one passion in life, as distinguished from -her predilections, had been for her dead son Reginald. He was taken away, her -spirit was broken, and there remained to her nothing except an unvarying desire -to stave off the ruin that threatened her husband’s house and herself. -</p> - -<p> -The daughter, Ellen, now a woman of twenty-five, was of a different type. In -appearance she was fair and well-developed, striking and ladylike rather than -good-looking; in manner she was quick and vivacious, well-read, moreover, in a -certain shallow fashion, and capital company. Ellen was not a person of deep -affections, though she also had worshipped Reginald; but on the other hand she -was swift to see her own advantage and to shape the course of events toward -that end. At this moment her mind was set secretly upon making a rich marriage -with the only eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood, Milward by name, a vain -man of good extraction but of little strength of character, and one whom she -knew that she could rule. -</p> - -<p> -It has been said that his welcome was warm enough to all outward appearance, -and yet it left a sense of disappointment in Henry’s mind. Instinctively -he felt, with the exception, perhaps, of his mother, that they all hoped to use -him that he had been summoned because he might be of service, not because the -consolation of his presence was desired in a great family misfortune; and once -more he wished himself back on the quarter-deck of the <i>Hawk,</i> dependent -upon his own exertions to make his way in the world. -</p> - -<p> -After a somewhat depressing dinner in the great dining-room, of which the cold -stone columns and distempered walls, decorated with rather dingy specimens of -the old masters, did not tend to expansion of the heart, a family council was -held in the study. It lasted far into the night, but its results may be summed -up briefly. In good times the Rosham Hall property was worth about a hundred -thousand pounds; now, in the depths of the terrible depression which is ruining -rural England, it was doubtful if it would find a purchaser at half that -amount, notwithstanding its capacities as a sporting estate. When Sir Reginald -Graves came into possession the place was burdened with a mortgage of -twenty-five thousand pounds, more or less. On the coming of age of his elder -son, Reginald, Henry’s brother, the entail had been cut and further -moneys raised upon resettlement, so that in the upshot the incumbrances upon -the property including over-due interests which were added to the capital at -different dates, stood at a total of fifty-one thousand, or something more than -the present selling value of the estate. -</p> - -<p> -Henry inquired where all the money had gone; and, after some beating about the -bush, he discovered that of late years, for the most part, it had been absorbed -by his dead brother’s racing debts. After this revelation he held his -tongue upon the matter. -</p> - -<p> -In addition to these burdens there were unsatisfied claims against -Reginald’s estate amounting to over a thousand pounds; and, to top up -with, three of the principal tenants had given notice to leave at the -approaching Michaelmas, and no applicants for their farms were forthcoming. -Also the interest on the mortgages was over a year in arrear. -</p> - -<p> -When everything had been explained, Henry spoke with irritation: “The -long and the short of it is that we are bankrupt, and badly bankrupt. Why on -earth did you force me to leave the Navy? At any rate I could have helped -myself to some sort of a living there. Now I must starve with the rest.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves sighed and wiped her eyes. The sigh was for their broken fortunes, -the tear for the son who had ruined them. -</p> - -<p> -Sir Reginald, who was hardened to money troubles, did not seem to be so deeply -affected. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it is not so bad as that, my boy,” he said, almost cheerfully. -“Your poor brother always managed to find a way out of these difficulties -when they cropped up, and I have no doubt that you will be able to do the same. -For me the matter no longer has much personal interest, since my day is over; -but you must do the best for yourself, and for your mother and sister. And now -I think that I will go to bed, for business tires me at night.” -</p> - -<p> -When his father and mother had gone Henry lit his pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Who holds these mortgages?” he asked of his sister Ellen, who sat -opposite to him, watching him curiously across the fire. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Levinger,” she answered. “He and his daughter.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, my father’s mysterious friend, the good-looking man who used -to be agent for the property when I was a boy?” -</p> - -<p> -“I remember: he had his daughter with him—a pale-faced, quiet -girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; but do not disparage his daughter, Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because it is a mistake to find fault with one’s future wife. That -way salvation lies, my dear brother. She is an heiress, and more than half in -love with you, Henry. No, it is not a mistake—I know it for a fact. Now, -perhaps, you understand why it was necessary that you should come home. Either -you must follow the family tradition and marry an heiress, Miss Levinger or -some other, or this place will be foreclosed on and we may all adjourn to the -workhouse.” -</p> - -<p> -“So that is why I was sent for,” said Henry, throwing down his -pipe: “to be sold to this lady? Well, Ellen, all I have to say is that it -is an infernal shame!” -</p> - -<p> -And, turning, he went to bed without even bidding her good night. -</p> - -<p> -His sister watched him go without irritation or surprise. Rising from her -chair, she stood by the fire warming her feet, and glancing from time to time -at the dim rows of family portraits that adorned the library walls. There were -many of them, dating back to the early part of the seventeenth century or even -before it; for the Graveses, or the De Greves as they used to be called, were -an ancient race, and though the house had been rebuilt within the last hundred -and twenty years, they had occupied this same spot of ground for many -generations. During all these years the family could not be said either to have -sunk or risen, although one of its members was made a baronet at the beginning -of the century in payment for political services. It had produced no great men, -and no villains; it had never been remarkable for wealth or penury, or indeed -for anything that distinguishes one man, or a race of men, from its fellows. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus04"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig04.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘I’d marry a Russian Jew rather -than see the old place go to the dogs.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -It may be asked how it came about that these Graveses contrived to survive the -natural waste and dwindling of possessions that they never did anything to -augment. A glance at the family pedigree supplies an answer. From generation to -generation it had been held to be the duty of the eldest son for the time being -to marry an heiress; and this rule was acted on with sufficient regularity to -keep the fortunes of the race at a dead level, notwithstanding the -extravagances of occasional spendthrifts and the claims of younger children. -</p> - -<p> -“They all did so,” said Ellen to herself, as she looked upon the -portraits of her dead-and-gone forefathers by the light of the flickering -flame; “and why shouldn’t he? I am not sentimental, but I believe -that I’d marry a Russian Jew rather than see the old place go to the -dogs, and that sort of thing is worse for a woman than a man. It will be -difficult to manage, but he will marry her in the end, even if he hates the -very sight of her. A man has no right to let his private inclinations weigh -with him in such a matter, for he passes but his family remains. Thank Heaven, -Henry always had a strong sense of duty, and when he comes to look at the -position coolly he will see it in a proper light; though what made that -flaxen-haired little mummy fall in love with him is a mystery to me, for he -never spoke a word to her. Blessings on her! It is the only piece of good luck -that has come to our family for a generation. And now I must go to -bed,—those old pictures are beginning to stare at me.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> -THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM.</h2> - -<p> -Seldom did Henry Graves spend a more miserable night than on this occasion of -his return to Rosham. He had expected to find his father’s affairs in -evil case, but the reality was worse than anything that he had imagined. The -family was absolutely ruined—thanks to his poor brother’s -wickedness, for no other word was strong enough to describe his -conduct—and now it seemed that the remedy suggested for this state of -things was that he should marry the daughter of their principal creditor. That -was why he had been forced to leave the Navy and dragged home from the other -side of the world. Henry laughed as he thought of it, for the situation had a -comical side. Both in stories and in real life it is common enough for the -heroine of the piece to be driven into these dilemmas, in order to save the -honour or credit of her family; but it is unusual to hear of such a choice -being thrust upon a man, perhaps because, when they chance to meet with them, -men keep these adventures to themselves. -</p> - -<p> -Henry tried to recall the appearance of the young lady; and after a while a -vision of her came back to him. He remembered a pale-faced, silent girl, with -an elegant figure, large grey eyes, dark lashes, and absolutely flaxen hair, -who sat in the corner of the room and watched everybody and everything almost -without speaking, but who, through her silence, or perhaps on account of it, -had given him a curious impression of intensity. -</p> - -<p> -This was the woman whom his family expected him to marry, and, as his sister -seemed to suggest, who, directly or indirectly, had intimated a willingness to -marry him! Ellen said, indeed, that she was “half in love” with -him, which was absurd. How could Miss Levinger be to any degree whatsoever in -love with a person whom she knew so slightly? If there were truth in the tale -at all, it seemed more probable that she was consumed by a strange desire to -become Lady Graves at some future time; or perhaps her father was a victim to -the desire and she a tool in his hands. Although personally he had met him -little, Henry remembered some odds and ends of information about Mr. Levinger -now, and as he lay unable to sleep he set himself to piece them together. -</p> - -<p> -In substance this is what they amounted to: many years ago Mr. Levinger had -appeared in the neighbourhood; he was then a man of about thirty, very handsome -and courteous in his manners, and, it was rumoured, of good birth. It was said -that he had been in the Army and seen much service; but whether this were true -or no, obviously he did not lack experience of the world. He settled himself at -Bradmouth, lodging in the house of one Johnson, a smack owner; and, being the -best of company and an excellent sportsman, gradually, by the help of Sir -Reginald Graves, who seemed to take an interest in him and employed him to -manage the Rosham estates, he built up a business as a land agent, out of which -he supported himself—for, to all appearance, he had no other means of -subsistence. -</p> - -<p> -One great gift Mr. Levinger possessed—that of attracting the notice and -even the affection of women—and, in one way and another, this proved to -be the foundation of his fortunes. At length, to the secret sorrow of sundry -ladies of his acquaintance, he put a stop to his social advancement by -contracting a glaring <i>mésalliance</i>, taking to wife a good-looking -but homely girl, Emma Johnson, the only child of his landlord the smack owner. -Thereupon local society, in which he had been popular so long as he remained -single, shut its doors upon him, nor did the ladies with whom he had been in -such favour so much as call upon Mrs. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -When old Johnson the smack owner died, a few months after the marriage, and it -became known that he had left a sum variously reported at from fifty to a -hundred thousand pounds behind him, every farthing of which his daughter and -her husband inherited, society began to understand, however, that there had -been method in Mr. Levinger’s madness. -</p> - -<p> -Owing, in all probability, to the carelessness of the lawyer, the terms of -Johnson’s will were somewhat peculiar. All the said Johnson’s -property, real and personal, was strictly settled under this will upon his -daughter Emma for life, then upon her husband, George Levinger, for life, with -remainder “to the issue of the body of the said George Levinger lawfully -begotten.” -</p> - -<p> -The effect of such a will would be that, should Mrs. Levinger die childless, -her husband’s children by a second marriage would inherit her -father’s property, though, should she survive her husband, apparently she -would enjoy a right of appointment of the fund, even though she had no children -by him. As a matter of fact, however, these issues had not arisen, since Mrs. -Levinger predeceased her husband, leaving one child, who was named Emma after -her. -</p> - -<p> -As for Mr. Levinger himself, his energy seemed to have evaporated with his, -pecuniarily speaking, successful marriage. At any rate, so soon as his -father-in-law died, abandoning the land agency business, he retired to a -comfortable red brick house situated on the sea shore in a very lonely position -some four miles south of Bradmouth, and known as Monk’s Lodge, which had -come to him as part of his wife’s inheritance. Here he lived in complete -retirement; for now that the county people had dropped him he seemed to have no -friends. Nor did he try to make any, but was content to occupy himself in the -management of a large farm, and in the more studious pursuits of reading and -archæology. -</p> - -<p> -The morrow was a Saturday. At breakfast Ellen remarked casually that Mr. and -Miss Levinger were to arrive at the Hall about six o’clock, and were -expected to stay over the Sunday. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” replied Henry, in a tone which did not suggest anxiety to -enlarge upon the subject. -</p> - -<p> -But Ellen, who had also taken a night for reflection, would not let him escape -thus. “I hope that you mean to be civil to these people, Henry?” -she said interrogatively. -</p> - -<p> -“I trust that I am civil to everybody, Ellen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, no doubt,” she replied, in her quiet, persistent voice; -“but you see there are ways <i>and</i> ways of being civil. I am not sure -that you have quite realised the position.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I have thoroughly. I am expected to marry this lady, that is, if -she is foolish enough to take me in payment of what my father owes to hers. But -I tell you, Ellen, that I do not see my way to it at present.” -</p> - -<p> -“Please don’t get angry, dear,” said Ellen more gently; -“I dare say that such a notion is unpleasant enough, and in a -way—well, degrading to a proud man. Of course no one can force you to -marry her if you don’t wish to, and the whole business will probably fall -through. All I beg is that you will cultivate the Levingers a little, and give -the matter fair consideration. For my part I think that it would be much more -degrading to allow our father to become bankrupt at his age than for you to -marry a good and clever girl like Emma Levinger. However, of course I am only a -woman, and have no ‘sense of honour’ or at least one that is not -strong enough to send my family to the workhouse when by a little -self-sacrifice I could keep them out of it.” -</p> - -<p> -And with this sarcasm Ellen left the room before Henry could find words to -reply to her. -</p> - -<p> -That morning Henry walked with his mother to the church in order to inspect his -brother’s grave a melancholy and dispiriting duty the more so, indeed, -because his sense of justice would not allow him to acquit the dead man of -conduct that, to his strict integrity, seemed culpable to the verge of -dishonour. On their homeward way Lady Graves also began to talk about the -Levingers. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you have heard, Henry, that Mr. Levinger and his daughter are -coming here this afternoon?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, mother; Ellen told me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed. You will remember Miss Levinger, no doubt. She is a nice girl in -every sense; your dear brother used to admire her very much.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I remember her a little; but Reginald’s tastes and mine were -not always similar.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Henry, I hope that you will like her. It is a delicate matter to -speak about, even for a mother to a son, but you know now how terribly indebted -we are to the Levingers, and of course if a way could be found out of our -difficulties it would be a great relief to me and to your dear father. Believe -me, my boy, I do not care so much about myself; but I wish, if possible, to -save him from further sorrow. I think that very little would kill him -now.” -</p> - -<p> -“See here, mother,” said Henry bluntly: “Ellen tells me that -you wish me to marry Miss Levinger for family reasons. Well, in this matter, as -in every other, I will try to oblige you if I can; but I cannot understand what -grounds you have for supposing that the young lady wishes to marry me. So far -as I can judge, she might take her fortune to a much better market.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t quite know about it, Henry,” answered Lady Graves, -with some hesitation. “I gathered, however, that, when he came here after -you had gone to join your ship about eighteen months ago, Mr. Levinger told -your father, with whom you know he has been intimate since they were both -young, that you were a fine fellow, and had taken his fancy as well as his -daughter’s. Also I believe he said that if only he could see her married -to such a man as you are he should die happy, or words to that effect.” -</p> - -<p> -“Rather a slight foundation to build all these plans on, isn’t it, -mother? In eighteen months her father may have changed his mind, and Miss -Levinger may have seen a dozen men whom she likes better. Here comes Ellen to -meet us, so let us drop the subject.” -</p> - -<p> -About six o’clock that afternoon Henry, returning from a walk on the -estate, saw a strange dog-cart being run into the coach-house, from which he -inferred that Mr. and Miss Levinger had arrived. Wishing to avoid the -appearance of curiosity, he went straight to his room, and did not return -downstairs till within a few minutes of the dinner-hour. -</p> - -<p> -The large and rather ill-lighted drawing-room seemed to be empty when he -entered, and Henry was about to seat himself with an expression of relief, for -his temper was none of the best this evening, when a rustling in a distant -corner attracted his attention. Glancing in the direction of the noise, he -perceived a female figure seated in a big arm-chair reading. -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you come to the light, Ellen?” he said. “You -will ruin your eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -Again the figure rustled, and the book was shut up; then it rose and advanced -towards him timidly a delicate figure dressed with admirable taste in pale -blue, having flaxen hair, a white face, large and beseeching grey eyes, and -tiny hands with tapering fingers. At the edge of the circle of lamp-light the -lady halted, overcome apparently by shyness, and stood still, while her pale -face grew gradually from white to pink and from pink to red. Henry also stood -still, being seized with a sudden and most unaccountable nervousness. He -guessed that this must be Miss Levinger in fact, he remembered her face but not -one single word could he utter; indeed, he seemed unable to do anything except -regret that he had not waited upstairs till the dinner-bell rang. There is this -to be said in excuse of his conduct, that it is somewhat paralysing to a modest -man unexpectedly to find himself confronted by the young woman whom his family -desire him to marry. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do?” he ejaculated at last: “I think that we have -met before.” And he held out his hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, we have met before,” she answered shyly and in a low voice, -touching his sun-browned palm with her delicate fingers, “when you were -at home last Christmas year.” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems much longer ago than that,” said Henry, “so long -that I wonder you remember me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not see so many people that I am likely to forget one of -them,” she answered, with a curious little smile. “I dare say that -the time seemed long to you, abroad in new countries; but to me, who have not -stirred from Monk’s Lodge, it is like yesterday.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, of course that does make a difference;” then, hastening to -change the subject, he added, “I am afraid I was very rude; I thought -that you were my sister. I can’t imagine how you can read in this light, -and it always vexes me to see people trying their eyes. If you had ever kept a -night watch at sea you would understand why.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am accustomed to reading in all sorts of lights,” Emma answered. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you read much, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have nothing else to do. You see I have no brothers or sisters, no one -at all except my father, who keeps very much to himself; and we have few -neighbours round Monk’s Lodge—at least, few that I care to be -with,” she added, blushing again. -</p> - -<p> -Henry remembered hearing that the Levingers were considered to be outside the -pale of what is called society, and did not pursue this branch of the subject. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you read?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, anything and everything. We have a good library, and sometimes I -take up one class of reading, sometimes another; though perhaps I get through -more history than anything else, especially in the winter, when it is too -wretched to go out much. You see,” she added in explanation, “I -like to know about human nature and other things, and books teach me in a -second-hand kind of way,” and she stopped suddenly, for just then Ellen -entered the room, looking very handsome in a low-cut black dress that showed -off the whiteness of her neck and arms. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus05"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig05.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘So we meet at last.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“What, are you down already, Miss Levinger!” she said, “and -with all your things to unpack too. You <i>do</i> dress quickly,” and she -looked critically at her visitor’s costume. “Let me see: do you and -Henry know each other, or must I introduce you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, we have met before,” said Emma. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes! I remember now. Surely you were here when my brother was on -leave last time.” At this point Henry smiled grimly and turned away to -hide his face. “There is not going to be any dinner-party, you know. Of -course we couldn’t have one even if we wished at present, and there is no -one to ask if we could. Everybody is in London at this time of the year. Mr. -Milward is positively the only creature left in these parts, and I believe -mother has asked him. Ah! here he is.” -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke the butler opened the door and announced —“Mr. -Milward.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Milward was a tall and good-looking young man, with bold prominent eyes and -a receding forehead, as elaborately dressed as the plain evening attire of -Englishmen will allow. His manner was confident, his self-appreciation great, -and his tone towards those whom he considered his inferiors in rank or fortune -patronising to the verge of insolence. In short, he was a coarse-fibred person, -puffed up with the pride of his possessions, and by the flattery of women who -desired to secure him in marriage, either themselves or for some friend or -relation. -</p> - -<p> -“What an insufferable man!” was Henry’s inward comment, as -his eyes fell upon him entering the room; nor did he change his opinion on -further acquaintance. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Mr. Milward?” said Ellen, infusing the slightest -possible inflection of warmth into her commonplace words of greeting. “I -am so glad that you were able to come.” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Miss Graves? I had to telegraph to Lady Fisher, with whom -I was going to dine to-night in Grosvenor Square, to say that I was ill and -could not travel to town. I only hope she won’t find me out, that is -all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed!” answered Ellen, with a touch of irony: “Lady -Fisher’s loss is our gain, though I think that you would have found -Grosvenor Square more amusing than Rosham. Let me introduce you to my brother, -Captain Graves, and to Miss Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Milward favoured Henry with a nod, and turning to Emma said, “Oh! how -do you do, Miss Levinger? So we meet at last. I was dreadfully disappointed to -miss you when I was staying at Cringleton Park in December. How is your mother, -Lady Levinger? Has she got rid of her neuralgia?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that there is some mistake,” said Emma, visibly shrinking -before this bold, assertive man: “I have never been at Cringleton Park in -my life, and my mother, <i>Mrs.</i> Levinger, has been dead many years.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed: I apologise. I thought you were Miss Levinger of Cringleton, -the great heiress who was away in Italy when I stayed there. You see, I -remember hearing Lady Levinger say that there were no other Levingers.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid that I am a living contradiction to Lady Levinger’s -assertion,” answered Emma, flushing and turning aside. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen, who had been biting her lip with vexation, was about to intervene, -fearing lest Mr. Milward should make further inquiries, when the door opened -and Mr. Levinger entered, followed by her father and mother. Henry took the -opportunity of shaking hands with Mr. Levinger to study his appearance somewhat -closely—an attention that he noticed was reciprocated. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger was now a man of about sixty, but he looked much older. Either -because of an accident, or through a rheumatic affection, he was so lame upon -his right leg that it was necessary for him to use a stick even in walking from -one room to another; and, although his hair was scarcely more than streaked -with white, frailty of health had withered him and bowed his frame. Looking at -him, Henry could well believe what he had heard that five-and-twenty years ago -he was one of the handsomest men in the county. To this hour the dark and -sunken brown eyes were full of fire and eloquence—a slumbering fire that -seemed to wax and wane within them; the brow was ample, and the outline of the -features flawless. He seemed a man upon whom age had settled suddenly and -prematurely—a man who had burnt himself out in his youth, and was now but -an ash of his former self, though an ash with fire in the heart of it. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger greeted him in a few courteous, well-chosen words, that offered a -striking contrast to the social dialect of Mr. Milward,—the contrast -between the old style and the new,—then, with a bow, he passed on to -offer his arm to Lady Graves, for at that moment dinner was announced. As Henry -followed him with Miss Levinger, he found himself wondering, with a curiosity -that was unusual to him, who and what this man had been in his youth, before he -drifted a waif to Bradmouth, there to repair his broken fortunes by a -<i>mésalliance</i> with the smack owner’s daughter. -</p> - -<p> -“Was your father ever in the Army?” he asked of Emma, as they filed -slowly down the long corridor. “Forgive my impertinence, but he looks -like a military man.” -</p> - -<p> -He felt her start at his question. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know: I think so,” she answered, “because I -have heard him speak of the Crimea as though he had been present at the -battles; but he never talks of his young days.” -</p> - -<p> -Then they entered the dining-room, and in the confusion of taking their seats -the conversation dropped. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> -MR. LEVINGER PUTS A CASE.</h2> - - -<p> -At dinner Henry found himself seated between Mr. Levinger and his daughter. -Naturally enough he began to make conversation to the latter, only to find -that, either from shyness or for some other reason, she would not talk in -public, but contented herself with replies that were as monosyllabic as she -could make them. -</p> - -<p> -Somewhat disappointed, for their short <i>tête-à-tête</i> -interview had given promise of better things, Henry turned his attention to her -father, and soon discovered that he was a most interesting and brilliant -companion. Mr. Levinger could talk well on any subject and, whatever the matter -he touched, he adorned it by an aptness and facility of illustration truly -remarkable in a man who for twenty years and more was reported to have been -little better than a hermit. At length they settled down to the discussion of -archæological questions, in which, as it chanced, Henry took an -intelligent interest, and more particularly of the flint weapons used by the -early inhabitants of East Anglia. Of these, as it appeared, Mr. Levinger -possessed one of the best collections extant, together with a valuable and -unique series of ancient British, Danish and Saxon gold ornaments and arms. -</p> - -<p> -The subject proved so mutually agreeable, indeed, that before dinner was over -Mr. Levinger had given, and Henry had accepted, an invitation to stay a night -or two at Monk’s Lodge and inspect these treasures,—this, be it -said, without any arrière-pensée,—at any rate, so far as -the latter was concerned. -</p> - -<p> -In the silence that followed this pleasant termination to their talk Henry -overheard Milward pumping Miss Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Graves tells me,” he was saying, “er—that you -live in that delightful old house beyond—er—Bradmouth—the one -that is haunted.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” she answered, “if you mean Monk’s Lodge. It is -old, for the friars used it as a retreat in times of plague, and after that it -became a headquarters of the smugglers; but I never heard that it was -haunted.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray don’t rob me of my illusion, Miss Levinger. I drove past -there with your neighbours the Marchams; and Lady Marcham, the -dowager—the one who wears an eye-glass I mean—assured me that it -was haunted by a priest running after a grey nun, or a grey nun running after a -priest, which seems more likely; and I am certain she cannot be mistaken: she -never was about anything yet, spiritual or earthly, except her own age.” -</p> - -<p> -“Lady Marcham may have seen the ghost: I have not,” said Emma. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I have no doubt that she has seen it: she sees everything. Of course -you know her? She is a dear old soul, isn’t she?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have met Lady Marcham; I do not know her,” answered Emma. -</p> - -<p> -“Not know Lady Marcham!” said Milward, in affected surprise; -“why, I should have thought that it would have been as easy to escape -knowing the North Sea when one was on it; she is positively <i>surrounding.</i> -What <i>do</i> you mean, Miss Levinger?” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that I have not the honour of Lady Marcham’s -acquaintance,” she replied, in an embarrassed voice. -</p> - -<p> -“If that cad does not stop soon, I shall shut him up!” reflected -Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“What! have you quarrelled with her, then?” went on Milward -remorselessly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, for she is a bad -enemy; and, besides, it must be so awkward, seeing that you have to meet her at -every house about there.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma looked round in despair; and just as Henry was wondering how he could -intervene without showing the temper that was rapidly getting the mastery of -him, with a polite “Excuse me” Mr. Levinger leant across him. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will allow me to explain, Mr. Milward,” he said, in a -particularly clear and cutting voice. “I am an invalid and a recluse. -What I am my daughter must be also. I have not the honour of the acquaintance -of Lady Marcham, or of any other of the ladies and gentlemen to whom you refer. -Do I make myself plain?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, perfectly, I assure you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad, Mr. Milward, since, from what I overheard of your remarks -just now, I gathered that you are not very quick of comprehension.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point Lady Graves rose with a certain haste and left the room, followed -by Miss Levinger and her daughter. Thereupon Sir Reginald fell into talk with -Mr. Levinger, leaving Henry and Mr. Milward together. -</p> - -<p> -“Can you tell me who our friend there is?” the latter asked of -Henry. “He seems a very touchy as well as a retired person. I should not -have thought that there was anything offensive in my suggesting that his -daughter knew Lady Marcham.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you insisted upon the point a little too much,” said Henry -drily. “I am not very well posted about Mr. Levinger myself, although my -father has known him all his life; but I understand that he is a rich man, who, -from one reason and another, has been more or less of a hermit for many -years.” -</p> - -<p> -“By George! I have it now,” said Milward. “He’s the man -who was very popular in our mothers’ days, then married a wealthy cook or -some one of that sort, and was barred by the whole neighbourhood. Of course I -have put my foot into it horribly. I am sorry, for really I did not mean to -hurt his daughter’s feelings.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sure I am glad to hear that you did so inadvertently,” -answered Henry rather gruffly. “Won’t you have a cigarette?” -</p> - -<p> -The rest of the evening passed quietly enough; almost too quietly, indeed, for -Emma, dismayed by her former experiences, barricaded herself in a corner behind -an enormous photograph album; and Ellen, irritated by a scene which jarred upon -her and offended her sense of the social proprieties, grew somewhat tart in -speech, especially when addressing her admirer, who quailed visibly beneath her -displeasure. Mr. Levinger noticed with some amusement, indeed, that, however -largely he might talk, Mr. Milward was not a little afraid of the young lady to -whom he was paying his court. -</p> - -<p> -At length the party broke up. Mr. Milward retired to his own place, Upcott -Hall, which was situated in the neighbourhood, remarking as he went that he -hoped to see them all at church on the morrow in the afternoon; whereon Henry -resolved instantly that he would not attend divine service upon that occasion. -Then Sir Reginald and Lady Graves withdrew to bed, followed by Ellen and Emma -Levinger; but, somewhat to his surprise, Henry having announced his intention -of smoking a pipe in the library, Mr. Levinger said that he also smoked, and -with his permission would accompany him. -</p> - -<p> -At first the conversation turned upon Mr. Milward, of whom Henry spoke in no -complimentary terms. -</p> - -<p> -“You should not judge him so harshly,” said Levinger: “I have -seen many such men in my day. He is not a bad fellow at bottom; but he is rich -and an only child, and has been spoilt by a pack of women—wants taking -down a peg or two, in short. He will find his level, never fear. Most of us do -in this world. Indeed, unless my observation is at fault,” Mr. Levinger -added significantly, “there is a lady in this house who will know how to -bring him down to it. But perhaps you will think that is no affair of -mine.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry was somewhat mystified by this allusion, though he guessed that it must -have reference to Ellen. Of the state of affairs between Mr. Milward and his -sister he was ignorant; indeed, he disliked the young gentleman so much himself -that, except upon the clearest evidence, it would not have occurred to him that -Ellen was attracted in this direction. Mr. Levinger’s remark, however, -gave him an opening of which he availed himself with the straightforwardness -and promptitude which were natural to him. -</p> - -<p> -“It seems, Mr. Levinger,” he said, “from what I have heard -since I returned home, that all our affairs are very much your own, or <i>vice -versa.</i> I don’t know,” he added, hesitating a little, “if -it is your wish that I should speak to you of these matters now. Indeed, it -seems a kind of breach of hospitality to do so; although, if I understand the -position, it is we who are receiving your hospitality at this moment, and not -you ours.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger smiled faintly at this forcible way of putting the situation. -</p> - -<p> -“By all means speak, Captain Graves,” he said, “and let us -get it over. I am exceedingly glad that you have come home, for, between -ourselves, your late brother was not a business man, and I do not like to -distress Sir Reginald with these conversations—for I presume I am right -in supposing that you allude to the mortgages I hold over the Rosham -property.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry nodded, and Mr. Levinger went on: “I will tell you how matters -stand in as few words as possible.” And he proceeded to set out the -financial details of the encumbrances on the estate, with which we are already -sufficiently acquainted for the purposes of this history. -</p> - -<p> -“The state of affairs is even worse than I thought,” said Henry, -when he had finished. “It is clear that we are absolutely bankrupt; and -the only thing I wonder at, Mr. Levinger,” he added, with some -irritation, “is that you, a business man, should have allowed things to -go so far.” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely that was my risk, Captain Graves,” he answered. “It -is I who am liable to lose money, not your family.” -</p> - -<p> -“Forgive me, Mr. Levinger, there is another side to the question. It -seems to me that we are not only paupers, we are also defaulters, or something -like it; for if we were sold up to the last stick to-morrow we should not be -able to repay you these sums, to say nothing of other debts that may be owing. -To tell you the truth, I cannot quite forgive you for putting my father in this -position, even if he was weak enough to allow you to do so.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is something in what you say considered from the point of view of -a punctiliously honest man, though it is an argument that I have never had -advanced to me before,” replied Mr. Levinger drily. “However, let -me disabuse your mind: the last loan of ten thousand pounds, which, I take it, -leaving interest out of the count, would about cover my loss were the security -to be realised to-day, was not made at the instance of your father, who I -believe did not even know of it at the time. If you want the facts, it was made -because of the earnest prayer of your brother Reginald, who declared that this -sum was necessary to save the family from immediate bankruptcy. It is a painful -thing to have to say, but I have since discovered that it was your brother -himself who needed the money, very little of which found its way into Sir -Reginald’s pocket.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus06"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig06.jpg" width="600" height="485" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Forgive me, Mr. Levinger, there -is another side to the question.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -At this point Henry rose and, turning his back, pretended to refill his pipe. -He dared not trust himself to speak, lest he might say words that should not be -uttered of the dead; nor did he wish to show the shame which was written on his -face. Mr. Levinger saw the movement and understood it. Dropping the subject of -Reginald’s delinquencies, he went on: -</p> - -<p> -“You blame me, Captain Graves, for having acted as no business man should -act, and for putting temptation in the path of the weak. Well, in a sense I am -still a business man, but I am not an usurer, and it is possible that I may -have had motives other than those of my own profit. Let us put a hypothetical -case: let us suppose that once upon a time, many years ago, a young fellow of -good birth, good looks and fair fortune, but lacking the advantages of careful -education and not overburdened with principle, found himself a member of one of -the fastest and most expensive regiments of Guards. Let us suppose that he -lived—well, as such young men have done before and since—a life of -extravagance and debauchery that very soon dissipated the means which he -possessed. In due course this young man would not improbably have betaken -himself to every kind of gambling in order to supply his pocket with money. -Sometimes he would have won, but it is possible that in the end he might have -found himself posted as a defaulter because he was unable to pay his racing -debts, and owing as many thousands at cards as he possessed five-pound notes in -the world. -</p> - -<p> -“Such a young man might not unjustly have hard things said of him; his -fellow-officers might call him a scamp and rake up queer stories as to his -behaviour in financial transactions, while among outsiders he might be branded -openly as no better than a thief. Of course the regimental career of this -imaginary person would come to a swift and shameful end, and he would find -himself bankrupt and dishonoured, a pariah unfit for the society of gentlemen, -with no other opening left to him than that which a pistol bullet through the -head can offer. It is probable that such a man, being desperate and devoid of -religion, might determine to take this course. He might almost be in the act of -so doing, when he, who thought himself friendless, found a friend, and that -friend one by whom of all others he had dealt ill. -</p> - -<p> -“And now let us suppose for the last time that this friend threw into the -fire before his eyes that bankrupt’s I.O.U.’s, that he persuaded -him to abandon his mad design of suicide, that he assisted him to escape his -other creditors, and, finally, when the culprit, living under a false name, was -almost forgotten by those who had known him, that he did his best to help him -to a fresh start in life. In such a case, Captain Graves, would not this -unhappy man owe a debt of gratitude to that friend?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger had begun the putting of this “strange case” quietly -enough, speaking in his usual low and restrained voice; but as he went on he -grew curiously excited—so much so, indeed, that, notwithstanding his -lameness, he rose from his chair, and, resting on his ebony stick, limped -backwards and forwards across the room—while the increasing clearness and -emphasis of his voice revealed the emotion under which he was labouring. As he -asked the question with which his story culminated, he halted in his march -directly opposite to the chair upon which Henry was sitting, and, leaning on -his stick, looked him in the face with his piercing brown eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course he would,” answered Henry quietly. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course he would,” repeated Mr. Levinger. “Captain Graves, -that story was my story, and that friend was your father. I do not say that it -is all the story, for there are things which I cannot speak of, but it is some -of it—more, indeed, than is known to any living man except Sir Reginald. -Forgiving me my sins against him, believing that he saw good in me, your father -picked me out of the mire and started me 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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger sat down and thought awhile before he answered. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so,” said Henry. “And therefore again I ask, what is -to be done?” -</p> - -<p> -“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 these 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.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment he hesitated, as though wondering whether it would be wise to say -something which 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> -A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE.</h2> - - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus07"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig07.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘A vivid sunbeam ... fell upon the -girl’s pale countenance.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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, or of his company, he could not tell -which, and held his peace. -</p> - -<p> -“That will be very pleasant,” said Emma, “if it does not bore -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all; the sea never bores me,” replied Henry. “I will -be ready at three o’clock if that suits you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must say that you are polite, Henry,” put in his sister in a -sarcastic voice. “If I were Miss Levinger I would walk by myself and -leave you to contemplate the ocean in solitude.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sure I did not mean to be otherwise, Ellen,” he replied. -“There is nothing wrong in saying that one likes the sea.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment Lady Graves intervened with some tact, and the subject dropped. -</p> - -<p> -About three o’clock Henry found Emma waiting for him in the hall, and -they started on their walk. -</p> - -<p> -Passing through the park they came to the high road, and for some way went on -side by side in silence. The afternoon was cloudy, but not cold; there had been -rain during the previous night, and all about them were the evidences of -spring, or rather of the coming of summer. Birds sang upon every bush, most of -the trees were clothed in their first green, the ashes, late this year, were -bursting their black buds, the bracken was pushing up its curled fronds in the -sandy banks of the roadway, already the fallen black-thorn bloom lay in patches -like light snow beneath the hedgerows, while here and there pink-tipped -hawthorns were breaking into bloom. As she walked the promise and happy spirit -of the spring seemed to enter into Emma’s blood, for her pale cheeks took -a tinge of colour like that which blushed upon the May-buds, and her eyes grew -joyful. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it not beautiful?” she said suddenly to her companion. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it would be if there were some sunshine,” he replied, in a -somewhat matter-of-fact way. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the sunshine will come. You must not expect everything in this -climate, you know. I am quite content with the spring.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he answered; “it is very pleasant after the long -winter.” -</p> - -<p> -She hesitated a little, and then said, “To me it is more than pleasant. I -cannot quite tell you what it is, and if I did you would not understand -me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Won’t you try?” he replied, growing interested. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, to me it is a prophecy and a promise; and I think that, although -perhaps they do not understand it, that is why almost all old people love the -spring. It speaks to them of life, life arising more beautiful out of death; -and, perhaps unconsciously, they see in it the type of their own spiritual -fortune and learn from it resignation to their fate.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, we heard that in the lesson this morning,” said Henry. -“‘Thou fool! that which thou sowest is not quickened except it -die.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I know that the thought is an old one,” she answered, with -some confusion, “and I put what I mean very badly, but somehow these -ancient truths always seem new to us when we find them out for ourselves. We -hit upon an idea that has been the common property of men for thousands of -years, and think that we have made a great discovery. I suppose the fact of it -is that there are no new ideas, and you see each of us must work out his own -salvation. I do not mean in a spiritual sense only. Nobody else’s -thoughts or feelings can help us; they may be as old as the world, but when we -feel them or think them, for us they are fresh as the spring. A mother does not -love her child less because millions of mothers have loved <i>theirs</i> -before.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry did not attempt to continue the argument. This young lady’s ideas, -if not new, were pretty; but he was not fond of committing himself to -discussion and opinions on such metaphysical subjects, though, like other -intelligent men, he had given them a share of his attention. -</p> - -<p> -“You are very religious, Miss Levinger, are you not?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Religious? What made you think so? No; I wish I were. I have certain -beliefs, and I try to be—that is all.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was watching your face in church that gave me the idea, or rather -assured me of the fact,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -She coloured, and then said: “Why do you ask? You believe in our -religion, do you not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I believe in it. I think that you will find few men of my -profession who do not—perhaps because their continual contact with the -forces and dangers of nature brings about dependence upon an unseen protecting -Power. Also my experience is that religion in one form or another is necessary -to all human beings. I never knew a man to be quite happy who was devoid of it -in some shape.” -</p> - -<p> -“Religion does not always bring happiness, or even peace,” said -Emma. “My experience is very small—indeed, I have none outside -books and the village—but I have seen it in the case of my own father. I -do not suppose it possible that a man could be more religious than he has been -ever since I can remember much about him; but certainly he is not happy, nor -can he reconcile himself to the idea of death, which to me, except for its -physical side, does not seem such a terrible matter.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should say that your father is a very nervous man,” Henry -answered; “and the conditions of your life and of his may have been quite -different. Everybody feels these things according to his temperament.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, he is nervous,” she said; then added suddenly, as though she -wished to change the subject, “Look! there is the sea. How beautiful it -is! Were you not sorry to leave it, Captain Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -By now they had turned off the main road, and, following a lane which was used -to cart sand and shingle from the beach, had reached a chalky slope known as -the Cliff. Below them was a stretch of sand, across which raced the in-coming -tide, and beyond lay the great ocean, blue in the far distance, but marked -towards the shore with parallel lines of white-crested billows. -</p> - -<p> -Hitherto the afternoon had been dull, but as Emma spoke the sunlight broke -through the clouds, cutting a path of glory athwart the sea. -</p> - -<p> -“Sorry to leave it!” he said, staring at the familiar face of the -waters, and speaking almost passionately: “it has pretty well broken my -heart—that is all. I loved my profession, it was everything to me: there -I was somebody, and had a prospect before me; now I am nobody, and have none, -except——” And he stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“And why did you leave?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“For the same reason that we all do disagreeable things: because it was -my duty. My brother died, and my family desired my presence, so I was obliged -to retire from the Service, and there is an end of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I guessed as much,” said Emma softly, “and I am very sorry -for you. Well, we cannot go any farther, so we had better turn.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry nodded an assent, and they walked homewards silently, either because -their conversation was exhausted, or because they were lost in their own -thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -It may be remembered that Mr. Milward had announced his intention of attending -Rosham church that afternoon. As Ellen knew that he was not in the habit of -honouring any place of worship with his presence, this determination of her -admirer gave her cause for thought. -</p> - -<p> -For a year or more Mr. Milward’s attentions towards herself had been -marked, but as yet he had said nothing of a decisive nature. Could it be that -upon this occasion he intended to cross the line which divides attention from -courtship? She believed that he did so intend, for, otherwise, why did he take -the trouble to come several miles to church, and why had he suggested to her -that they might go out walking together afterwards, as he had done privately on -the previous evening? At any rate, if such were his mind, Ellen determined that -he should have every opportunity of declaring it; and it was chiefly for this -reason that she had arranged Emma’s expedition with her brother, since it -would then be easy for her to propose that Mr. Milward should escort herself in -search of them. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen did not deceive herself. She knew Mr. Milward’s faults, his -vulgarity and assumption made her wince, and on the whole perhaps she disliked -him. But on the other hand his admiration flattered her vanity, for many were -the women who had tried to excite it and failed; his wealth appealed to her -love of luxury and place, and she was well aware that, once in the position of -his wife, she could guide his weaker will in whatever direction she desired. -Moreover his faults were all on the surface, he had no secret vices, and she -trusted to her own tact if not to counterbalance, at least to divert attention -from his errors of manner. -</p> - -<p> -In due course Ellen and Lady Graves went to church, but to the private -mortification of the former Mr. Milward did not appear. At length, much to her -relief, towards the middle of the second lesson a disturbance in the nave -behind her assured her of his presence. She would not look round, indeed, but -her knowledge of him told her that nobody else arriving so painfully late would -have ventured to interrupt the congregation in this unnecessary fashion. -Meanwhile Mr. Milward had entered the pew behind her, occupying the same place -that Henry had sat in that morning, whence by many means, such as the dropping -of books and the shifting of hassocks, he endeavoured to attract her attention; -but in vain, for Ellen remained inflexible and would not so much as turn her -head. His efforts, however, did not altogether fail of their effect, inasmuch -as she could see that they drove her mother almost to distraction, for Lady -Graves liked to perform her devotions in quiet. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear,” she whispered to her daughter at the termination of the -service, “I really wish that when he comes to church Mr. Milward could be -persuaded not to disturb other people by his movements, and generally to adopt -a less patronising attitude towards the Almighty,” a sarcasm that in -after days Ellen was careful to repeat to him. -</p> - -<p> -At the doorway they met, and Ellen greeted him with affected surprise: -</p> - -<p> -“I thought that you had given up the idea of coming, Mr. Milward.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no; I was a little late, that was all. Did you not hear me come -in?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Ellen sweetly. -</p> - -<p> -“If Ellen did not hear you I am sure that everybody else did, Mr. -Milward,” remarked Lady Graves with some severity, and then with a sigh -she glided away to visit her son’s grave. By this time they were at the -church gate, and Ellen turned up the path that ran across the park to the Hall. -</p> - -<p> -“How about our walk?” said Milward. -</p> - -<p> -“Our walk? Oh! I had forgotten. Do you wish to walk?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; that is what I came for.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed! I thought you had come to church. Well, my brother and Miss -Levinger have gone to the Cliff, and if you like we can meet them—that -is, unless you think that it is going to rain.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no, it won’t rain,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -In a few minutes they had left the park and were following the same road that -Henry and Emma had taken. But Ellen did not talk of the allegorical mystery of -the spring, nor did Edward Milward set out his views as to the necessity of -religion. On the contrary, he was so silent that Ellen began to be afraid they -would meet the others before he found the courage to do that which, from the -nervousness of his manner, she was now assured he meant to do. -</p> - -<p> -At length it came, and with a rush. -</p> - -<p> -“Ellen,” said Edward in a husky voice. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon,” replied that young lady with dignity. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Graves, I mean. I wish to speak to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Milward.” -</p> - -<p> -“I want—to ask—you to marry me.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen heard the fateful words, and a glow of satisfaction warmed her breast. -She had won the game, and even then she found time to reflect with complacency -upon the insight into character which had taught her from the beginning to -treat her admirer with affected coldness and assumed superiority. -</p> - -<p> -“This is very sudden and unexpected,” she said, gazing over his -head with her steady blue eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Her tone frightened Edward, and he stammered,— -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really think so? You are so clever that I should have thought -that you must have seen it coming for a long while. I know I have only just -been able to prevent myself from proposing on two or three occasions—no, -that’s a mistake, I don’t mean that. Oh! there! Ellen, will you -have me? I know that you are a great deal too good for me in a way—ever -so much cleverer, and all that sort of thing; but I am truly fond of you, I am -really. I am well off, and I know that you would be a credit to me and help me -on in the world, for I want to go into Parliament some time, and—there, I -think that is all I have got to say.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen considered this speech rapidly. Its manner was somewhat to seek, but its -substance was most satisfactory and left nothing to be desired. Accordingly she -concluded that the time had come when she might with safety unbend a little. -</p> - -<p> -“Really, Mr. Milward,” she said in a softer voice, and looking for -a second into his eyes, “this is very flattering to me, and I am much -touched. I can assure you I had no idea that my friend had become -a”—and Ellen hesitated and even blushed as she murmured the -word—“lover. I think that perhaps it would be best if I considered -your offer for a while, in order that I may make perfectly sure of the state of -my own feelings before I allow myself to say words which would be absolutely -irrevocable, since, were I once to pledge myself——” and she -ceased, overcome. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray don’t take time to consider,” said Edward. “I -know what that means: you will think better of it, and tell me to-morrow that -you can only be a sister to me, or something of the sort.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen looked at him a while, then said, “Do you really understand what -you ask of me, and mean all you say?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, of course I do, Ellen: I am not an idiot. What do you suppose I -should mean, if it is not that I want you to marry me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Then, Edward,” she whispered, “I will say yes, now and for -always. I will be your wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, that’s all right,” answered Edward, wiping his brow -with his pocket-handkerchief. “Why couldn’t you tell me so at -first, dear? It would have spared me a great deal of agitation.” -</p> - -<p> -Then it occurred to him that further demonstrations were usual on these -occasions, and, dropping the handkerchief, he made a somewhat clumsy effort to -embrace her. But Ellen was not yet prepared to be kissed by Mr. Milward. She -felt that these amatory proceedings would require a good deal of leading up to, -so far as she was concerned. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no,” she murmured—“not now and here: I am -upset.” And, withdrawing her cheek, she gave him her hand to kiss. -</p> - -<p> -It struck Edward that this was a somewhat poor substitute, more especially as -she was wearing dog-skin gloves, whereon he must press his ardent lips. -However, he made the best of it, and even repeated the salute, when a sound -caused him to look up. -</p> - -<p> -Now, the scene of this passionate encounter was in a lane that ran from the -main road to the coast; moreover, it was badly chosen, for within three paces -of it the lane turned sharply to the right. Down this path, still wrapped in -silence, came Henry and Emma, and as Edward was in the act of kissing -Ellen’s hand, they turned the corner. Emma was the first to perceive them. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a start. -</p> - -<p> -Then Henry saw. “What the deuce!——” he said. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen took in the situation at a glance. It was discomposing, even to a person -of her considerable nerve; but she felt that on the whole nothing could have -happened more opportunely. Recovering themselves, Henry and Emma were beginning -to advance again, as though they had seen nothing, when Ellen whispered -hurriedly to her <i>fiancé:</i> -</p> - -<p> -“You must explain to my brother at once.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right,” said Edward. “I say, Graves, I dare say you were -surprised when you saw me kissing Ellen’s hand, weren’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Milward, I was surprised.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you won’t be any more when I tell you that we are engaged to -be married.” -</p> - -<p> -“Forgive me,” said Henry, somewhat icily: “I am still -surprised.” And in his heart he added, “How could Ellen do -it!—how could she do it!” -</p> - -<p> -Guessing what was passing in his mind, his sister looked at him warningly, and -at that moment Emma began to murmur some confused congratulations. Then they -set out homewards. Presently Ellen, who was a person of decision, and thought -that she had better make the position clear without delay, managed to attach -herself to her brother, leaving the other two to walk ahead out of hearing, -much to their mutual disgust. -</p> - -<p> -“You have not congratulated me, Henry,” she said, in a steady voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Congratulated you, Ellen! Good Lord! how can I congratulate you?” -</p> - -<p> -“And why not, pray? There is nothing against Mr. Milward that I have ever -heard of. His character is irreproachable, and his past has never been -tarnished by any excesses, which is more than can be said of many men. He is -well born, and he has considerable means.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very considerable, I understand,” interrupted Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“And, lastly, he has a most sincere regard for me, as I have for him, and -it was dear Reginald’s greatest wish that this should come about. Now may -I ask you why I am not to be congratulated?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, if you want to know, because I think him insufferable. I cannot -make out how a lady like yourself can marry such a man just -for——” and he stopped in time. -</p> - -<p> -By this time Ellen was seriously angry, and it must be admitted not altogether -without cause. -</p> - -<p> -“Really, my dear Henry,” she said, in her most bitter tones, -“I am by no means sure that the epithet which you are so good as to apply -to Mr. Milward would not be more suitable to yourself. You always were -impossible, Henry—you see I imitate your frankness—and certainly -your manners and temper have not improved at sea. Please let us come to an -understanding once and for all: I mean to marry Mr. Milward, and if by chance -any action or words of yours should cause that marriage to fall through, I will -never forgive you. On reflection you must admit that this is purely my own -affair. Moreover, you are aware of the circumstances of our family, which by -this prudent and proper alliance <i>I</i> at any rate propose to do <i>my</i> -best to improve.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry looked at his stately and handsome sister and the cold anger that was -written on her face, and thought to himself, “On the whole I am sorry for -Milward, who, whatever his failings may be, is probably an honest man in his -way.” But to Ellen he said: -</p> - -<p> -“I apologise. In nautical language, I come up all I have said. You are -quite right: I am a bear—I have often thought so myself—and my -temper, which was never of the best, has been made much worse by all that I -have seen and learned since I returned home, and because I am forced by duty to -leave my profession. You must make allowances for me, and put up with it, and I -for my part will do my best to cultivate a better frame of mind. And now, -Ellen, I offer you my warm congratulations on your engagement. You are of an -age to judge for yourself, and doubtless, as you say, you know your own -business. I hope that you may be happy, and of course I need hardly add, even -if my prejudice makes him uncongenial to me, that I shall do my best to be -friendly with Mr. Milward, and to say nothing that can cause him to think he is -not welcome in our family.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen heard and smiled: once more she had triumphed. Yet, while the smile was -on her face, a sadness crept into her heart, which, if it was hard and worldly, -was not really bad; feeling, as she did, that this bitterly polite speech of -her brother’s had shut an iron door between them which could never be -reopened. The door was shut, and behind her were the affectionate memories of -childhood and many a loving delusion of her youth. Before her lay wealth and -pride of place, and every luxury, but not a grain of love —unless indeed -she should be so happy as to find the affection whereof death and the other -circumstances of her life and character had deprived her, in the hearts of -children yet to be. From her intended husband, be it noted, when custom had -outworn his passion and admiration for her, she did not expect love even in -this hour of her engagement, and if it were forthcoming she knew that from him -it would not satisfy her. Well, she knew also if she had done with -“love” and other illusions, that she had chosen the better part -according to her philosophy. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> -TWO CONVERSATIONS.</h2> - - -<p> -On arriving at the Hall, Ellen went at once to her mother’s room, while -Edward retired to the library, where he was informed that Sir Reginald was to -be found. Lady Graves received the news of her daughter’s engagement -kindly, but without emotion, for since her son’s death nothing seemed to -move her. Sir Reginald was more expansive. When Edward told him that he was -engaged to Ellen, he took his hand and shook it warmly, not, indeed, that he -had any especial affection for that young man, whose tone and manners did not -chime in with his old-fashioned ideas of gentlemanly demeanour, but because he -knew his wealth to be large, and rejoiced at the prospect of an alliance that -would strengthen the tottering fortunes of his family. -</p> - -<p> -Edward had always been a little afraid of Sir Reginald, whose stately and -distant courtesy oppressed him, and this fear or respect stood the older man in -good stead on the present occasion. It enabled him even to explain that Ellen -would inherit little with as much dignity as though he were announcing that she -had ten thousand a year in her own right, and, striking while the iron was hot, -to extract a statement as to settlements. -</p> - -<p> -Edward mentioned a sum that was liberal enough, but by a happy inspiration Sir -Reginald hummed and hawed before making any answer—whereupon, fearing -opposition to his suit, his would-be son-in-law corrected himself, adding to -the amount he proposed to put into settlement a very handsome rent-charge on -his real property in the event of his predeceasing Ellen. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I think your amended proposal -proper and even generous. But I am no business man—if I had been, things -would be very different with me now—and my head for figures is so -shockingly bad that perhaps you will not mind jotting down what you suggest on -a piece of paper, so that I can think it over at my leisure and submit it to my -lawyers. And then, will it be too much trouble to ask you to find Ellen, as I -should like to congratulate her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Shall I go at once? I can do the writing afterwards,” suggested -Edward, with an instinctive shrinking from the cold record of pen and ink. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no,” answered the old gentleman testily; “these money -matters always worry me,”—which was true enough,—“and I -want to be done with them.” -</p> - -<p> -So Edward wrote first and went afterwards, albeit not without qualms. -</p> - -<p> -The sight of his lawyer’s face when he explained to him the terms of -settlement on his intended marriage, that he himself had propounded in black -and white, amply justified his doubts. -</p> - -<p> -“I! Well, I never!” said the man of law: “they must know -their way about at Rosham Hall. However, as you have put it in writing, you -cannot get out of it now. But perhaps, Mr. Milward, next time you wish to make -proposals of settlement on an almost penniless lady, you will consult me -first.” -</p> - -<p> -That night there was more outward show of conviviality in the cold Hall -dining-room than there had been for many a day. Everybody drank champagne, and -all the gentlemen made speeches with the exception of Henry, who contented -himself with wishing health and happiness to Edward and his sister. -</p> - -<p> -“You see,” Mr. Levinger whispered to him in the drawing-room, -“I did well to caution you to be patient with the foibles of your future -brother-in-law, and I was not far out in a surmise that at the time you may -have thought impertinent.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. -</p> - -<p> -After dinner Lady Graves, who always retired early, vanished to her room, Sir -Reginald and Mr. Levinger went to the library, and Henry, after wandering -disconsolately for a while about the great drawing-room, in a distant corner of -which the engaged couple were carrying on a -<i>tête-à-tête,</i> betook himself to the conservatory. Here -he chanced upon Emma. -</p> - -<p> -To-night she was dressed in white, wearing pearls upon her slender neck; and -seated alone upon a bench in the moonlight, for the conservatory was not -otherwise illuminated, she looked more like a spirit than a woman. Indeed, to -Henry, who came upon her unobserved, this appearance was much heightened by a -curious and accidental contrast. Immediately behind Emma was a life-sized -marble replica of one of the most beautiful of the statues known to ancient -art. There above this pale and spiritual maiden, with outstretched arms and -alluring lips stood the image of Aphrodite, triumphing in her perfect nakedness. -</p> - -<p> -Henry looked from one to the other, speculating as to which was the more lovely -of these types of the spirit and the flesh. “Supposing,” he thought -to himself, “that a man were obliged to take his choice between them, I -wonder which he would choose, and which would bring him the greater happiness. -For the matter of that, I wonder which I should choose myself. To make a -perfect woman the two should be merged.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he came forward, smiling at his speculation, and little knowing that -before all was done this very choice would be forced upon him. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that I am not disturbing you, Miss Levinger,” he said; -“but to tell you the truth I fled here for refuge, the drawing-room being -engaged.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma started, and seeing who it was, said, “Yes, I thought so too; that -is why I came away. I suppose that you are very much pleased, Captain -Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -“What pleases others pleases me,” he answered grimly. -“<i>I</i> am not going to marry Mr. Milward.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you like him?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“I never said I did not like him. I have no doubt that he is very well, -but he is not quite the sort of man with whom I have been accustomed to -associate—that is all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I suppose that I ought not to say it, but I do not admire him -either; not because he was rude to me last night, but because he seems so -coarse. I dislike what is coarse.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you? Life itself is coarse, and I fancy that a certain amount of that -quality is necessary to happiness in the world. After all, the flesh rules here -and not the spirit,”—and again he looked first at the marble -Aphrodite, then at the girl beneath it. “We are born of the flesh, we are -flesh, and all our affections and instincts partake of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not agree with you at all,” Emma answered, with some warmth. -“We are born of the spirit: that is the reality; the flesh is only an -accident, if a necessary accident. When we allow it to master us, then our -troubles begin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps; but it is rather a pervading accident for many of us. In short, -it makes up our world, and we cannot escape it. While we are of it the most -refined among us must follow its routine—more or less. A day may come -when that routine will be different, and our desires, aims and objects will -vary with it, but it is not here or now. -</p> - -<p> -“Everything has its season, Miss Levinger, and it is useless to try to -escape from the facts of life, for at last in one shape or another they -overtake us, who, strive as we may, can very rarely defy our natures.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma made no answer, though she did not look convinced, and for a while they -remained silent. -</p> - -<p> -“My father tells me that you are coming to see us,” she said at -last. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; he kindly asked me. Do you wish me to come?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I do,” she answered, colouring faintly. “It will -be a great change to see a stranger staying at Monk’s Lodge. But I am -afraid that you will find it very dull; we are quite alone, at this time of -year there is nothing on earth to do, unless you like bird-nesting. There are -plenty of wild fowl about, and I have rather a good collection of eggs.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I have no doubt that I shall amuse myself,” he answered. -“Don’t you think that we had better be going back? They must have -had enough of each other by this time.” -</p> - -<p> -Making no answer, Emma rose and walked across the conservatory, Henry following -her. At the door, acting on a sudden impulse, she stopped suddenly and said, -“You do really mean to come to Monk’s Lodge, do you not, Captain -Graves?” And she looked up into his face. -</p> - -<p> -“If you wish it,” he answered in a low voice. -</p> - -<p> -“I have said that I do wish it,” she replied, and turning led the -way into the drawing-room. -</p> - -<p class="p2"> -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile another conversation had taken place in the library, where Sir -Reginald and Mr. Levinger were seated. -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you are to be very much congratulated on this engagement, -Graves,” said his companion. “Of course the young man is not -perfect: he has faults, and obvious ones; but your daughter knows what she is -about, and understands him, and altogether in the present state of affairs it -is a great thing for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not for me—not for me,” answered Sir Reginald sadly. -</p> - -<p> -“I seem to have neither interests nor energies left, and so far as I am -concerned literally I care for nothing. I have lived my life, Levinger, and I -am fading away. That last blow of poor Reginald’s death has killed me, -although I do not die at once. The only earthly desire which remains to me is -to provide, if possible, for the welfare of my family. In furtherance of that -end this afternoon I condescended even to get the best possible terms of -settlement out of young Milward. Twenty years ago I should have been ashamed to -do such a thing, but age and poverty have hardened me. Besides, I know my man. -He blows hot to-day, a month hence he may blow cold; and as it is quite on the -cards that he and Ellen will not pull together very well in married life, and I -have nothing to leave her, I am anxious that she should be properly provided -for. By the way, have you spoken to Henry about these mortgages?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I explained the position to him on Saturday night. It seemed to -upset him a good deal.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t wonder at it, I am sure. You have behaved very kindly in -this matter, Levinger. Had it been in anybody else’s hands I suppose that -we should all have been in the workhouse by now. But, frankly, I don’t -see the end of it. The money is not yours—it is your daughter’s -fortune, or the greater part of it and you can’t go on being generous -with other people’s fortunes. As it is, she stands to lose heavily on the -investment, and the property is sinking in value every day. It is very well to -talk of our old friendship and of your gratitude to me. Perhaps you should be -grateful, and no doubt I have pulled you out of some nasty scrapes in bygone -days, when you were the Honourable——” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t mention the name, Graves!” said Levinger, striking his -stick fiercely on the floor: “that man is dead; never mention his name -again to me or to anybody else.” -</p> - -<p> -“As you like,” answered Sir Reginald, smiling. “I was only -going to repeat that you cannot continue to be grateful on your -daughter’s money, and if you take your remedy Rosham must go to the -hammer after all these generations. I shall be dead first, but it breaks my -heart to think of it.” And the old man covered his face with his thin -hand and groaned aloud. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t distress yourself, Graves,” said Levinger gently; -“I have hinted to you before that there is a possible way of -escape.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mean if Henry were to take a fancy to your daughter, and she were to -reciprocate it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, that is what I mean; and why shouldn’t they? So far as Emma -is concerned the matter is already done. I am convinced of it. She was much -struck with your son when she was here nearly two years ago, and has often -spoken of him since. Emma has no secrets from me, and her mind is clear as a -glass. It is easy to read what is passing there. I do not say that she has -thought of marrying Henry, but she is attached to him, and admires him and his -character which shows her sense, for he is a fine fellow, a far finer fellow -than any of you give him credit for. And on his side, why shouldn’t he -take to her? It is true that her mother’s origin was humble, though she -was a much more refined woman than people guessed, and that I, her father, am a -man under a cloud, and deservedly. But what of that? The mother is dead, and -alas! my life is not a good one, so that very soon her forbears will be -forgotten. For the rest, she is a considerable, if not a large, heiress; there -should be a matter of at least fifteen thousand pounds to come to her besides -the mortgages on this place and real property as well. In her own way—to -my mind at any rate—she is beautiful, and there never lived a sweeter, -purer or more holy-minded woman. If your son were married to her, within a year -he would worship the ground she trod on. Why shouldn’t it come about, -then?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, except that things which are very suitable and very -much arranged have a way of falling through. Your daughter Emma is all you say, -though perhaps a little too unearthly. She strikes me as rather -ghost-like—that is, compared with the girls of my young days, though I -understand this sort of thing has become the fashion. The chief obstacle that I -fear, however, is Henry himself. He is a very queer-grained man, and as likely -as not the knowledge that this marriage is necessary to our salvation will -cause him to refuse to have anything to do with it.” -</p> - -<p> -“For his own sake I hope that it may not be so,” answered Levinger, -with some approach to passion, “for if it is I tell you fairly that I -shall let matters take their course. Emma will either come into possession of -this property as the future Lady Graves or as Miss Levinger, and it is for your -son to choose which he prefers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes, I understand all that. What I do not understand, Levinger, is -why you should be so desperately anxious for this particular marriage. There -are plenty of better matches for Emma than my son Henry. We are such old -friends, I do not mind telling you I have not the slightest doubt but that you -have some secret reason. It seems to me—I know you won’t mind my -saying it—that you carry the curious double-sidedness of your nature into -every detail of life. You cannot be anything wholly,—there is always a -reservation about you: thus, when you seemed to be thoroughly bad, there was a -reservation of good in you; and now, when you appear to be the most righteous -man in the county, I sometimes think that there is still a considerable leaven -of the other thing.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger smiled and shrugged his shoulders, but he did not take offence at -these remarks. That he refrained from doing so showed the peculiar terms on -which the two men were—terms born of intimate knowledge and long -association. -</p> - -<p> -“Most people have more reasons for desiring a thing than they choose to -publish on the housetops, Graves; but I don’t see why you should seek for -secret motives here when there are so many that are obvious. You happen to be -the only friend I have in the world; it is therefore natural that I should wish -to see my daughter married to your son, and for this same reason I desire that -your family, which has been part and parcel of the country-side for hundreds of -years, should be saved from ruin. Further, I have taken a greater liking to -Henry than to any man I have met for many a long day, and I know that Emma -would love him and be happy with him, whereas did she marry elsewhere, with her -unusual temperament, she might be very unhappy. -</p> - -<p> -“Also, the match would be a good one for her, which weighs with me a -great deal. Your son may never be rich, but he has done well in his profession, -he is the inheritor of an ancient name, and he will be a baronet. As you know, -my career has been a failure, and more than a failure. Very probably my child -will never even know who I really am, but that she is the granddaughter of a -Bradmouth smack owner is patent to everybody. I am anxious that all this should -be forgotten and covered up by an honourable marriage; I am anxious, after -being slighted and neglected, that she should start afresh in a position in -which she can hold her head as high as any lady in the county, and I do not -think that in my case this is an unnatural or an exorbitant ambition. Finally, -it is my desire, the most earnest desire of my life, and I mean to live to see -it accomplished. Now have I given you reasons enough?” -</p> - -<p> -“Plenty, and very good ones too. But I still think that you have another -and better in the background. Well, for my part I shall only be too thankful if -this can be brought about. It would be a fair marriage also, for such -disadvantages as there are seem to be very equally divided; and I like your -daughter, Levinger,—she is a sweet girl and interesting, even if she is -old Will Johnson’s grandchild. Now I must be off and say something civil -to my future son-in-law before he goes”—and, rising with something -of an effort, Sir Reginald left the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Graves is breaking up, but he is still shrewd,” said Mr. Levinger -to himself, gazing after him with his piercing eyes. “As usual he put his -finger on the weak spot. Now, if he knew my last and best reason for wishing to -see Emma married to his son, I wonder what he would do? Shrug his shoulders and -say nothing, I expect. Beggars cannot be choosers, and bankrupts are not likely -to be very particular. Poor old friend! I am sorry for him. Well, he shall -spend his last days in peace if I can manage it—that is, unless Henry -proves himself an obstinate fool, as it is possible he may.” -</p> - -<p> -Next morning Mr. Levinger and his daughter returned to Monk’s Lodge; but -before they went it was settled that Henry was to visit them some three weeks -later, on the tenth of June, that date being convenient to all concerned. -</p> - -<p> -On the following day Henry went to London for a week to arrange about a little -pension to which he was entitled, and other matters. This visit did not improve -his spirits, for in the course of his final attendances at the Admiralty he -discovered for the first time how well he was thought of there, and that he had -been looked on as a man destined to rise in the Service. -</p> - -<p> -“Pity that you made up your mind to go, Captain Graves—great -pity!” said one of the head officials to him. “I always thought -that I should see you an admiral one day, if I lived long enough. We had -several good marks against your name here, I can tell you. However, it is too -late to talk of all this now, and I dare say that you will be better off as a -baronet with a big estate than banging about the world in an ironclad, with the -chance of being shot or drowned. You are too good a man to be lost, if you will -allow me to say so, and now that you are off the active list you must go into -Parliament and try to help us there.” -</p> - -<p> -“By Heavens, sir,” answered Henry with warmth, “I’d -rather be a captain of an ironclad in the Channel Fleet than a baronet with -twenty thousand a year, though now I have no chance of either. But we -can’t always please ourselves in this world. Good-bye.” And, -turning abruptly, he left the room. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder why that fellow went,” mused the official as the door -closed. “For a young man he was as good a sailor as there is in the -Service, and he really might have got on. Private affairs, I suppose. Well, it -can’t be helped, and there are plenty ready to step into his shoes.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry returned to Rosham very much depressed, nor did he find the atmosphere of -that establishment conducive to lightness of heart. Putting aside his personal -regrets at leaving the Navy, there was much to sadden him. First and foremost -came financial trouble, which by now had reached an acute stage, for it was -difficult to find ready money wherewith to carry on the ordinary expenses of -the house. Then his mother’s woeful face oppressed him as she went about -mourning for the dead, mourning also for their fallen fortunes, and his -father’s failing health gave great reason for anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -Furthermore, though here he knew that he had no just cause of complaint, the -constant presence of Edward Milward irritated him to a degree that he could not -conceal. In vain did he try to like this young man, or even to make it appear -that he liked him; his efforts were a failure, and he felt that Ellen, with -whom otherwise he remained on good, though not on cordial terms, resented this -fact, as he on his part resented the continual false pretences, or rather the -subterfuges and suppressions of the truth, in which she indulged in order to -keep from her <i>fiancé</i> a knowledge of the real state of the Rosham -affairs. These arts exasperated Henry’s pride to an extent almost -unbearable, and Ellen knew that it was so, but not on this account would she -desist from them. For she knew also the vulgar nature of her lover, and feared, -perhaps not without reason, lest he should learn how great were their -distresses, and how complete was the ruin which overshadowed them, and break -off an engagement that was to connect him with a bankrupt and discredited -family. -</p> - -<p> -In the midst of these and other worries the time passed heavily enough, till at -length that day arrived on which Henry was engaged to visit Monk’s Lodge. -Already he had received a note from Emma Levinger, writing on behalf of her -father, to remind him of his promise. It was a prettily expressed note, written -in a delicate and beautiful hand; and he answered it saying that he proposed to -send his portmanteau by train and to ride over to Monk’s Lodge, arriving -there in time for dinner. -</p> - -<p> -Henry had not thought much of Emma during the last week or two; or, if he had -thought of her, it was in an impersonal way, as part of a sordid problem with -which he found himself called upon to cope. At no time was he much given to -allow his mind to run upon the fascinations of any woman; and, charming and -original as this lady might be, he was not in a mood just now to contemplate -her from the standpoint of romance. None the less, however, was he glad of the -opportunity which this visit gave him to escape for a while from Rosham, even -if he could not leave his anxieties behind him. -</p> - -<p> -He had no further conversation with Ellen upon the subject of Emma. The terms -upon which they stood implied a mutual truce from interference in each -other’s affairs. His father, however, did say a word to him when he went -to bid him good-bye. He found the old man in bed, for now he did not rise till -lunchtime. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, my boy,” he said. “So you are going to -Monk’s Lodge? Well, it will be a pleasant change for you. Old Levinger is -a queer fish, and in some ways not altogether to be trusted, as I have known -for many a year, but he has lots of good in him; and to my mind his daughter is -charming. Ah, Henry! I wish, without doing violence to your own feelings, that -you could manage to take a fancy to this girl. There, I will say no more; you -know what I mean.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know, father,” answered Henry, “and I will do my best to -fall in with your views. But, all the same, however charming she may be, it is -a little hard on me that I should be brought down to this necessity.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he rode away, and in due course reached the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/> -MUTUAL ADMIRATION.</h2> - - -<p> -That Henry and Joan were left lying for so many hours among the graves of -Ramborough Abbey is not greatly to be wondered at, since, before he had ridden -half a mile, Master Willie Hood’s peculiar method of horsemanship -resulted in frightening the cob so much that, for the first time in its -peaceful career, it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. For a mile or -more it galloped on at right angles to the path, while Willie clung to its -mane, screaming “Wo!” at the top of his voice, and the -seabirds’ eggs with which his pockets were filled, now smashed into a -filthy mass, trickled in yellow streams down the steed’s panting sides. -</p> - -<p> -At length the end came. Arriving at a fence, the cob stopped suddenly, and -Willie pitched over its head into a bramble bush. By the time that he had -extricated himself—unharmed, but very much frightened, and bleeding from -a dozen scratches—the horse was standing five hundred yards away, -snorting and staring round in an excited manner. Willie, who was a determined -youth, set to work to catch it. -</p> - -<p> -Into the details of the pursuit we need not enter: suffice it to say that the -sun had set before he succeeded in his enterprise. Mount it again he could not, -for the saddle had twisted and one stirrup was lost; nor would he have done so -if he could. Therefore he determined to walk into Bradmouth, whither, after -many halts and adventures, he arrived about ten o’clock, leading the -unwilling animal by the rein. -</p> - -<p> -Now Willie, although exceedingly weary, and somewhat shaken, was a boy of his -word; so, still leading the horse, he proceeded straight to the residence of -Dr. Childs, and rang the bell. -</p> - -<p> -“I want the doctor, please, miss,” he said to the servant girl who -answered it. -</p> - -<p> -“My gracious! you look as if you did,” remarked that young lady, -surveying his bleeding countenance. -</p> - -<p> -“’Tain’t for myself, Silly!” he replied. “You ask -the doctor to step out, for I don’t trust this here horse to you or -anybody: he’s run away once, and I don’t want no more of that there -game.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl complied, laughing; and presently Dr. Childs, a middle-aged man with a -quiet manner, appeared, and asked what was the matter. -</p> - -<p> -“Please, sir, there’s a gentleman fallen off Ramborough Tower and -broken his leg; and Joan Haste she’s with him, and she’s all bloody -too—though I don’t know what she’s broken. I was to ask you -to go and fetch him with a shutter, and to take things along to tie him up -with.” -</p> - -<p> -“When did he fall, and what is his name, my boy?” asked the doctor. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know when he fell, sir; but I saw Joan Haste about six -o’clock time. Since then I’ve been getting here with this here -horse; and I wish that I’d stuck to my legs, for all the help he’s -been to me—the great idle brute! I’d rather wheel a barrow of -bricks nor pull him along behind me. Oh! the name? She said it was Captain -Graves of Rosham: that was what I was to tell her aunt.” -</p> - -<p> -“Captain Graves of Rosham!” said Dr. Childs to himself. “Why, -I heard Mr. Levinger say that he was coming to stay with him to-day!” -</p> - -<p> -Then he went into the house, and ten minutes later he was on his way to -Ramborough in a dog-cart, followed by some men with a stretcher. On reaching -the ruined abbey, the doctor stood up and looked round; but, although the moon -was bright, he could see no one. He called aloud, and presently heard a faint -voice answering him. Leaving the cart in charge of his groom, he followed the -direction of the sound till he came to the foot of the tower. Here, beneath the -shadow of the spiked tomb, clasping the senseless body of a man in her arms, he -found a woman—Joan Haste— whose white dress was smirched with -blood, and who, to all appearance, had but just awakened from a faint. Very -feebly—for she was quite exhausted—she explained what had happened; -and, without more words, the doctor set to work. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a baddish fracture,” he said presently. “Lucky -that the poor fellow is insensible.” -</p> - -<p> -In a quarter of an hour he had done all that could be done there and in that -light, and by this time the men who were following with the stretcher, were -seen arriving in another cart. Very gently they lifted Henry, who was still -unconscious, on to the stretcher, and set out upon the long trudge back to -Bradmouth, Dr. Childs walking by their side. Meanwhile Joan was placed in the -dog-cart and driven forward by the coachman, to see that every possible -preparation was made at the Crown and Mitre, whither it was rapidly decided -that the injured man must be taken, for it was the only inn at Bradmouth, and -the doctor had no place for him in his own house. -</p> - -<p> -At length they arrived, and Henry, who by now was recovering consciousness, was -carried into Joan’s room, an ancient oak-panelled apartment on the ground -floor. Once this room served as the justice-chamber of the monks; for what was -now the Crown and Mitre had been their lock-up and place of assize, when, under -royal charter, they exercised legal rights over the inhabitants of Bradmouth. -There the doctor and his assistant, who had returned from visiting some case in -the country, began the work of setting Henry’s broken leg, aided by Mrs. -Gillingwater, Joan’s aunt, a hard-featured, stout and capable-looking -woman of middle age. At length the task was completed, and Henry was sent to -sleep under the influence of a powerful narcotic. -</p> - -<p> -“And now, sir,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, as Dr. Childs surveyed his -patient with a certain grave satisfaction, for he felt that he had done well by -a very difficult bit of surgery, “if you have a minute or two to spare, I -think that you might give Joan a look: she’s got a nasty hole in her -shoulder, and seems shaken and queer.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus08"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig08.jpg" width="448" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘They…set out upon the -long trudge back to Bradmouth.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Then she led the way across the passage to a little room that in the monastic -days had served as a cell, but now was dedicated to the use of Mr. Gillingwater -whenever his wife considered him too tipsy to be allowed to share the marital -chamber. -</p> - -<p> -Here Joan was lying on a truckle bed, in a half-fainting condition, while near -her, waving a lighted candle to and fro over her prostrate form, stood Mr. -Gillingwater, a long, thin-faced man, with a weak mouth, who evidently had -taken advantage of the general confusion to help himself to the gin bottle. -</p> - -<p> -“Poor dear! poor dear! ain’t it sad to see her dead?” he -said, in maudlin tones, dropping the hot grease from the candle upon the face -of the defenceless Joan; “and she, what she looks, a real lady. Oh! -ain’t it sad to see her dead?” And he wept aloud. -</p> - -<p> -“Get out, you drunken sot, will you!” exclaimed his wife, with -savage energy. “Do you want to set the place on fire?” And, -snatching the candle from Mr. Gillingwater’s hand, she pushed him through -the open door so vigorously that he fell in a heap in the passage. Then she -turned to Dr. Childs, and said, “I beg your pardon, sir; but -there’s only one way to deal with him when he’s on the drink.” -</p> - -<p> -The doctor smiled, and began to examine Joan’s shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“It is nothing serious,” he said, when he had washed the wound, -“unless the rust from the spike should give some trouble in the healing. -Had it been lower down, it would have been another matter, for the lung might -have been pierced. As it is, with a little antiseptic ointment and a sleeping -draught, I think that your niece will be in a fair way to recovery by to-morrow -morning, if she has not caught cold on that damp grass.” -</p> - -<p> -“However did she come by this, sir?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater. -</p> - -<p> -“I understand that Captain Graves climbed the tower to get some young -jackdaws. He fell, and she tried to catch him in her arms, but of course was -knocked backwards.” -</p> - -<p> -“She always was a good plucked one, was Joan,” said Mrs. -Gillingwater, with a certain reluctant pride. “Well, if no harm comes of -it, she has brought us a bit of custom this time anyhow, and when we want it -bad enough. The Captain is likely to be laid up here some weeks, ain’t -he, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“For a good many weeks, I fear, Mrs. Gillingwater, even if things go well -with him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is he in any danger, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“There is always some danger to a middle-aged man in such a case: it is -possible that he may lose his leg, and that is a serious matter.” -</p> - -<p> -“Lord! and all to get <i>her</i> young jackdaws. You have something to -answer for, miss, you have,” soliloquised Mrs. Gillingwater aloud; -adding, by way of explanation, as they reached the passage, “She’s -an unlucky girl, Joan is, for all her good looks,—always making trouble, -like her mother before her: I suppose it is in the blood.” -</p> - -<p> -Leaving his assistant in charge, Dr. Childs returned home, for he had another -case to visit that night. Next morning he wrote two notes—one to Sir -Reginald Graves and one to Mr. Levinger, both of whom were patients of his, -acquainting them with what had occurred in language as little alarming as -possible. Having despatched these letters by special messengers, he walked to -the Crown and Mitre. As he had anticipated, except for the pain of the wound in -her shoulder, Joan was almost herself again: she had not caught cold, the -puncture looked healthy, and already her vigorous young system was shaking off -the effects of her shock and distress of mind. Henry also seemed to be -progressing as favourably as could be expected; but it was deemed advisable to -keep him under the influence of opiates for the present. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose that we had better send for a trained nurse,” said the -doctor. “If I telegraph to London, we could have one down by the -evening.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you do, sir, I am sure I don’t know where she’s to -sleep,” answered Mrs. Gillingwater; “there isn’t a hole or -corner here unless Joan turns out of the little back room, and then there is -nowhere for her to go. Can’t I manage for the present, sir, with Joan to -help? I’ve had a lot to do with sick folk of all sorts in my day, worse -luck, and some knack of dealing with them too, they tell me. Many and -many’s the eyes that I have shut for the last time. Then it isn’t -as though you was far off neither: you or Mr. Salter can always be in and out -if you are wanted.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” said the doctor, after reflecting, “we will let the -question stand over for the present, and see how the case goes on.” -</p> - -<p> -He knew Mrs. Gillingwater to be a capable and resourceful woman, and one who -did not easily tire, for he had had to do with her in numerous maternity cases, -where she acted the part of <i>sage-femme</i> with an address that had won her -a local reputation. -</p> - -<p> -About twelve o’clock a message came to him to say that Lady Graves and -Mr. Levinger were at the inn, and would be glad to speak to him. He found them -in the little bar-parlour, and Emma Levinger with them, looking even paler than -her wont. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! doctor, how is my poor son?” said Lady Graves, in a shaken -voice. “Mrs. Gillingwater says that I may not see him until I have asked -you. I was in bed this morning and not very well when your note came, but Ellen -had gone over to Upcott, and of course Sir Reginald could not drive so far, so -I got up and came at once.” And she paused, glancing at him anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you would have done better to stop where you were, Lady -Graves, for you are not looking very grand,” answered Dr. Childs. -“I thought, of course, that your daughter would come. Well, it is a bad -double fracture, and, unluckily, Captain Graves was left exposed for some hours -after the accident; but at present he seems to be going on as well as possible. -That is all I can say.” -</p> - -<p> -“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“Joan Haste can tell you better than I can,” the doctor answered. -“She is up, for I saw her standing in the passage. I will call her.” -</p> - -<p> -At the mention of Joan’s name Mr. Levinger’s face underwent a -singular contraction, that, quick as it was, did not escape the doctor’s -observant eye. Indeed, he made a deprecatory movement with his hand, as though -he were about to negative the idea of her being brought before them; then -hearing Lady Graves’s murmured “by all means,” he seemed to -change his mind suddenly and said nothing. Dr. Childs opened the door and -called Joan, and presently she stood before them. -</p> - -<p> -Her face was very pale, her under lip was a little cut, and her right hand -rested in a sling on the bosom of her simple brown dress; but her very pallor -and the anxiety in her dark eyes made her beauty the more remarkable, by -touching it with an added refinement. Joan bowed to Mr. Levinger, who -acknowledged her salute with a nod, and curtseyed to Lady Graves; then she -opened her lips to speak, when her eyes met those of Emma Levinger, and she -remained silent. -</p> - -<p> -The two women had seen each other before; in childhood they had even spoken -together, though rarely; but since they were grown up they had never come thus -face to face, and now it seemed that each of them found a curious fascination -in the other. It was of Emma Levinger, Joan remembered, that Captain Graves had -spoken on the previous night, when his mind began to wander after the accident; -and though she scarcely knew why, this gave her a fresh interest in -Joan’s eyes. Why had his thoughts flown to her so soon as his mental -balance was destroyed? she wondered. Was he in love with her, or engaged to be -married to her? It was possible, for she had heard that he was on his way to -stay at Monk’s Lodge, where they never saw any company. -</p> - -<p> -Joan had almost made up her mind, with considerable perspicuity, that there was -something of the sort in the air, when she remembered, with a sudden flush of -pleasure, that Captain Graves had spoken of herself also yonder in the -churchyard, and in singularly flattering terms, which seemed to negative the -idea that the fact of a person speaking of another person, when under the -influence of delirium, necessarily implied the existence of affection, or even -of intimacy, between them. Still, thought Joan, it would not be wonderful if he -did love Miss Levinger. Surely that sweet and spiritual face and those solemn -grey eyes were such as any man might love. -</p> - -<p> -But if Joan was impressed with Emma, Emma was equally impressed with Joan, for -in that instant of the meeting of their gaze, the thought came to her that she -had never before seen so physically perfect a specimen of womanhood. Although -Emma could theorise against the material, and describe beauty as an accident, -and therefore a thing to be despised, she was too honest not to confess to -herself her admiration for such an example of it as Joan afforded. This was the -girl whose bravery, so she was told, had saved Captain Graves from almost -certain death; and, looking at her, Emma felt a pang of envy as she compared -her health and shape with her own delicacy and slight proportions. Indeed, -there was something more than envy in her mind—something that, if it was -not jealousy, at least partook of it. Of late Emma’s thoughts had centred -themselves a great deal round Captain Graves, and she was envious of this -lovely village girl with whom, in some unknown way, he had become acquainted, -and whose good fortune it had been to be able to protect him from the worst -effects of his dreadful accident. -</p> - -<p> -At that moment a warning voice seemed to speak in Emma’s heart, telling -her that this woman would not readily let go the man whom fate had brought to -her, that she would cling to him indeed as closely as though he were her life. -It had nothing to do with her, at any rate as yet; still Emma grew terribly -afraid as the thought went home, afraid with a strange, impalpable fear she -knew not of what. At least she trembled, and her eyes swam, and she wished in -her heart that she had never seen Joan Haste, that they might live henceforth -at different ends of the world, that she might never see her again. -</p> - -<p> -All this flashed through the minds of the two girls in one short second; the -next Emma’s terror, for it may fitly be so called, had come and gone, and -Lady Graves was speaking. -</p> - -<p> -“Good day, Joan Haste,” she said kindly: “I understand that -you were with my son at the time of this shocking accident. Will you tell us -how it came about?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my Lady,” answered Joan with agitation, “it was all my -fault—at least, in a way it was, though I am sure I never meant that he -should be so foolish as to try and climb the tower.” And in a simple -straightforward fashion she went on to relate what had occurred, saying as -little as possible, however, about her own share in the adventure. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you,” said Lady Graves when Joan had finished. “You -seem to have behaved very bravely, and I fear that you are a good deal hurt. I -hope you will soon be well again. And now, Dr. Childs, do you think that I -might see Henry for a little?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, perhaps for a minute or two, if you will keep as quiet as -possible,” he answered, and led the way to the sick room. -</p> - -<p> -By this time the effects of the sleeping draughts had passed off, and when his -mother entered Henry was wide awake and talking to Mrs. Gillingwater. He knew -her step at once, and addressed her in a cheery voice, trying to conceal the -pain which racked him. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You find me in a queer -way, but better off than ever I expected to be again when I was hanging against -the face of that tower. It is very good of you to come to see me, and I hope -that the news of my mishap has not upset my father.” -</p> - -<p> -“My poor boy,” said Lady Graves, bending over him and kissing him, -“I am afraid that you must suffer a great deal of pain.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing to speak of,” he answered, “but I am pretty well -smashed up, and expect that I shall be on my back here for some weeks. Queer -old place, isn’t it? This good lady tells me that it is her niece’s -room. It’s a very jolly one anyhow. Just look at the oak panelling and -that old mantelpiece. By the way, I hope that Miss Joan—I think that she -said her name was Joan—is not much hurt. She is a brave girl, I can tell -you, mother. Had it not been that she caught me when I fell, I must have gone -face first on to that spiked tomb, and then——” -</p> - -<p> -“Had it not been for her you would never have climbed the tower,” -answered Lady Graves with a shudder. “I can’t think what induced -you to be so foolish, at your age, my dear boy.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think it was because she is so pretty, and I wanted to oblige -her,” he answered, with the candour of a mind excited by suffering. -“I say, I hope that somebody has written to the Levingers, or they will -be wondering what on earth has become of me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes, dear; they are here, and everything has been explained to -them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed. Make them my excuses, will you? When I am a bit better I -should like to see them, but I don’t feel quite up to it just now.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry made this last remark in a weaker voice; and, taking the hint, Dr. Childs -touched Lady Graves on the shoulder and nodded towards the door. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, dear, I must be going,” said his mother; “but Ellen or -I will come over to-morrow to see how you are getting on. By the way, should -you like us to send for a trained nurse to look after you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Most certainly not,” Henry answered, with vigour; “I hate -the sight of hospital nurses—they always remind me of Haslar, where I was -laid up with jaundice. There are two doctors and this good lady taking care of -me here, and if that isn’t enough for me, nothing will be.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, dear, we will see how you get on,” said his mother -doubtfully. Then she kissed him and went; but the doctor stopped behind, and -having taken his patient’s temperature, ordered him another sleeping -draught. -</p> - -<p> -So soon as Lady Graves had left the parlour, Joan followed her example, -murmuring with truth that she felt a little faint. -</p> - -<p> -“What a beautiful girl, father!” said Emma to Mr. Levinger. -“Who is she? Somebody said the other day that there was a mystery about -her.” -</p> - -<p> -“How on earth should I know?” he answered. “She is Mrs. -Gillingwater’s niece and I believe that her parents are dead; that is the -only mystery I ever heard.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that there must be something odd, all the same,” said -Emma. “If you notice, her manners are quite different from those of most -village girls, and she speaks almost like a lady.” -</p> - -<p> -“Been educated above her station in life, I fancy,” her father -answered snappishly. “That is the way girls of this kind are ruined, and -taught to believe that nothing in their own surroundings is good enough for -them. Anyhow, she has led poor Graves into this mess, for which I shall not -forgive her in a hurry.” -</p> - -<p> -“At least she did her best to save him, and at great risk to -herself,” said Emma gently. “I don’t see what more she could -have done.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s woman’s logic all over,” replied the father. -“First get a man who is worth two of you into some terrible scrape, -physical or otherwise, and then do your ‘best to save him,’ and -pose as a heroine. It would be kinder to leave him alone altogether in nine -cases out of ten, only then it is impossible to play the guardian angel, as -every woman loves to do. Just to gratify her whim—for that is the plain -English of it—this girl sends poor Graves up that tower; and because, -when he falls off it, she tries to throw her arms round him, everybody talks of -her wonderful courage. Bother her and her courage! The net result is that he -will never be the same man again.” -</p> - -<p> -Her father spoke with so much suppressed energy that Emma looked at him in -astonishment, for of late years, at any rate, he had been accustomed to act -calmly and to speak temperately. -</p> - -<p> -“Is Captain Graves’s case so serious?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“From what young Salter tells me I gather that it is about as bad as it -can be of its kind. He has fractured his leg in a very awkward place, there is -some haemorrhage, and he lay exposed for nearly five hours, and had to be -carried several miles.” -</p> - -<p> -“What will happen to him, then?” asked Emma in alarm. “I -thought that the worst of it was over.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t tell you. It depends on Providence and his constitution; -but what seems likely is that they will be forced to amputate his leg and make -him a hopeless cripple for life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” said Emma, catching her breath like one in pain; “I had -no idea that it was so bad. This is terrible.” And for a moment she leant -on the back of a chair to support herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it is black enough; but we cannot help by stopping here, so we may -as well drive home. I will send to inquire for him this evening.” -</p> - -<p> -So they went, and never had Emma a more unhappy drive. She was looking forward -so much to Captain Graves’s visit, and now he lay -wounded—dangerously ill. The thought wrung her heart, and she could -almost find it in her gentle breast to detest the girl who, however innocently, -had been the cause of all the trouble. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br/> -AZRAEL’S WING</h2> - - -<p> -For the next two days, notwithstanding the serious condition of his broken leg, -Henry seemed to go on well, till even his mother and Emma Levinger, both of -whom were kept accurately informed of his state, ceased to feel any particular -alarm about him. On the second day Mrs. Gillingwater, being called away to -attend to some other matter, sent for Joan who, although her arm was still in a -sling, had now almost recovered to watch in the sick room during her absence. -She came and took her seat by the bed, for at the time Henry was asleep. -Shortly afterwards he awoke and saw her. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, Miss Haste?” he said. “I did not know that you -cared for nursing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” answered Joan. “My aunt was obliged to go out for -a little while, and, as you are doing so nicely, she said that she thought I -might be trusted to look after you till she came back.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very kind of you, I am sure,” said Henry. “Sick rooms -are not pleasant places. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me some of that -horrid stuff—barley-water I think it is. I am thirsty.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan handed him the glass and supported his head while he drank. When he had -satisfied his thirst he said: -</p> - -<p> -“I have never thanked you yet for your bravery. I do thank you sincerely, -Miss Haste, for if I had fallen on to those spikes there would have been an end -of me. I saw them as I was hanging, and thought that my hour had come.” -</p> - -<p> -“And yet he told me to ‘stand clear‘!” reflected Joan; -but aloud she said: -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray, pray don’t thank me, sir. It is all my fault that you -have met with this dreadful accident, and it breaks my heart to think of -it.” And as she spoke a great tear ran down her beautiful face. -</p> - -<p> -“Come, please don’t cry: it upsets me; if the smash was -anybody’s fault, it was my own. I ought to have known better.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will try not, sir,” answered Joan, in a choking voice; -“but aunt said that you weren’t to talk, and you are talking a -great deal.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right,” he replied: “you stop crying and I’ll stop -talking.” -</p> - -<p> -As may be guessed after this beginning, from that hour till the end of his long -and dangerous illness, Joan was Henry’s most constant attendant. Her aunt -did the rougher work of the sick room, indeed, but for everything else he -depended upon her; clinging to her with a strange obstinacy that baffled all -attempts to replace her by a more highly trained nurse. On one occasion, when -an effort of the sort was made, the results upon the patient were so -unfavourable that, to her secret satisfaction, Joan was at once reinstalled. -</p> - -<p> -After some days Henry took a decided turn for the worse. His temperature rose -alarmingly, and he became delirious, with short coherent intervals. Blood -poisoning, which the doctors feared, declared itself, and in the upshot he fell -a victim to a dreadful fever that nearly cost him his life. At one time the -doctors were of opinion that his only chance lay in amputation of the fractured -limb; but in the end they gave up this idea, being convinced that, in his -present state, he would certainly die of the shock were they to attempt the -operation. -</p> - -<p> -Then followed three terrible days, while Henry lay between life and death. For -the greater part of those days Lady Graves and Ellen sat in the bar-parlour, -the former lost in stony silence, the latter pale and anxious enough, but still -calm and collected. Even now Ellen did not lose her head, and this was well, -for the others were almost distracted by anxiety and grief. Distrusting the -capacities of Joan, a young person whom she regarded with disfavour as being -the cause of her brother’s accident, it was Ellen who insisted upon the -introduction of the trained nurses, with consequences that have been described. -When the doctors hesitated as to the possibility of an operation, it was Ellen -also who gave her voice against it, and persuaded her mother to do the same. -</p> - -<p> -“I know nothing of surgery,” she said, with conviction, “and -it seems probable that poor Henry will die; but I feel sure that if you try to -cut off his leg he will certainly die.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you are right, Miss Graves,” said the eminent surgeon -who had been brought down in consultation, and with whom the final word lay. -“My opinion is that the only course to follow with your brother is to -leave him alone, in the hope that his constitution will pull him through.” -</p> - -<p> -So it came about that Henry escaped the knife. -</p> - -<p> -Emma Levinger and her father also haunted the inn, and it was during those dark -days that the state of the former’s affections became clear both to -herself and to every one about her. Before this she had never confessed even to -her own heart that she was attached to Henry Graves; but now, in the agony of -her suspense, this love of hers arose in strength, and she knew that, whether -he stayed or was called away, it must always be the nearest and most constant -companion of her life. Why she loved him Emma could not tell, nor even when she -began to do so; and indeed these things are difficult to define. But the fact -remained, hard, palpable, staring: a fact which she had no longer any care to -conceal or ignore, seeing that the conditions of the case caused her to set -aside those considerations of womanly reserve that doubtless would otherwise -have induced her to veil the secret of her heart for ever, or until -circumstances gave opportunity for its legitimate expression. -</p> - -<p> -At length on a certain afternoon there came a crisis to which there was but one -probable issue. The doctors and nurses were in Henry’s room doing their -best to ward off the fate that seemed to be approaching, whilst Lady Graves, -Mr. Levinger, Ellen and Emma sat in the parlour awaiting tidings, and striving -to hope against hope. An hour passed, and Emma could bear the uncertainty no -longer. Slipping out unobserved, she stole towards the sick room and listened -at a little distance from it. Within she could hear the voice of a man raving -in delirium, and the cautious tread of those who tended him. Presently the door -opened and Joan appeared, walking towards her with ashen face and shaking limbs. -</p> - -<p> -“How is he?” asked Emma in an intense whisper, catching at her -dress as she passed. -</p> - -<p> -Joan looked at her and shook her head: speak she could not. Emma watched her go -with vacant eyes, and a jealousy smote her, which made itself felt even through -the pain that tore her heart in two. Why should this woman be free to come and -go about the bedside of the man who was everything to her—to hold his -dying hand and to lift his dying head—while she was shut outside his -door? Emma wondered bitterly. Surely that should be her place, not the village -girl’s who had been the cause of all this sorrow. Then she turned, and, -creeping back to the parlour, she flung herself into a chair and covered her -face with her hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you heard anything?” asked Lady Graves. -</p> - -<p> -Emma made no reply but her despair broke from her in a low moaning that was -very sad to hear. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not grieve so, dear,” said Ellen kindly. -</p> - -<p> -“Let me grieve,” she answered, lifting her white face; “let -me grieve now and always. I know that Faith should give me comfort, but it -fails me. I have a right to grieve,” she went on passionately, “for -I love him. I do not care who knows it now: though I am nothing to him, I love -him, and if he dies it will break my heart.” -</p> - -<p> -So great was the tension of suspense that Emma’s announcement, startling -as it was, excited no surprise. Perhaps they all knew how things were with her; -at any rate Lady Graves answered only, “We all love him, dear,” and -for a time no more was said. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile, could she have seen into the little room behind her, Emma might have -witnessed the throes of a grief as deep as her own, and even more abandoned; -for there, face downwards on her bed, lay Joan Haste, the girl whom she had -envied. Sharp sobs shook her frame, notwithstanding that she had thrust her -handkerchief between her teeth to check them, and she clutched nervously at the -bedclothes with her outstretched hands. Hitherto she had been calm and silent; -now, at length, when she was of no more service, she broke down, and Nature -took its way with her. -</p> - -<p> -“My God!” she muttered between her strangling sobs, “spare -him and kill me, for it was my fault, and I am his murderess my God! my God! -What have I done that I should suffer so? What makes me suffer so? Oh! spare -him, spare him!” -</p> - -<p> -Another half-hour passed, and the twilight began to gather in the parlour. -</p> - -<p> -“It is very long,” murmured Lady Graves. -</p> - -<p> -“While they do not come to call us there is hope,” answered Ellen, -striving to keep up a show of courage. -</p> - -<p> -Once more there was silence, and the time went on and the darkness gathered. -</p> - -<p> -At length a step was heard approaching, and they knew it for that of Dr. -Childs. Instinctively they all rose, expecting the last dread summons. He was -among them now, but they could not see his face because of the shadows. -</p> - -<p> -“Is Lady Graves there?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” whispered the poor woman. -</p> - -<p> -“Lady Graves, I have come to tell you that by the mercy of Heaven your -son’s constitution has triumphed, and, so far as my skill and knowledge -go, I believe that he will live.” -</p> - -<p> -For a second the silence continued; then, with a short sharp cry, Emma Levinger -went down upon the floor as suddenly as though she had been shot through the -heart. -</p> - -<p> -Joan also had heard Dr. Childs’s footstep, and, rising swiftly from her -bed, she followed him to the door of the parlour, where she stood listening to -his fateful words for her anxiety was so intense that the idea of intrusion did -not even cross her mind. -</p> - -<p> -Joan heard the words, and she believed that they were an answer to her prayer; -for her suffering had been too fierce and personal to admit of her dissociating -herself from the issue, at any rate at present. She forgot that she was not -concerned alone in this matter of the life or death of Henry Graves—she -who, although as yet she did not know it, was already wrapped with the wings -and lost in the shadow of a great and tragic passion. She had prayed, and she -had been answered. His life had been given back to <i>her.</i> -</p> - -<p> -Thus she thought for a moment; the next she heard Emma’s cry, and saw her -fall, and was undeceived. Now she was assured of what before she had suspected, -that this sweet and beautiful lady loved the man who lay yonder; and, in the -assurance of that love, she learned her own. It became clear to her in an -instant, as at night the sudden lightning makes clear the landscape to some -lost wanderer among mountains. As in the darkness such a wanderer may believe -that his feet are set upon a trodden road, and in that baleful glare discover -himself to be surrounded by dangers, amid desolate wastes; so at this sight -Joan understood whither her heart had strayed, and was affrighted, for truly -the place seemed perilous and from it there was no retreat. Before her lay many -a chasm and precipice, around her was darkness, and a blind mist blew upon her -face, a mist wet as though with tears. -</p> - -<p> -Somebody in the parlour called for a light, and the voice brought her back from -her vision, her hopeless vision of what was, had been, and might be. What had -chanced or could chance to her mattered little, she thought to herself, as she -turned to seek the lamp. He would live, and that was what she had desired, what -she had prayed for while as yet she did not know why she prayed it, offering -her own life in payment. She understood now that her prayer had been answered -more fully than she deemed; for she had given her life, her true life, for him -and to him, though he might never learn the price that had been exacted of her. -Well, he would live—to be happy with Miss Levinger—and though her -heart must die because of him, Joan could be glad of it even in those miserable -moments of revelation. -</p> - -<p> -She returned with the lamp, and assisted in loosening the collar of -Emma’s dress and in sprinkling her white face with water. Nobody took any -notice of her. Why should they, who were overcome by the first joy of hope -renewed, and moved with pity at the sight of the fainting girl? They even spoke -openly before her, ignoring her presence. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not be afraid,” said Dr. Childs: “I have never known -happiness to kill people. But she must have suffered a great deal from -suspense.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not know that it had gone so far with her,” said her father -in a low voice to Lady Graves. “I believe that if the verdict had been -the other way it would have killed her also.” -</p> - -<p> -“She must be very fond of him,” answered Lady Graves; “and I -am thankful for it, for now I have seen how sweet she is. Well, if it pleases -God that Henry should recover, I hope that it will all come right in the end. -Indeed, he will be a strange man if it does not.” -</p> - -<p> -Just then Ellen, who was watching and listening, seemed to become aware of -Joan’s presence. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you,” she said to her; “you can go now.” So Joan -went, humbly enough, suffering a sharper misery than she had dreamed that her -heart could hold, and yet vaguely happy through her wretchedness. “At -least,” she thought to herself, with a flash of defiant feeling, “I -am his nurse, and they can’t send me away from him yet, because he -won’t let them. It made him worse when they tried before. When he is well -again Miss Levinger will take him, but till then he is mine—mine. Oh! I -wish I had known that she was engaged to him from the beginning: no, it would -have made no difference. It may be wicked, but I should have loved him anyhow. -It is my doom that I should love him, and I would rather love him and be -wretched, than not love him and be happy. I suppose that it began when I first -saw him, though I did not understand it then—I only wondered why he -seemed so different to any other man that I had seen. Well, it is done now, and -there is no use crying over it, so I may as well laugh, if one can laugh with a -heart like a lump of ice.” -</p> - -<p> -Once out of danger, Henry’s progress towards recovery was sure, if slow. -Three weeks passed before he learned how near he had been to death. It was Joan -who told him, for as yet he had been allowed only the briefest of interviews -with his mother and Ellen, and on these occasions, by the doctor’s -orders, their past anxieties were not even alluded to. Now, however, all danger -was done with, and that afternoon Joan had been informed by Dr. Childs that she -might read to her patient if he wished it, or talk to him upon any subject in -which he seemed to take interest. -</p> - -<p> -It was a lovely July day, and Joan was seated sewing in Henry’s, or -rather in her own room, by the open window, through which floated the scent of -flowers and a murmuring sound of the sea. Henry had been dozing, and she laid -her work upon her knee and watched him while he slept. Presently she saw that -his eyes were open and that he was looking at her. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you want anything, sir?” she said, hastily resuming her sewing. -“Are you comfortable?” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite, thank you; and I want nothing except to go on looking at you. You -make a very pretty picture in that old window place, I assure you.” -</p> - -<p> -She coloured faintly and did not answer. Presently he spoke again. -</p> - -<p> -“Joan,” he said—he always called her Joan -now—“was I very bad at any time?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir; they almost gave you up three weeks ago—indeed, they -said the chances were ten to one against your living.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is strange: I remember nothing about it. Do you know, it gives me -rather a turn. I have been too busy a man and too occupied with life to think -much of death, and I don’t quite like the sensation of having been so -near to it; though perhaps it is not so bad as one thinks, and Heaven knows it -would have saved me plenty of worry here below,” and Henry sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“I am very grateful to you all,” he went on after a moment’s -pause, “for taking so much trouble about me— especially to you, -Joan, for somehow or other I realised your presence even when I was off my -head. I don’t know how you occupy yourself generally, but I am sure you -are fond of fresh air. It is uncommonly good of you to mew yourself up here -just to look after me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk like that, sir. It is my business.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your business! Why is it your business? You are not a professional -nurse, are you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir, though they offered to pay me to-day,” and she flushed -with indignation as she said it. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, don’t be angry if they did. Why shouldn’t you have a -week’s wage for a week’s work? I suppose you like to earn -something, like the rest of us.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I don’t choose to,” answered Joan, tapping the floor -with her foot: “I’d rather starve. It is my fault that you got into -this trouble, and it is an insult to offer me money because I am helping to -nurse you out of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, there is no need to excite yourself about it. I have no doubt they -thought that you would take a different view, and really I cannot see why you -should not. Tell me what happened on the night that they gave me up: it -interests me.” -</p> - -<p> -Then in a few graphic words Joan sketched the scene so vividly, that Henry -seemed to see himself lying unconscious on the bed, and sinking fast into death -while the doctors watched and whispered round him. -</p> - -<p> -“Were you there all the time?” he asked curiously. -</p> - -<p> -“Most of it, till I was of no further use and could bear no more.” -</p> - -<p> -“What did you do then?” -</p> - -<p> -“I went to my room.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what did you do there? Go to sleep?” -</p> - -<p> -“Go to sleep! I—I—cried my heart out. I mean— that I -said my prayers.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very kind of you to take so much interest in me,” he -answered, in a half bantering voice; then, seeming to understand that she was -very much in earnest, he changed the subject, asking “And what did the -others do?” -</p> - -<p> -“They were all in the bar-parlour; they waited there till it grew dark, -and then they waited on in the dark, for they thought that presently they would -be called in to see you die. At last the change came, and Dr. Childs left you -to tell them when he was sure. I heard his step, and followed him. I had no -business to do it, but I could not help myself. He went into the room and stood -still, trying to make out who was in it, and you might have heard a pin drop. -Then he spoke to your mother, and said that through the mercy of Heaven he -believed that you would live.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Henry; “and what did they say then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody said anything, so far as I could hear; only Miss Levinger -screamed and dropped on the floor in a faint.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why did she do that?” asked Henry. “I suppose that they had -been keeping her there without any dinner, and her nerves were upset.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps they were, sir,” said Joan sarcastically: “most -women’s nerves would be upset when they learned that the man they were -engaged to was coming back to them from the door of the dead.” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly; but I don’t exactly see how the case applies.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan rose slowly, and the work upon which she had been employed fell from her -hand to the floor. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not quite understand you, sir,” she said. “Do you mean -to say that you are not engaged to Miss Levinger?” -</p> - -<p> -“Engaged to Miss Levinger! Certainly not. Whatever may happen to me if I -get out of this, at the present moment I am under no obligations of that sort -to any human creature.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I am sorry that I said so much,” answered Joan. “Please -forget my silly talk: I have made a mistake. I—think that I hear my aunt -coming, and—if you will excuse me, I will go out and get a little -air.” -</p> - -<p> -“All this is Greek to me,” thought Henry, looking after her. -“Surely Ellen cannot have been right! Oh, it is stuff and nonsense, and I -will think no more about it.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br/> -ELLEN GROWS ALARMED.</h2> - - -<p> -On the morrow Henry had his first long interview with his mother and Ellen, who -again detailed to him those particulars of his illness of which he had no -memory, speaking more especially of the events of the afternoon and evening -when he was supposed to be dying. To these Ellen added her version of the -incident of Emma’s fainting fit, which, although it was more ample, did -not differ materially from that given him by Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“I have heard about this,” said Henry, when she paused; “and -I am sorry that my illness should have pained Miss Levinger so much.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have heard about it? Who told you—Dr. Childs?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; Joan Haste, who is nursing me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I can only say that she had no business to do so. It is bad enough -that this young woman, to whom we certainly owe no gratitude, should have -thrust herself upon us at such a terrible moment; but it is worse that, after -acting the spy on poor Emma’s grief, she should have the hardihood to -come and tell you that she had done so, and to describe what passed.” -</p> - -<p> -“You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered; -“but I for one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste— indeed, -had it not been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful -to-day. Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some -interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but to hear -what the doctor had to say.” -</p> - -<p> -“A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said -Ellen drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her -daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation. -</p> - -<p> -A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs. -Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone. -</p> - -<p> -“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen -presently. “I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is -not good for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little -put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly, and -also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I am -sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional -temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness threatening -the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a strain upon her -nerves.” -</p> - -<p> -“A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so. -Really, Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly. -</p> - -<p> -“Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered. -“Either you are the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance -out of sheer contrariness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters, -Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church tower has -not improved my wits.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told -you when you came home?” -</p> - -<p> -“You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or less -disagreeable.” -</p> - -<p> -“I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly in -love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to -contradict, but I must decline to believe that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not -satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger, ask the -girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate confession -that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you believe -me?” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I -think it quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her -excitement, and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen, -that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what slipped from -her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in a false position. -Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to tell you every foolish thing -which I may have uttered during my delirium, what would you think of them, I -wonder? Still, I dare say that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after -this I am sure I do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the -face. And now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or -some one?” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not the -less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her <i>coup</i> had not -come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of better. She had -calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched, that at least his -vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s dramatic exhibition of -feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or both of these conjectures might -be correct; but she was obliged to confess that he had given no sign by which -she could interpret his mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other -way, indeed, for he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of -confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved. In truth, -she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage as soon as -possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away, with the result, as -she now saw, of hindering her own object. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character. She -believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter head she set -down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages that chanced to be -satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not enter into her estimate of -him to presume that he might possess a delicacy of feeling which was lacking in -her own nature; that the idea of being thrust into marriage with any woman in -order to relieve the pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to -the extent of causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to -become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the -premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the part of the -lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might produce a somewhat -similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration of the principles of human -nature would have taught her that this was likely to be the case. -</p> - -<p> -These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest themselves -to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them contemptuously in her search for -a more plausible explanation. Soon she found one which seemed to explain -everything: Joan was the explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes, -and she had noticed that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She -had marked, moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her -even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she knew how -often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness. -</p> - -<p> -Now, although she did not like Joan Haste, and resented as an impertinence, or -worse, her conduct in following Dr. Childs to the parlour and reporting what -took place there to Henry, Ellen could not deny that she was handsome, indeed -beautiful, or that her manners were refined beyond what was to be expected of -one in her station, and her bearing both gracious and dignified. Was it not -possible, Ellen reflected, that these charms had produced an effect even upon -her puritan brother, who already expressed his gratitude with such unnecessary -warmth? -</p> - -<p> -The thought filled her with alarm, for if once Henry became entangled with this -village beauty, she knew enough of him to be sure that there would be an end of -any prospect of his engagement to Emma—at least for the present. -Meanwhile the girl was about him all day and every day, and never had a woman a -better opportunity of carrying her nefarious schemes to a successful issue; for -that Joan had schemes she soon ceased to doubt. -</p> - -<p> -In this dilemma Ellen took counsel with her <i>fiancé,</i> whom she knew -to possess a certain shrewdness; for she preferred to say nothing to her -mother, and Sir Reginald was so unwell that he could not be troubled with such -matters. By this time Edward Milward was aware that the Graves family desired -greatly to bring about a match between Henry and Emma, though he was not aware -how pressing were the money difficulties which led them to be anxious for this -alliance. He listened with interest to Ellen’s tale, then chuckled and -said,— -</p> - -<p> -“Depend upon it you have knocked the right nail on the head as usual, -Ellen. Those sanctimonious fellows like your brother are always the deepest, -and of course he is playing his little game.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what you mean by ‘his little game,’ -Edward, and I wish that you would not use such vulgar expressions to me; nor -can I see how Henry can be playing anything, considering that he never saw this -person till the day of his accident, and that he has been laid up in bed ever -since.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well, he is getting ready to play it, which is much the same thing, -and of course it puts him off the other girl. I am sure I don’t blame him -either, for I think that Joan— what’s her name—is about the -loveliest woman I ever saw, and one can’t wonder that he prefers her to -that—thin ghost of a Miss Levinger with her die-away airs and graces. -After all flesh and blood is the thing, and you may depend upon it Henry thinks -so.” -</p> - -<p> -In this speech, had he but known it, Edward contrived to offend his betrothed -in at least three separate ways, but she thought it prudent to suppress her -resentment, at any rate for the moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think, dear,” Ellen said blandly, “that you could -manage to remember that you are not in a club smoking-room? I did not ask for -these reflections; I asked you to give me your advice as to the best way to -deal with a difficulty.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right, love: please don’t look so superior; and save up your -sarcasm for the wicked Henry. As for my advice, here it is in a nutshell: get -the girl out of his way, and then perhaps he will begin to think of the other -one, to whom you are so anxious to tie him up, though I can’t say that I -consider the connection desirable myself.” -</p> - -<p> -Having delivered himself thus, Edward put his hands into his pockets and -strolled off in a huff. Although he was not thin-skinned, to tell the truth -Ellen’s slings and arrows sometimes irritated this young man. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if she will always go on like this after we are married?” -he thought to himself. “Perhaps she’ll get worse. What’s that -about a green and a dry tree? She’s dry enough anyway when she likes, and -sometimes I think that I am pretty green. By George! if I believed that she -always meant to keep up this game of snubs and sharp answers, fond as I am of -her, I think I would cut the show before it is too late. There are a good many -things that I don’t like about it; I sometimes suspect that the whole set -of them are pretty well broke, and I don’t want to marry into a bankrupt -family. Then that fellow Henry is an infernal prig, not but what I would be -careful to see precious little of him. I wonder why Ellen is so anxious that he -should take up with the Levinger girl? From all I can find out the father is a -disreputable old customer, who made a low marriage, and whom everybody declines -to know. It is shady, deuced shady,” and, filled with these gloomy -musings, Edward made his way into the dining-room to lunch. -</p> - -<p> -Here Ellen, who in the interval had bethought herself that she was showing a -little too much of the iron hand, received him graciously enough: indeed, she -was so affectionate and pleasant in her manner, that before the afternoon was -over Edward’s doubts were dispelled, and he forgot that he had that -morning contemplated a step so serious as the breaking off of his engagement. -</p> - -<p> -However coarsely he might express himself, Ellen had wit enough to see that -Edward’s advice was of the soundest. Certainly it was desirable that Joan -Haste should be got rid of, but how was this to be brought about? She could not -tell her to go, nor could she desire Mrs. Gillingwater to order her out of the -house. Ellen pondered the question deeply, and after sleeping a night over it -she came to the conclusion that she would take Mr. Levinger into her counsel. -She knew him to be a shrewd and resourceful man; she knew, moreover—for -her father had repeated the gist of the conversation between them—that he -was bent upon the marriage of Henry with his daughter; and lastly she knew that -he was the landlord of the Crown and Mitre, in which the Gillingwaters lived. -Surely, therefore, if anyone could get rid of Joan, Mr. Levinger would be able -to do so. -</p> - -<p> -As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in the -dog-cart to lunch at Monk’s Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre on her -way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of Henry. This programme -she carried out, only stopping long enough at the inn, however, to run to her -brother’s room for a minute while the cart waited at the door. Here she -discovered him propped up with pillows, while by his side was seated Joan, -engaged in reading, to him, and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for -poetry in the abstract Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale -of Paolo and Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found -reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very much in -sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning, Henry,” said Ellen. “Good gracious, my dear! -what are you doing?” -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning, Ellen,” he answered. “I am enjoying myself -listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very -nicely indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood -book in hand. -</p> - -<p> -“I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially -so early in the morning,” she said, glancing round, “when I see -that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only -came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the -Levingers. Have you any message for them?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing particular,” he said precisely, and with a slight -hardening of his face, “except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her -note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then; I will go on, as I don’t want to keep the mare -standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.” And -she went without waiting for an answer. -</p> - -<p> -“I wished to ask her how my father was,” said Henry, “but she -never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, -Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don’t think that I will read any -more poetry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years -since I have seen a line of Lancelot and Elaine.” And he looked at her, -waiting for an answer. -</p> - -<p> -“Because,” blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, “because -Miss Graves doesn’t wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is -right, and it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say -that the room wasn’t dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it -yourself after aunt left.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear girl, don’t distress yourself,” Henry answered, with -more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. “I really -am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who -should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite -unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise -on the <i>Times.</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards -Monk’s Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour. -</p> - -<p> -Monk’s Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was -surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however, -stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a -hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an -uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which -were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of -firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly -gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not -allow of their growth. -</p> - -<p> -Descending from the dog-cart, Ellen was shown through the house into the -garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the -shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still. -</p> - -<p> -“How good of you to come, Ellen!” she said, springing -up,—“and so early too.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my -dear,” Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; “it is pleasant -to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have -been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things, -my life at home is one long worry just now.” -</p> - -<p> -“It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,” said Emma -interrogatively. -</p> - -<p> -“Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one -day,” she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. “Edward -is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is -too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an -independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me -like a nurse with a child.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps he will give up that when you are married,” said Emma -doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable -friend—for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she was -rather formidable— as the constant object and recipient of <i>petits -soins</i> and sweet murmured nothings. -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly he will,” answered Ellen decisively. “By the way, I -just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the -note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards, -and to say that he was much touched by your thought of him.” -</p> - -<p> -“They were lilies, not roses,” answered Emma, looking down. -</p> - -<p> -“I meant lilies,—did I say roses?” said Ellen innocently. -“And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried -lately.” -</p> - -<p> -“Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody. It is—my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt -worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen shook her head. “I am not clever, like you,” she said, -smiling, “and I don’t understand parables. If you want my advice -you must come down to my level and speak plainly.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into the -golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel path, that was -bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as though to admire some -particular flower. -</p> - -<p> -“She looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of -hers,” thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; “and really -it would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot out -there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has something to say, -and will come back presently.” -</p> - -<p> -She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path, Emma -turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar tree. -</p> - -<p> -“I will speak plainly,” she said, “though I could not make up -my mind to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellen—so bitterly -ashamed that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be -seen again.” -</p> - -<p> -“And why, my dear?” asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. “What -dreadful crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?” -</p> - -<p> -“No crime, but a folly, which they say is worse,—an unpardonable -folly. You know what I mean,—those words that I said when your brother -was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more -than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my dearest wish -that things should come about between Henry and you as I am sure that they will -come about, now that I know your mind towards him.” -</p> - -<p> -“If they please you, the memory of them tortures me,” Emma -answered, passionately clenching her slim white hands. “Oh! how could I -be so shameless as to declare my— my love for a man who has never spoken -a single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter -indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it is I -cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense uttered in a moment -of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the dreadful truth, that broke -from me, and which I had no power to withhold. I do love him; I have loved him -from the day when I first saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love -him; and that is why I am disgraced.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming -fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has -happened.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept it -secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could guide my life; but now -that I have blurted it, it is dishonoured, and I am dishonoured with it. That I -was myself half dead with the agony of suspense is no excuse: I say that I am -dishonoured.” -</p> - -<p> -To the listening Ellen all these sentiments, natural as they might be to a girl -of Emma’s exalted temperament and spotless purity of mind, were as -speeches made in the Hebrew tongue indeed, within herself she did not hesitate -to characterise her friend as “a high-flown little idiot.” But, as -she could not quite see what would be the best line to take in answering her, -she satisfied herself with shaking her head as though in dissent, and looking -sympathetic. -</p> - -<p> -“What torments me most,” went on Emma, who by now was thoroughly -worked up—“I can say it to you, for you are a woman and will -understand—is the thought that those shameless words might possibly come -to your brother’s ears. Three people heard them,—Lady Graves, -yourself and my father. Of course I know that neither you nor your mother would -betray me, for, as I say, you are women and will feel for me; but, oh! I cannot -be sure of my father. I know what he desires; and if he thought that he could -advance his object, I am not certain that I could trust him no, although he has -promised to be silent: though, indeed, to tell your brother would be the surest -way to defeat himself; for, did he learn the truth, such a man would despise me -for ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear girl,” said Ellen boldly, for she felt that the situation -required courage, “do calm yourself. Of course no one would dream of -betraying to Henry what you insist upon calling an indiscretion, but what I -thought a very beautiful avowal made under touching circumstances.” Then -she paused, and added reflectively, “I only see one danger.” -</p> - -<p> -“What danger?” asked Emma. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it has to do with that girl—Joan somebody— who brought -about all this trouble, and who is nursing Henry, very much against my wish. I -happen to have found out that she was listening at the door when Dr. Childs -came into the room that night, just before you fainted, and it is impossible to -say how long she had been there, and equally impossible to answer for her -discretion.” -</p> - -<p> -“Joan Haste—that lovely woman! Of course she heard, and of course -she will tell him. I was afraid of her the moment that I saw her, and now I -begin to see why, though I believe that this is only the beginning of the evils -which she will bring upon me. I am sure of it: I feel it in my heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you are alarming yourself quite unnecessarily, Emma. It is -possible that this girl may repeat anything that she chances to overhear, and -it is probable that she will do her best to strike up a flirtation with Henry, -if he is foolish enough to allow it; for persons of this kind always avail -themselves of such an opportunity—generally with a view to future -compensation. But Henry is a cautious individual, who has never been known to -commit himself in that fashion, and I don’t see why he should begin now -though I do think it would be a good thing if that young lady could be sent -about her business. At the worst, however, there would only be some temporary -entanglement, such as happens every day, and means nothing serious.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing serious? I am sure it would be serious enough if that girl had -to do with it: she is not a flirt—she looks too strong and earnest for -that kind of thing; and if once she made him fond of her, she would never let -him go.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps,” answered Ellen; “but first of all she has to make -him fond of her, and I have reasons for knowing, even if she wishes to do this, -that she will find it a little difficult.” -</p> - -<p> -“What reasons?” asked Emma. -</p> - -<p> -“Only that a man like Henry does not generally fall in love with two -women at the same time,” Ellen answered drily. -</p> - -<p> -“Is he—is he already in love, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dear; unless I am very much mistaken, he is already in -love—with you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I doubt it,” Emma answered, shaking her head. “But even if -it should be so, there will be an end of it if he hears of my behaviour on that -night. And he is sure to hear: I know that he will hear.” -</p> - -<p> -And, as though overcome by the bitterness of her position, Emma put her hands -before her eyes, then turned suddenly and walked into the house. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br/> -ELLEN FINDS A REMEDY.</h2> - - -<p> -When Emma had gone Ellen settled herself comfortably in a garden chair, sighed, -and began to fan her face with a newspaper which lay at hand. Her mind was -agitated, for it had become obvious to her that the position was full of -complications, which at present her well-meant efforts had increased rather -than diminished. -</p> - -<p> -“I only hope that I may be forgiven for all the white lies I have been -forced to tell this morning,” she reflected. Ellen did not consider her -various embellishments of the truth as deserving of any harsher name, since it -seemed to her not too sensitive conscience, that if Jove laughs at -lovers’ perjuries, he must dismiss with a casual smile the prevarications -of those who wish to help other people to become lovers. -</p> - -<p> -Still Ellen felt aggrieved, foreseeing the possibility of being found out and -placed in awkward positions. Oh, what fools they were, and how angry she was -with both of them—with Emma for her school-girlish sentiment, and with -Henry for his idiotic pride and his headstrong obstinacy! Surely the man must -be mad to wish to fling away such a girl as Emma and her fortune, to say -nothing of the romantic devotion that she cherished for him, little as he -deserved it a devotion which Ellen imagined would have been flattering to the -self-conceit of any male. It was hard on her that she should be obliged to -struggle against such rank and wrong-headed stupidity, and even driven to -condescend to plots and falsehoods. After all, it was not for her own benefit -that she did this, or only remotely so, since she was well provided for; though -it was true that, should she become involved in an immediate financial scandal, -her matrimonial prospects might be affected. -</p> - -<p> -No, it was for the benefit of her family, the interests of which to do her -justice, Ellen had more at heart than any other earthly thing, her own welfare -of course excepted. Should this marriage fall through, ruin must overtake their -house, and their name would be lost, in all probability never to be heard -again. It seemed impossible to her that her brother should wish to reject the -salvation which was so freely proffered to him; and yet, maddening as the -thought might be, she could not deny that she saw signs of such a desire. Well, -she would not give up the game; tired as she was of it, she would fight to the -last ditch. Were she to draw back now, she felt that she should fail in her -most sacred duty. -</p> - -<p> -As Ellen came to this determination she saw Mr. Levinger walking towards her. -He was leaning on his stick, as usual, and looked particularly refined in his -summer suit and grey wide-awake hat. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Miss Graves?” he said, in his gentle voice: -“I heard that you were here, but did not come out because I thought you -might wish to have a chat with Emma. Where has she gone?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” Ellen answered, as they shook hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I dare say that she will be back presently. How hot it is here! -Would you like to come and sit in my study till luncheon is ready?” And -he led the way to a French window that opened on to the lawn. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger’s study was a very comfortable room, and its walls were -lined with books almost to the ceiling. Books also lay about on the desk. -Evidently he had risen from reading one of them, and Ellen noticed with -surprise that it was Jeremy Taylor’s “Holy Living.” -</p> - -<p> -“How is your brother to-day?” he asked, when they were seated. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen reflected a moment, and determined to take advantage of the opportunity -to unbosom herself. -</p> - -<p> -“He is doing as well as possible, thank you. Still I am anxious about -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why? I thought that he was clear of all complications except the chance -of a limp like mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not mean that I was anxious about his health, Mr. Levinger. I am -sure that you will forgive me if I am frank with you, so I will speak -out.” -</p> - -<p> -He bowed expectantly, and Ellen went on: -</p> - -<p> -“My father has told me, and indeed I know it from what you have said to -me at different times, that for various reasons you would be glad if Henry and -Emma—made a match of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Again Mr. Levinger bowed. -</p> - -<p> -“I need not say that our family would be equally glad; and that Emma -herself would be glad we learned from what she said the other day. There -remains therefore only one person who could object—Henry himself. As you -know, he is a curiously sensitive man, especially where money matters are -concerned, and I believe firmly that the fact of this marriage being so greatly -to his advantage, and to that of his family, is the one thing which makes him -hesitate, for I am sure, from the way in which he has spoken of her, that he is -much attracted by Emma. Had he come here to stay, however, I fancy that all -this would have passed off, and by now they might have been happily engaged, or -on the verge of it; but you see, this accident happened, and he is laid -up—unfortunately, not here.” -</p> - -<p> -“He will not be laid up for ever, Miss Graves. As you say, I am anxious -for this marriage, and I hope that it will come about in due course.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, he will not be laid up for ever; but what I fear is, that it may be -too long for Emma’s and his own welfare.” -</p> - -<p> -“You must pardon me, but I do not quite understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you must pardon me if I speak to you without reserve. You may have -noticed that there is a singularly handsome girl at the Bradmouth inn. I mean -Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -At the mention of this name Mr. Levinger rose suddenly from his chair and -walked to the end of the room, where he appeared to lose himself in the -contemplation of the morocco backs of an encyclopedia. Presently he turned, and -it struck Ellen that his face was strangely agitated, though at this distance -she could not be sure. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know the girl,” he said in his usual voice—“the -one who brought about the accident. What of her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only this: I fear that, unless something is done to prevent it, she may -bring about another and a greater accident. Listen, Mr. Levinger. I have no -facts to go on, or at least very few, but I have my eyes and my instinct. If I -am not mistaken, Joan Haste is in love with Henry, and doing her best to make -him in love with her—an effort in which, considering her opportunities, -her great personal advantages, and the fact that men generally do become fond -of their nurses, she is likely enough to succeed, for he is just the kind of -person to make a fool of himself in this way.” -</p> - -<p> -“What makes you think so?” asked Mr. Levinger, with evident anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -“A hundred things: when he was not himself he would scarcely allow her -out of his sight, and now it is much the same. But I go more by what I saw upon -her face during all that day of the crisis, and the way in which she looks at -him when she fancies that no one is observing her. Of course I may be wrong, -and a passing flirtation with a village beauty is not such a very serious -matter, or would not be in the case of most men; but, on the other hand, -perhaps I am right, and where an obstinate person like my brother Henry is -concerned, the consequences might prove fatal to all our hopes.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger seemed to see the force of this contention, and indeed Ellen had -put the case very sensibly and clearly. At any rate he did not try to combat it. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you suggest?” he asked. “You are a woman of -experience and common sense, and I am sure that you have thought of a remedy -before speaking to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“My suggestion is, that Joan should be got out of the way as quickly as -possible; and I have consulted you, Mr. Levinger, because your interest in the -matter is as strong as my own, and you are the only person who can get rid of -her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you say that?” he asked, rising for the second time. -“The girl is of age, and I cannot control her movements.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she? I was not aware of her precise age,” answered Ellen; -“but I have noticed, Mr. Levinger, that you seem to have a great deal of -authority in all sorts of unsuspected places, and perhaps if you think it over -a little you may find that you have some here. For instance, I believe that you -own the Crown and Mitre, and I should fancy, from what I have seen of her, that -Mrs. Gillingwater, the aunt, is a kind of person who might be approached with -some success. There goes the bell for luncheon, and as I think I have said -everything that occurs to me, I will run up to Emma’s room and wash my -hands.” -</p> - -<p> -“The bell for luncheon,” mused Mr. Levinger, looking after her. -“Well, I have not often been more glad to hear it. That woman has an -alarming way of putting things; and I wonder how much she knows, or if she was -merely stabbing in the dark? Gone to wash her hands, has she? Yes, I see, and -left me to wash mine, if I can. Anyway, she is sharp as a needle, and she is -right. The man will have no chance with that girl if she chooses to lay siege -to him. Her mother before her was fascinating enough, and she was nothing -compared to Joan, either in looks or mind. She must be got rid of: but -how?” and he looked round as though searching for a clue, till his eye -fell upon the book that lay open before him. -</p> - -<p> -“’Holy Living’,” he said, shutting it impatiently: -“no more of that for me to-day, or for some time to come. I have other -things to think of now, things that I hoped I had done with. Well, there goes -the bell for luncheon, and I must go too, but without washing my hands,” -and he stared at his delicate fingers. “After all, they do not look so -very dirty; even Ellen Graves will scarcely notice them;” and laughing -bitterly at his own jest he left the room. -</p> - -<p> -That afternoon Mr. Levinger had a long conversation with Mrs. Gillingwater, -whom he sent for to see him after Ellen had gone. -</p> - -<p> -With the particulars of this interview we need not concern ourselves, but the -name of Samuel Rock was mentioned in it.<br/> -</p> - -<p> -On the following morning it chanced that Mr. Samuel Rock received a letter from -Mr. Levinger referring to the erection of a cattle-shed upon some fifty acres -of grass land which he held as that gentleman’s tenant. This cattle-shed -Samuel had long desired; indeed, it is not too much to say that he had -clamoured for it, for he did not belong to that class of tenant which considers -the landlord’s pocket, or makes shift without improvements when they can -be had by importunity. Consequently, as was suggested in the letter, he -hastened to present himself at Monk’s Lodge on that very afternoon, -adorned in his shiniest black coat and his broadest-brimmed wide-awake. -</p> - -<p> -“The man looks more like a Methodist parson than ever,” thought Mr. -Levinger, as he watched his advent. “I wonder if she will have anything -to say to him? Well, I must try.” -</p> - -<p> -In due course Samuel Rock was shown in, and took the chair that was offered to -him, upon the very edge of which he seated himself in a gingerly fashion, his -broad hat resting on his knee. Mr. Rock’s manner towards his landlord was -neither defiant nor obsequious, but rather an unhappy combination of these two -styles. He did not touch his forehead according to the custom of the old-times -tenant, nor did he offer to shake hands. His greeting consisted of a jerky bow, -lacking alike dignity and politeness, a half-hearted salute which seemed to aim -at compromise between a certain respect for tradition and a proper sense of the -equality of all men in the sight of Heaven. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Mr. Rock?” said Mr. Levinger cheerfully. “I -thought that I would ask you to have a chat with me on the matter of that -cowshed, about which you spoke at the audit last January—rather strongly, -if I remember.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Levinger, sir,” answered Samuel, in a hesitating but -mellifluous voice. “I shall be very glad to speak about it. A shed is -needed on those marshes, sir, where we look to let the cattle lie out till late -in autumn, un-tempered to all the winds of heaven, which blow keen down there, -and also in the spring; and I hope you see your way to build one, Mr. Levinger, -else I fear that I shall have to give you notice and find others more -accommodating.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really! do you think so? Well, if you wish to do that, I am ready to -meet you half way and accept short service, so that you can clear out next -Michaelmas; for I don’t mind telling you that I know another party who -will be glad to take the land.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, sir, I was not aware,” answered Samuel, running his -fingers through his straight hair uncomfortably—for the last thing that -he desired was to part with these particular marshes. “Not that I should -wish to stand between a landlord and a better offer in these times. Still, Mr. -Levinger, I don’t hold it right, as between man and man, to slip like -that behind a tenant’s back as has always paid his rent.” -</p> - -<p> -The conversation, which was a long one, need not be pursued further. Samuel was -of the opinion that Mr. Levinger should bear the entire cost of the shed, which -the latter declined to do. At length, however, an arrangement was effected that -proved mutually satisfactory; the “said landlord” agreeing to find -all material necessary, and to pay the skilled labour, and the “said -tenant” undertaking to dig the holes for the posts and to cut the reed -for thatch. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, Mr. Rock,” said Levinger, as he signed a note of their -contract, “it is very well for you to pretend that you are hard up; but I -know well enough, notwithstanding the shocking times, that you are the warmest -man in these parts. You see you began well, with plenty of capital; and though -you rent some, you have been wise enough to keep your own land in hand, and not -trust it to the tender mercies of a tenant. That, combined with good farming, -careful living and hard work, is what has made you rich, when many others are -on the verge of ruin. You ought to be getting a wife, Mr. Rock, and starting a -family of your own, for if anything happened to you there is nowhere for the -property to go.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are in the Lord’s hands, sir, and man is but grass,” -answered Samuel sententiously, though it was clear from his face that he did -not altogether appreciate this allusion to his latter end. “Still, under -the mercy of Heaven, having my health, and always being careful to avoid -chills, I hope to see a good many younger men out yet. And as for getting -married, Mr. Levinger, I think it is the whole duty of man, or leastways half -of it, when he has earned enough to support a wife and additions which she may -bring with her. But the thing is to find the woman, sir, for it isn’t -every girl that a careful Christian would wish to wed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so, Mr. Rock. Have a glass of port, won’t -you?”—and Mr. Levinger poured out some wine from a decanter which -stood on the table and pushed it towards him. Then, taking a little himself by -way of company, he added, “I should have thought that you could find a -suitable person about here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your health, sir,” said Samuel, drinking off the port and setting -down the glass, which Mr. Levinger refilled. “I am not saying, -sir,” he added, “that such a girl cannot be found,—I am not -even saying that I have not found such a girl: that’s one thing, marrying -is another.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! indeed,” said Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -Again Samuel lifted his glass and drank half its contents. The wine was of the -nature that is known as “full-bodied,” and, not having eaten for -some hours, it began to take effect on him. Samuel grew expansive. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder, sir,” he said, “if I might take a liberty? I -wonder if I might ask your advice? I should be grateful if you would give it to -me, for I know that you have the cleverest head of any gentleman in these -parts. Also, sir, you are no talker.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall be delighted if I can be of any service to an old friend and -tenant like yourself,” answered Mr. Levinger airily. “What is the -difficulty?” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel finished the second glass of wine, and felt it go ever so little to his -head; for which he was not sorry, as it made him eloquent. -</p> - -<p> -“The difficulty is this, sir. Thank you—just a taste more. I -don’t drink wine myself, as a rule—it is too costly; but this is -real good stuff, and maketh glad the heart of man, as in the Bible. Well, sir, -here it is in a nutshell: I want to marry a girl; I am dead set on it; but she -won’t have me, or at least she puts me off.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not try another, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I don’t want no other, Mr. Levinger, sir,” he -answered, suddenly taking fire. The wine had done its work with him, and -moreover this was the one subject that had the power to break through the cold -cunning which was a characteristic of his nature. “I want this girl or -none, and I mean to have her if I wait half a lifetime for her.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are in earnest, at any rate, which is a good augury for your -success. And who may the lady be?” -</p> - -<p> -“Who may she be? Why, I thought you knew! There’s only one about -here that she could be. Joan Haste, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Joan Haste! Ah! Yes, she is a handsome and attractive girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“Handsome and attractive? Eh! she is all that. To me she is what the sun -is to the corn and the water to the fish. I can’t live without her. Look -here: I have watched her for years, ever since she was a child. I have summered -her and wintered her, as the saying is, thinking that I wouldn’t make no -mistake about her, whatever I might feel, nor give myself away in a hurry, -seeing that I wanted to keep what I earn for myself, and not to spend it on -others just because a pretty face chanced to take my fancy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you have been a little too careful under the circumstances, Mr. -Rock.” -</p> - -<p> -“Maybe I have: anyway, it has come home to me now. A month or so back I -spoke out, because I couldn’t keep myself in no longer.” -</p> - -<p> -“To Joan Haste?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, to Joan Haste. Her aunt knew about it before, but she didn’t -seem able to help me much.” -</p> - -<p> -“And what did Joan say?” -</p> - -<p> -“She said that she did not love me, and that she never would love me nor -marry me; but she said also that she had no thought for any other man.” -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me, Mr. Rock, but did this interview happen before Captain Graves -and Joan Haste met with their accident in Ramborough Abbey? I want to fix the -date, that’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -“It happened on that same afternoon, sir. The Captain must have come -along just after I left.” -</p> - -<p> -And Samuel paused, passing his white hands over each other uneasily, as though -he were washing them, for Mr. Levinger’s question seemed to suggest some -new and unpleasant idea to his mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, there isn’t much more to say, sir, except that I think I was -a bit unlucky in the way I put it to her; for it slipped out of my mouth about -her father never having had a name, and that seemed to anger her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it was not the best possible way to ingratiate yourself with the -young woman,” replied Mr. Levinger sweetly. “So you came to no -understanding with her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I did and I didn’t. I found out that she is afraid for her -life of her aunt, who favours me; so I made a bargain with her that, if she -would let the matter stand open for six months, I’d promise to say -nothing to Mrs. Gillingwater.” -</p> - -<p> -“I see: you played upon the girl’s fears. Doubtful policy again, I -think.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was the best I could do, sir; for starving dogs must eat offal, as -the saying is. And now, Mr. Levinger, if you can help me, I shall be a grateful -man all my days. They do say down in Bradmouth that you know something about -Joan’s beginnings, and have charge of her in a way, and that is why I -made bold to speak to you; for I only promised to be mum to her aunt.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do they indeed, Mr. Rock? Truly in Bradmouth their tongues are long and -their ears open. And yet, as you are seeking to marry her, I do not mind -telling you that there is enough truth in this report to give it colour. As it -chances, I did know something of Joan’s father, though I am not at -liberty to mention his name. He was a gentleman, and has been dead many years; -but he left me, not by deed but in an informal manner, in a position of some -responsibility towards her, and entrusted me with a sum of money—small, -but sufficient to be employed for her benefit, at my entire discretion, which -was only hampered by one condition—namely, that she should not be -educated as a lady. Now, Mr. Rock, I have told you so much in order to make -matters clear; but I will add this to it: if you repeat a single word, either -to Joan herself or to anybody else, you need hope for no help from me in your -suit. You see I am perfectly frank with you. I ask no promises, but I appeal to -your interests.” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand, sir; but the mischief of it is, whether you wished or not, -that you have made a lady of her, and that is why she looks down on me; or -perhaps, being in her blood, it will out.” -</p> - -<p> -“It would be possible to suggest other reasons for her unwillingness to -accept your offer,” replied Mr. Levinger drily; “but this is -neither here nor there. On the whole I approve of your suit, provided that you -are ready to make proper settlements upon Joan, for I know you are a thriving -man, and I see that you are attached to her.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll do anything that I can, sir, for I have no mind to stint -money in this matter. But though you are so kind as to wish me well, I -don’t see how that sets me any forrarder with Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will in a few days’ time, though. And now I’ve -got a bit of advice to give you: don’t you bother about that six -months’ promise. You go at her again in a week, let us say. You know how -she is employed now, do you not?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have heard that she is helping to nurse the Captain.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so: she is helping to nurse the Captain. Now, please understand -that I make no imputations, but I don’t know if you consider this a -suitable occupation for a beautiful young woman whom you happen to wish to -marry. Captain Graves is a very fine fellow, and people sometimes grow intimate -under such circumstances. Joan told you that she cared for no man on the tenth -of June. Perhaps if you wait till the tenth of December she may not be able to -say so much.” -</p> - -<p> -By this time the poison of Mr. Levinger’s hints had sunk deep into his -hearer’s mind; though had he known Samuel’s character more -thoroughly, he might have thought the danger of distilling it greater than any -advantage that was to be gained thereby. Indeed, a minute later he regretted -having said so much, for, glancing at him, he saw that Rock was deeply -affected. His sallow face had become red, his quivering lips were livid, and he -was snatching at his thin beard. -</p> - -<p> -“Damn him!” he said, springing to his feet: “if he leads her -that way, fine fellow or not, I’ll do for him. I tell you that if he -wants to keep a whole skin, he had better leave my ewe-lamb alone.” -</p> - -<p> -In an instant Mr. Levinger saw that he had set fire to a jealousy fierce enough -to work endless mischief, and too late he tried to stamp out the flame. -</p> - -<p> -“Sit down, sir,” he said quietly, but in the tone of one who at -some time in his career had been accustomed to the command of men; “sit -down, and never dare to speak before me like that again. Now,” he added, -as Samuel obeyed him, “you will apologise to me for those words, and you -will dismiss all such thoughts from your mind. Otherwise I tell you that I take -back everything I have said, and that you shall never even speak to Joan Haste -again.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel’s fit of passion had passed by now, or perhaps it had been -frightened away, for his face grew pale, paler than usual, and the constant -involuntary movement of his furtive hands was the only sign left of the storm -that shook him. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a whining voice: “the -Lord knows I beg your pardon; and what’s more, I didn’t mean -nothing of what I said. It was jealousy that made me speak so, jealousy bitter -as the grave; and when I heard you talk of her getting fond of that -Captain—my Joan fond of another man, a gentleman too, who would be bound -to treat her as her mother was treated by some villain—it seemed as -though all the wickedness in the world bubbled up in my heart and spoke through -my mouth.” -</p> - -<p> -“There, that will do,” answered Mr. Levinger testily. “See -that you do not let such wickedness bubble again in your heart, or anywhere -else, that’s all; for at the first sign of it—and remember I shall -have my eye on you—there will be an end of your courtship. And now you -had better go. Take my advice and ask her again in a week or so; you can come -and tell me how you get on. Good-day.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel picked up his broad hat, bowed, and departed, walking delicately, like -Agag, as though he expected at every moment to put his foot upon an egg. -</p> - -<p> -“Upon my word,” thought Mr. Levinger, “I’m half afraid -of that fellow! I wonder if it is safe to let the girl marry him. On the whole -I should think so; he has a great deal to recommend him, and this kind of thing -will pass off. She isn’t the woman to stand much of it. Anyway, it seems -necessary for everybody’s welfare, though somehow I doubt if good will -come of all this scheming.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> -A MEETING BY THE MERE.</h2> - - -<p> -Mr. Levinger’s confidential interview with Mrs. Gillingwater was not long -in bearing fruit. Joan soon became aware that her aunt was watching her -closely, and most closely of all whenever she chanced to be in attendance on -Henry, with whom she was now left alone as little as possible. The effect of -this knowledge was to produce an intense irritation in her mind. Her conscience -was guilty, but Joan was not a woman to take warning from a guilty conscience. -Indeed, its sting only drove her faster along the downward road, much as a -high-mettled horse often rebels furiously under the punishment of the whip. -There was a vein of self-willed obstinacy and of -“devil-may-cared-ness” in Joan’s nature that, dormant -hitherto, at this crisis of her life began to assert itself with alarming -power. Come what might, she was determined to have her way and not to be -thwarted. There is this to be said in excuse for her, that now her whole being -was dominated by her passion for Henry. In the ordinary sense of the word it -was not love that possessed her, nor was it strictly what is understood by -passion, but rather, if it can be defined at all, some strange new force, some -absorbing influence that included both love and passion, and yet had mysterious -qualities of its own. Fortunately, with English women such infatuations are not -common, though they are to be found frequently enough among people of the Latin -race, where sometimes they result in blind tragedies that seem almost -inexplicable to our sober sense. But, whatever the cause, Joan had fallen a -victim to this fate, and now it mastered her, body and mind and soul. She had -never cared for any one before, and on Henry she let loose the pent-up -affections of a lifetime. No breath of passion had ever moved her, and now a -look from his eyes or a touch of his hand stirred all the fibres of her nature -as the wind stirs every leaf upon a tree. He was her darling, her desire. Till -she had learnt to love him she had not known the powers and the possibilities -of life, and if she could win his love she would even have been willing to pay -for it at the price of her own death. -</p> - -<p> -The approach of such an infatuation would have terrified most girls: they would -have crushed it, or put themselves beyond its reach before it took hold of -them. But then the majority of young English women, even of those who belong to -the humbler walks of life, do not stand by their own strength alone. Either -they have an inherited sense of the proprieties that amounts almost to an -instinct, or they possess strong religious principles, or there are those about -them who guide and restrain any dangerous tendency in their natures. At the -very least they are afraid of losing the respect and affection of their friends -and relatives, and of becoming a mark for the sneers and scandal of the world -in which they move. -</p> - -<p> -In Joan’s case these influences were for the most part lacking. From -childhood she had lived beneath the shadow of a shame that, in some degree, had -withered her moral sense; no father or mother gave her their tender guidance, -and of religion she had been taught so little that, though she conformed to its -outward ceremonies, it could not be said to have any real part in her life. -Relatives she had none except her harsh and coarse-minded aunt; her few friends -made at a middle-class school were now lost to her, for with the girls of her -own rank in the village she would not associate, and those of better standing -either did, or affected to look down upon her. In short, her character was -compounded of potentialities for good and evil; she was sweet and -strong-natured and faithful, but she had not learned that these qualities are -of little avail to bring about the happiness or moral well-being of her who -owns them, unless they are dominated by a sense of duty. Having such a sense, -the best of us are liable to error in this direction or in that; wanting it, we -must indeed be favoured if we escape disaster among the many temptations of -life. It was Joan’s misfortune rather than her fault, for she was the -victim of her circumstances and not of any innate depravity, that she lacked -this controlling power, and in this defenceless state found herself suddenly -exposed to the fiercest temptation that can assail a woman of her character and -gifts, the temptation to give way to a love which, if it did not end in empty -misery, could only bring shame upon herself and ceaseless trouble and remorse -to its object. -</p> - -<p> -Thus it came about that during these weeks Joan lived in a wild and fevered -dream, lived for the hour only, thinking little and caring less of what the -future might bring forth. Her purpose, so far as she can be said to have had -one, was to make Henry love her, and to the consummation of this end she -brought to bear all her beauty and every power of her mind. That success must -mean sorrow to her and to him did not affect her, though in her wildest moments -she never dreamed of Henry as her husband. She loved him to-day, and to-day he -was there for her to love: let the morrow look to itself, and the griefs that -it might bring. -</p> - -<p> -If such was Joan’s attitude towards Henry, it may be asked what was -Henry’s towards Joan. The girl attracted him strangely, after a fashion -in which he had never been attracted by a woman before. Her fresh and -ever-varying loveliness was a continual source of delight to him, as it must -have been to any man; but by degrees he became conscious that it was not her -beauty alone which moved him. Perhaps it was her tenderness—a tenderness -apparent in every word and gesture; or more probably it may have been the -atmosphere of love that surrounded her, of love directed towards himself, which -gradually conquered him mind and body, and broke down the barrier of his -self-control. Hitherto Henry had never cared for any woman, and if women had -cared for him he had not understood it. Now he was weak and he was worried, and -in his way he also was rebellious, and fighting against a marriage that men and -circumstances combined to thrust upon him. Under such conditions it was not -perhaps unnatural that he should shrink back from the strict path of interest, -and follow that of a spontaneous affection. Joan had taken his fancy from the -first moment that he saw her, she had won his gratitude by her bravery and her -gentle devotion, and she was a young and beautiful woman. Making some slight -allowance for the frailties of human nature, perhaps we need not seek for any -further explanation of his future conduct. -</p> - -<p> -For a week or more nothing of importance occurred between them. Indeed, they -were very seldom alone together, for whenever Joan’s duty took her to the -sick room Mrs. Gillingwater, whom Henry detested, made a point of being -present, or did she chance to be called away, his sister Ellen would be certain -to appear to take her place, accompanied at times by Edward Milward. -</p> - -<p> -At length, on a certain afternoon, Mrs. Gillingwater ordered Joan to go out -walking. Joan did not wish to go out, for the weather threatened rain, also for -her own reasons she preferred to remain where she was. But her aunt was -peremptory, and Joan started, setting her face towards Ramborough Abbey. Very -soon it came on to rain and she had no umbrella, but this accident did not -deter her. She had been sent out to walk, and walk she would. To tell the -truth, she was thinking little of the weather, for her mind was filled with -resentment against her aunt. It was unbearable that she should be interfered -with and ordered about like a child. There were a hundred things that she -wished to do in the house. Who would give Captain Graves his tea? And she was -sure that he would never remember about the medicine unless she was there to -remind him. -</p> - -<p> -As Joan proceeded on her walk along the edge of the cliff, she noticed the -figure of a man, standing about a quarter of a mile to her right on the crest -or hog’s back of land, beyond which lay the chain of melancholy meres, -and wondered vaguely what he could be doing there in such weather. At length it -occurred to her that it was time to return, for now she was near to Ramborough -Abbey. She was weary of the sight of the sea, that moaned sullenly beneath her, -half hidden by the curtain of the rain; so she struck across the ridge of land, -heedless of the wet saline grasses that swept against her skirt, purposing to -walk home by the little sheep-track which follows the edge of the meres in the -valley. As she was crossing the highest point of the ridge she saw the -man’s figure again. Suddenly it disappeared, and the thought struck her -that he might have been following her, keeping parallel to her path. For a -moment Joan hesitated, for the country just here was very lonely, especially in -such weather; but the next she dismissed her fears, being courageous by nature, -and passed on towards the first mere. Doubtless this person was a shepherd -looking for a lost sheep, or perhaps a gamekeeper. -</p> - -<p> -The aspect of the lakes was so dreary, and the path so sopping wet, that soon -Joan began to wish that she had remained upon the cliff. However, she trudged -on bravely, the rain beating in her face till her thin dress was soaked and -clung to her shape in a manner that was picturesque but uncomfortable. At the -head of the second mere the sheep-walk ran past some clumps of high reeds; and -as she approached them Joan, whose eye for natural objects was quick, observed -that something had disturbed the wild fowl which haunted the place, for a heron -and a mallard rose and circled high in the air, and a brace of curlew zigzagged -away against the wind, uttering plaintive cries that reached her for long after -they vanished into the mist. Now she had come to the first clump of reeds, when -she heard a stir behind them, and a man stepped forward and stood in the middle -of the path within three paces of her. -</p> - -<p> -The man was Samuel Rock, clad in a long cloak; and, recognising him, Joan -understood that she had been waylaid. She halted and said angrily—for her -first feeling was one of indignation: -</p> - -<p> -“What are you doing here, Mr. Rock?” -</p> - -<p> -“Walking, Miss Haste,” he answered nervously; “the same as -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is not true, Mr. Rock: you were hiding behind those reeds.” -</p> - -<p> -“I took shelter there against the rain.” -</p> - -<p> -“I see; you took shelter from the rain, and on the weather side of the -reeds,” she said contemptuously. “Well, do not let me keep you -standing in this wet.” And she attempted to pass him. -</p> - -<p> -“It is no use telling you lies,” he muttered sullenly: “I -came here to speak to you, where there ain’t none to disturb us.” -And as he spoke Samuel placed himself in such a position that it was impossible -for her to escape him without actually breaking into a run. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you follow me,” she said in an indignant voice— -“after what you promised, too? Stand aside and let me go home.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel made no move, but a curious light came into his blue eyes, a light that -was not pleasant to see. -</p> - -<p> -“I am thinking I’ve stood aside enough, Joan,” he answered, -“and I ain’t a-going to stand aside till all the mischief is done -and I am ruined. As for promises, they may go hang: I can’t keep no more -of them. So please, you’ll just stand for once, and listen to what I have -to say to you. If you are wet you can take my cloak. I don’t mind the -rain, and I seem to want some cooling.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’d rather drown than touch anything that belongs to you,” -she replied, for her hatred of the man mastered her courtesy and reason. -“Say what you’ve got to say and let me go on.” -</p> - -<p> -The remark was an unfortunate one, for it awoke in Samuel’s breast the -fury that accompanied and underlay his passion, that fury which had astonished -Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you, now!” he broke out, his lips turning white with rage. -“Well, if half I hear is true, there’s others whose things you -don’t mind touching.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean, Mr. Rock?” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that Captain whom you’re not ashamed to be hanging after -all day long. Oh, I know about you. I heard how you was found holding him in -your arms, the first day that you met him by the tower yonder, after -you’d been flirting with him like any street girl, till you brought him -to break his leg. Yes, holding him in those arms of yours—nothing -less.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! how dare you! How dare you!” she murmured, for no other words -would come to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Dare? I dare anything. You’ve worked me up to that, my beauty. Now -I dare ask you when you’ll let me make an honest woman of you, if it -isn’t too late.” -</p> - -<p> -By this time Joan was positively speechless, so great were the rage and -loathing with which this man and his words filled her. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Joan,” he went on, with a sudden change of tone, “do you -forgive me if I have said sharp things, for it’s you that drives me to -them with your cruelty; and I’m ready to forgive you all yours—ay! -I’d bear to hear them again, for you look so beautiful when you are like -that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Forgive you!” gasped Joan. -</p> - -<p> -But he did not seem to hear. “Let’s have done with this cat-and-dog -quarrelling,” he went on; “let’s make it up and get married, -the sooner the better—to-morrow if you like. You will never regret it; -you’ll be happier then than with that Captain who loves Miss Levinger, -not you; and I, I shall be happy too—happy, happy!” And he flung -his arms wide, in a kind of ecstasy. -</p> - -<p> -Of all this speech only one sentence seemed to reach Joan’s -understanding, at any rate at the time: “who loves Miss Levinger, not -you.” Oh! was it true? Did Captain Graves really love Miss Levinger as -she knew that Emma loved him? The man spoke certainly, as though he had -knowledge. Even in the midst of her unspeakable anger, the thought pierced her -like a spear and caused her face to soften and her eyes to grow troubled. -</p> - -<p> -Samuel saw these signs, and misinterpreted them, thinking that her resentment -was yielding beneath his entreaties. For a moment he stood searching his mind -for more words, but unable to find them; then suddenly he sought to clinch the -matter in another fashion, for, following the promptings of an instinct that -was natural enough under the circumstances, however ill-advised it might be, -suddenly he caught Joan in his long arms, and drawing her to him, kissed her -twice passionately upon the face. At first Joan scarcely seemed to understand -what had happened—indeed, it was not until Samuel, encouraged by his -success, was about to renew his embraces, that she awoke to the situation. Then -her action was prompt enough. She was a strong woman, and the emergency doubled -her strength. With a quick twisting movement of her form and a push of her -hands, she shook off Samuel so effectively, that in staggering back his foot -slipped in the greasy soil and he fell upon his side, clutching in his hand a -broad fragment from the bosom of Joan’s dress, at which he had caught to -save himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Now,” she said, as Samuel rose slowly from the mire, “listen -to me. You have had your say, and I will have mine. First understand this: if -ever you try to kiss me again it will be the worse for you; for your own sake I -advise you not, for I think that I should kill you if I could. I hate you, -Samuel Rock, for you have lied to me, and you have insulted me in a way that no -woman can forgive. I will never marry you I had rather beg my bread; so if you -are wise, you will forget all about me, or at the least keep out of my -way.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel faced the beautiful woman, who, notwithstanding her torn and draggled -dress, looked royal in her scorn and anger. He was very white, but his passion -seemed to have left him, and he spoke in a quiet voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “I’m not going to try -and kiss you again. I have kissed you twice; that is enough for me at present. -And what’s more, though you may rub your face, you can’t rub it out -of your mind. But you are wrong when you say that you won’t marry me, -because you will. I know it. And the first time I kiss you after we are -married, I will remind you of this, Joan Haste. I am not going to ask you to -have me again. I shall wait till you ask me to take you, and then I shall be -revenged upon you. That day will come, the day of your shame and need, the day -of my reward, when, as I have lain in the dirt before you, you will lie in the -dirt before me. That is all I have to say. Good-bye.” And he walked past -her, vanishing behind the reeds. -</p> - -<p> -Now it was for the first time that Joan felt afraid. The insult and danger had -gone by, yet she was frightened, horribly frightened; for though the thing -seemed impossible, it was borne in upon her mind that Samuel Rock’s -presentiment was true, and that an hour might come when, in some sense, she -would lie in the mire before him and seek a refuge as his wife. She could not -conceive any circumstances in which a thing so horrible might happen, for -however sore her necessity, though she shrank from death, it seemed to her that -it would be better to die rather than to suffer such a fate. Yet so deeply did -this terror shake her, that she turned and looked upon the black waters of the -mere, wondering if it would not be better to give it the lie once and for all. -Then she thought of Henry, and her mood changed, for her mind and body were too -healthy to allow her to submit herself indefinitely to such forebodings. Like -many women, Joan was an opportunist, and lived very much in the day and for it. -These things might be true, but at least they were not yet; if she was destined -to be the wife of Samuel Rock in the future, she was her own mistress in the -present, and the shadow of sorrow and bonds to come, so she argued, suggested -the strongest possible reasons for rejoicing in the light and liberty of the -fleeting hour. If she was doomed to an earthly hell, if her hands must be torn -by thorns and her eyes grow blind with tears, at least she was minded to be -able to remember that once she had walked in Paradise, gathering flowers there, -and beholding her heart’s desire. -</p> - -<p> -Thus she reasoned in her folly, as she tramped homewards through the rain, -heedless of the fact that no logic could be more fatal, and none more pleasing -to that tempter who as of old lurks in paradises such as her fancy painted. -</p> - -<p> -When she reached home Joan found her aunt awaiting her in the bar parlour. -</p> - -<p> -“Who has been keeping you all this time in the wet, Joan?” she -asked in a half expectant voice. -</p> - -<p> -Joan lit a candle before she answered, for the place was gloomy. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you wish to know?” she said: “then I will tell you. Your -friend, Mr. Samuel Rock, whom you set after me.” -</p> - -<p> -“My friend? And what if he is my friend? I’d be glad if I had a few -more such.” By this time the light had burnt up, and Mrs. Gillingwater -saw the condition of her niece’s attire. “Good gracious! girl, what -have you been doing?” she asked. “Ain’t you ashamed to walk -about half stripped like that?” -</p> - -<p> -“People must do what they can’t help, aunt. That’s the work -of the friend you are so proud of. I may as well tell you at once, for if I -don’t, he will. He came making love to me again, as he has before, and -finished up by kissing me, the coward, and when I threw him off he tore my -dress.” -</p> - -<p> -“And why couldn’t you let him kiss you quietly, you silly -girl?” asked her aunt with indignation. “Now I dare say that you -have offended him so that he won’t come forward again, to say nothing of -spoiling your new dress. It ain’t a crime for a man to kiss the girl he -wants to marry, is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why? Because I would rather kiss a rat that’s all. I hate the very -sight of him; and as for coming forward again, I only hope that he won’t, -for my sake and for his too.” -</p> - -<p> -Now Mrs. Gillingwater arose in her wrath; her coarse face became red and her -voice grew shrill. -</p> - -<p> -“You good-for-nothing baggage!” she said; “so that is your -game, is it? To go turning up your nose and chucking your impudence in the face -of a man like Mr. Rock, who is worth twenty of you, and does you honour by -wishing to make a wife of you, you that haven’t a decent name to your -back, and he rich enough to marry a lady if he liked, or half a dozen of them -for the matter of that. Well, I tell you that you shall have him, or I will -know the reason why—ay, and so will others too.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t be violent, like you, aunt,” answered Joan, who -began to feel as though this second scene would be too much for her; “it -isn’t in my nature, and I hate it. But whether I have a name or -not—and it is no fault of mine if I have none, though folk don’t -seem inclined to let me forget it—I say that I will not marry Samuel -Rock. I am a woman full grown and of age; and I know this, that there is no law -in the land which can force me to take a husband whom I don’t want. And -so perhaps, as we have got to live together, you’ll stop talking about -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stop talking about him? Never for one hour, till I see you signing your -name in the book with him, miss. And as for living together, it won’t be -long that we shall do that, unless you drop these tantrums and become sensible. -Else you may just tramp it for your living, or go and slave as a housemaid if -any one will take you, which I doubt they won’t without a character, for -nobody here will say a good word for you, you wilful, stuck-up thing, for all -your fine looks that you are so proud of, and that’ll be the ruin of you -yet if you’re not careful, as they were of your mother before you.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan sank into a chair and made no answer. The woman’s violence beat her -down and was hateful to her. Almost rather would she have faced Samuel Rock, -for with him her sex gave her a certain advantage. -</p> - -<p> -“I know what you are after,” went on Mrs. Gillingwater, with -gathering vehemence. “Do you suppose that I have not seen through you all -these weeks, though you are so cunning? You are making up to him, you are; not -that I have a word to say against him, for he is a nice gentleman enough, only, -like the rest of them, so soft that he’ll let a pretty face fool him for -all his seafaring in foreign parts. Well, look here, Joan: I’ll speak to -you plain and plump. We never were mother and daughter, so it is no use -pretending what we don’t feel, and I won’t put up with that from -you which I might perhaps from my own child, if I had one. You’ve given -me lots of truck with your contrary ways, ever since you were a little one, and -I’m not minded to stand much more of it, for the profit don’t run -to the worry. What I want you to understand is, that I am set on your pulling -it off with Samuel Rock like a broody hen on a nest egg, and I mean to see that -chick hatch out; never you mind for why—that’s my affair. If you -can’t see your way to that, then off you go, and pretty sharp too. There, -I have said my say, and you can think it over. Now you had best change your -clothes and go and look after the Captain, for I have got business abroad -to-night. If you don’t mend your manners, it will be for the last time, I -can tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan rose and obeyed without a word. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater watched her pass, and fell into a reflective mood. -</p> - -<p> -“She is a beauty and no mistake,” she thought to herself; “I -never saw such another in all my born days. Her mother was well enough, but she -wasn’t in it with Joan; and what’s more, I like her pride. Why -should she take that canting chap if she don’t want to? I’m paid to -back him, and a day’s work for a day’s wage, that’s my motto. -But I’d rather see her marry the Captain, and sit in the church a lady, -with a fur round her neck and a carriage waiting outside, than snuffle in a -chapel praising the Lord with a pack of oily-faced children. If she had the go -of a heifer calf, she would marry him though; he is bound to be a baronet, and -it would make a ladyship of her, which with a little teaching is just what she -is fit to be; for if he ain’t almost as sweet on her and small wonder -after all that nursing as she is on him, I was born in the Flegg Hundred, -that’s all. But go is just what Joan ain’t got, not when she can -make anything for herself out of it anyway; she’d do what you like for -love, but she wouldn’t turn her finger round a teacup to crown herself a -queen. Well, there is no helping them as won’t help themselves, so I am -all for Samuel Rock and a hundred pounds in my pocket, especially as I dare say -that I can screw another hundred out of him if I square Joan, to say nothing of -a trifle from the Captain over and above the board for holding my tongue. I -suppose he will marry old Levinger’s girl, the Captain will; a pale, -puling-faced thing she is, and full of soft words as a boiled potato with -flour, but she’s got plenty of that as will make her look rosy to any -landlord in these times. Still, hang me, if I was a man, if I wouldn’t -rather take Joan and those brown eyes of hers, and snap my fingers at the -world, the flesh, and the devil.” -</p> - -<p> -Who or what Mrs. Gillingwater meant by “the world, the flesh, and the -devil” is not quite evident, but certainly they symbolised persons or -conveyed some image to her mind in this connection, for, suiting the action to -the word, she snapped her fingers thrice at the empty air, and then sought her -bonnet prior to some private expedition in pursuance of pleasure, or more -probably of profit. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br/> -SOWING THE WIND.</h2> - - -<p> -Joan went to her room and took off her wet things, for she was soaked to the -skin, clothing herself anew in her Sunday dress a soft grey garment, with -little frills about the neck and wrists. Then she brushed her waving brown -hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the back of her head; and, though she -did not think of it, no style could have been more becoming to her. Her toilet -completed, a few minutes after her aunt had left the house, she went to the -parlour to get herself some tea, of which she drank two or three cups, for she -felt unusually thirsty, but she could scarcely swallow a mouthful. The food -seemed to choke her, and when she attempted to eat the effort brought on a -feeling of dizziness and a tingling sensation in her limbs. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder what is the matter with me?” she said to herself. -“I feel as though my veins were on fire. I suppose that these scenes have -upset me; or perhaps that tea was too strong. Well, I must go and look after -Captain Graves. Aunt won’t be back till twelve o’clock or so, and -it’s my last night, so I had better make the most of it. I dare say that -they will turn me out of the house to-morrow.” And, with a bitter little -laugh, she took up the candle preparatory to going to Henry’s room. -</p> - -<p> -Near the door Joan paused, and, whether by chance or by design, turned to look -at herself in an oak-framed mirror that hung upon the wall, whither doubtless -it had been brought from some old house in the neighbourhood, for it was costly -and massive in make. Her first glance was cursory, then she held up the candle -and began to examine herself more attentively, since, perhaps for the first -time in her life, her appearance fascinated her, and she became fully aware of -her own loveliness. Indeed, in that moment she was lovely as lovely as we may -imagine the ancient Helen to have been, or any of those women who have set the -world aflame. Her brown eyes were filled with a strange light beneath their -curving lashes and the clear-cut heavy lids; her sweet mouth drooped a little, -like that of a sleeping child, showing the ivory of her teeth between the -parted lips; her cheeks glowed like the bloom on a peach; and above, the masses -of her gold-brown hair shone faintly in the candlelight. Perhaps it was that -the grey dress set it off more perfectly than usual at least it seemed to Joan, -considering herself critically, that her form was worthy of the face above it; -and, in truth, it would have been hard to find a woman cast in a more perfect -mould. Tall, and somewhat slender for her height, her every movement was full -of grace, and revealed some delicacy of limb or neck or carriage. -</p> - -<p> -Seeing herself thus, a new light broke upon Joan’s mind, and she -understood how it came about that Samuel Rock worshipped her so madly. Well, if -mere beauty could move one man thus, why should not beauty and tenderness and -love—ah! love that could not be measured—suffice to move another? -She smiled at the thought—a slow, sweet smile; and with the smile a sense -of her own power entered into her, a power that she had never learned until -this moment. -</p> - -<p> -Except for the occasional visits of Mrs. Gillingwater, bringing him his tea or -dinner, Henry had been alone that day since one o’clock. Nearly nine -weeks had passed from the date of his accident, and although he did not dare as -yet to set his injured limb to the ground, in all other respects he was -perfectly well, but thinner in the face, which was blanched by confinement and -adorned with a short chestnut-coloured beard. So well was he, indeed, that he -had been allowed to leave his bed and to take exercise on crutches in the room, -though the doctor considered that it would not be wise for him to risk the -shaking of a journey home, or even to venture out at present. In this view -Henry had acquiesced, although his sister Ellen pooh-poohed it, saying that she -was certain that he could be brought back safely. The truth was that at the -time he had no yearning for the society of his family, or indeed for any other -society than that in which he found himself. He was glad to be away from Rosham -and the carking care that brooded on the place; he was glad to escape from -Ellen and the obnoxious Edward. -</p> - -<p> -Nor did he wish to visit Mr. Levinger at present, for he knew that then he -would be expected to propose to his daughter, which for many reasons he did not -desire to do. Although she had exaggerated its effects—for, in fact, the -matter had almost slipped from his memory—Emma, poor girl, had been right -to some extent in her forebodings as to the results of her passionate outburst -upon Henry’s mind, should he ever hear the story of it. Not that he -thought the worse of her: no man thinks the worse of a woman because she either -is, or pretends to be, in love with him; but the incident irritated him in that -it gave a new twist to a tangled skein. How could he remain on terms of -ordinary friendship with a girl who had made such an avowal? It seemed to him -difficult, if not impossible. Surely he must either place himself in regard to -her upon the footing which she appeared to desire, or he must adopt the easier -alternative and keep away from her altogether. -</p> - -<p> -No, he wanted none of their company, and he was glad that it was still unsafe -for him to travel, though he longed for the fresh air. But that he did wish for -some company became evident to him this afternoon, although he had received -with a certain amount of resignation a note in which Ellen informed him that -their father seemed so fidgety and unwell that she could not drive over to -Bradmouth that day. He could no longer disguise the truth from himself, it was -the society of Joan that he desired; and of Joan he had seen less and less -during the last fortnight. Neither she nor anybody else had said anything to -that effect, but he was convinced that she was being kept out of his way. Why -should she be kept out of his way? A guilty conscience gave him the answer -readily enough: because it was not desirable that they should remain upon terms -of such intimacy. Alas! it was so. He had fought against the fact, ridiculing -and denying it up to this very hour, but now that fact had become too strong -for him, and as he sat a prey to loneliness and uncomfortable thoughts, he was -fain to acknowledge before the tribunal of his own heart that, if he was not in -love with Joan, he did not know what was the matter with him. At the least it -had come to this: her presence seemed necessary to him, and the prospective -pain of parting from her absolutely intolerable. -</p> - -<p> -It is not too much to say that this revelation of his sad plight dismayed -Henry. For a moment, indeed, his faculties and judgment were paralysed. To -begin with, for him it was a new experience, and therefore the more dangerous -and crushing. If this were not a mere momentary madness, and if the girl cared -for him as it would appear that he cared for her, what could be the issue? He -had no great regard for the prejudice and conventions of caste, but, -circumstanced as he was, it seemed absolutely impossible that he should marry -her. Had he been independent, provided always that she did care for him, he -would have done it gladly enough. But he was not independent, and such an act -would mean the utter ruin of his family. More, indeed: if he could bring -himself to sacrifice <i>them,</i> he had now no profession and no income. And -how would a man hampered and dragged down by a glaring -<i>mésalliance</i> be able to find fresh employment by means of which he -could support a wife? -</p> - -<p> -No, there was an end of it. The thing could not possibly be done. What, then, -was the alternative? Clearly one only. To go, and at once. Some men so placed -might have found a third solution, but Henry did not belong to this class. His -character and sense of right rebelled against any such notion, and the habits -of self-restraint in which he had trained himself for years afforded what he -believed to be an impregnable rampart, however frail might be the citadel -within. -</p> - -<p> -So thought Henry, who as yet had never matched himself in earnest in such a -war. There he sat, strong in his rectitude and consciousness of virtue, however -much his heart might ache, making mental preparations for his departure on the -morrow, till at last he grew tired of them, and found himself wishing that Joan -would come to help him to get ready. -</p> - -<p> -He was lying with his back to the door on a sofa placed between the bed and the -wide hearth, upon which a small fire had been lighted, for the night was damp -and chilly; and just as this last vagrant wish flitted through his mind, a -sound attracted his attention, and he turned to discover that it had been -realized as swiftly as though he were the owner of Aladdin’s lamp. For -there, the candle still in her hand, stood Joan, looking at him from the -farther side of the hearth. -</p> - -<p> -It has been said that she was struck by her own appearance as she passed -towards his room; and that the change she saw in herself cannot have been -altogether fancy is evident from the exclamation which burst from Henry as his -eyes fell upon her, an exclamation so involuntary that he scarcely knew what he -was saying until the words had passed his lips: -</p> - -<p> -“Great Heaven! Joan, how lovely you are to-night! What have you been -doing to yourself?” -</p> - -<p> -Next second he could have bitten out his tongue: he had hardly ever paid her a -compliment before, and this was the moment that he had chosen to begin! His -only excuse was that he could not help himself; the sudden effect of her -beauty, which was so strangely transfigured, had drawn the words from him as -the sun draws mist. -</p> - -<p> -“Am I?” she asked dreamily; “I am glad if it pleases -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Here was a strange beginning to his pending announcement of departure, thought -Henry. Clearly, he must recover the situation before he made it. -</p> - -<p> -“Where have you been all this afternoon?” he asked in an -indifferent voice. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been out walking.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, alone, and in the rain?” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not say that I was alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whom were you with, then? It can’t have been your aunt.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was with Mr. Samuel Rock: I mean that he met me.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, that farmer who Mrs. Gillingwater told me admires you so -much?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. And what else did she tell you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I think she said she hoped that he would propose to you; but I -didn’t pay much attention, it seemed too odd.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, however odd it may be, that is just what he has been doing,” -answered Joan deliberately. -</p> - -<p> -Now Henry understood it all: Joan had accepted this man, and it was love for -him that made her breast heave and her eyes shine like stars. He ought to have -been delighted—the difficulty was done with, and no trouble could -possibly ensue—and behold, instead he was furious. He ought to have -congratulated her, to have said the right thing in the right way; but instead -of congratulation the only words that passed his lips were such as might have -been uttered by a madly jealous and would-be sarcastic boy. -</p> - -<p> -“He proposed to you, did he, and in the rain? How charming! I suppose he -kissed you too?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” replied Joan, “twice.” And slowly she raised her -eyes and fixed them upon his face. -</p> - -<p> -What Henry said immediately after that announcement he was never quite able to -remember, but it was something strong and almost incoherent. Set on fire by his -smouldering jealousy, suddenly his passion flamed up in the magnetised -atmosphere of her presence, for on that night her every word and look seemed to -be magnetic and to pierce him through and through. For a minute or more he -denounced her, and all the while Joan stood silent, watching him with her wide -eyes, the light shining on her face. At last he ceased and she spoke. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not understand you,” she said. “Why are you angry with -me? What do you mean?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” he gasped. “I have no right to be -angry. I think I must be mad, for I can’t even recollect what I have been -saying. I suppose that I was astonished to hear that you were engaged to Mr. -Rock, that’s all. Please forgive me and forget my words. And, if you -don’t mind, perhaps you had better go away.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t wish to forget them, although I dare say that they mean -nothing; and I am not engaged to Mr. Rock—I hate him,” answered -Joan in the same slow voice; adding, “If you have patience, will you -listen to a story? I should like to tell it you before we part, for I think -that we have been good friends, and friends should know each other, so that -they may remember one another truly when their affection has become nothing but -a memory.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry nodded; and still very deliberately, as though she wished to avoid all -appearance of haste or of excitement, Joan sat herself down upon a footstool in -front of the dying fire and began to speak, always keeping her sad eyes fixed -upon his face. -</p> - -<p> -“It is not such a very long story,” she said, “and the only -part of it that has any interest began on that day when we met. I suppose they -have told you that I am nobody, and worse than nobody. I do not know who my -father was, though I think”—and she smiled as though some -coincidence had struck her—“that he was a gentleman whom my mother -fell in love with. Mr. Levinger has to do with me in some way; I believe that -he paid for my education when I went to school, but I am not sure even about -this, and why he should have done so I can’t tell. Mr. Samuel Rock is a -dissenter and a farmer; they say that he is the richest man in Bradmouth. I -don’t know why it was no fault of mine, for I always disliked him very -much but he took a fancy to me years ago, although he said nothing about it at -the time. After I came back from school my aunt urged me continually to accept -his attentions, but I kept out of his way until that afternoon when I met you. -Then he found me sitting under the tower at Ramborough Abbey, where I had gone -to be alone because I was cross and worried; and he proposed to me, and was so -strange and violent in his manner that he frightened me. What I was most afraid -of, however, was that he would tell my aunt that I had refused him for I did -refuse him and that she would make my life more of a misery to me than it is -already, for you see I have no friends here, where everybody looks down upon -me, and nothing to do. So in the end I struck a bargain with him, that he -should leave me alone for six months, and that then I would give him a final -answer, provided that he promised to say nothing of what had happened to my -aunt. He has not kept his promise, for to-day he waylaid me and was very -insolent and brutal, so much so that at last he caught hold of me and kissed me -against my will, tearing my dress half off me, and I pushed him away and told -him what I thought of him. The end of it was that he swore that he would marry -me yet, and left me. Then I came back home, and an hour ago I told my aunt what -had happened, and there was a scene. She said that either I should marry Samuel -Rock or be turned out of the house in a day or two, so I suppose that I must -go. And that is all my story.” -</p> - -<p> -“The brute!” muttered Henry. “I wish I had him on board a -man-of-war: I’d teach him manners. And what are you going to do, -Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know. Work if I can, and starve if I can’t. It -doesn’t matter; nobody will miss me, or care what happens to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t say that, Joan,” he answered huskily; “I—I -care, for one.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very good of you to say so, but you see you have others to care -for besides me. There is Miss Levinger, for instance.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have told you once already that I am not engaged to Miss -Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but a time will come when you will tell me, or others, that you -are; and I think that you will be right—she is a sweet girl. And now, -sir,” she added, with a total change of manner, “I think that I had -better tidy up and bid you good night, and good-bye, for I dare say that I -shall come back here no more. I can’t wait to be driven out like a -strange dog.” And she began to perform her various sick-room duties with -a mechanical precision. -</p> - -<p> -Henry watched her for a while, until at length all was done and she made ready -to go. Then the heart which he had striven to repress burst its bonds, and he -sat up and said to her, in a voice that was almost a cry,— -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Joan, I don’t know what has come to me, but I can’t bear -to part with you, though it is best that you should go, for I cannot offer to -marry you. I wish to Heaven that I could.” -</p> - -<p> -She came and stood beside him. -</p> - -<p> -“I will remember those words as long as I live,” she said, -“because I know that they are true. I know also why you could not marry -me; for we hear all the gossip, and putting that aside it would be your ruin, -though for me it might be heaven.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really care about me, then, Joan?” he asked anxiously, -“and so much as that? You must forgive me, but I am ignorant in these -things. I didn’t quite understand. I feel that I have become a bit -foolish, but I didn’t know that you had caught the disease.” -</p> - -<p> -“Care about you! Anyway, I care enough not to let you marry me even if -you would. I think that to bring ruin and disgrace upon a man and all his -family would be a poor way to show one’s love for him. You see, you have -everything to lose. You are not like me who have nothing, not even a name. Care -about you!” she went on, with a strange, almost unnatural -energy—and her low, caressing voice seemed to thrill every fibre of his -heart and leave them trembling, as harp-strings thrill and tremble beneath the -hand of the player—“I wonder if there are any words in the world -that could make you understand how much I care. Listen. When first I saw you -yonder by the Abbey, a change crept over me; and when you lay there senseless -in my arms, I became a new woman, as though I were born again—a woman -whose mind I could not read, for it was different from my own. Afterwards I -read it; it was when they thought that you were dying, and suddenly I learned -that you would live. When I heard Miss Levinger cry out and saw her fall, then -I read it, and knew that I also loved you. I should have gone; but I -didn’t go, for I could not tear myself away from you. Oh! pity me, and do -not think too hardly of me; for remember who and what I am—a woman who -has never had any one to love, father or mother or sister or friend, and yet -who desires love above everything. And now it had come to me at last; and that -one love of mine made up for all that I had missed, and was greater and -stronger in itself than the hundred different loves of happier girls can be. I -loved you, and I loved you, and I love you. Yes, I wish you to know it before -we part, and I hope that you will never quite forget it, for none will ever -love you so much again as I have, and do, and shall do till I die. And now it -is all done with, and of it there will remain nothing except some pain for you, -and for me my memories and a broken heart. What is that you say again about -marrying me? Have I not told you that you shall not do it? though I shall never -forget that you have even thought of such a thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“I say that I <i>will</i> marry you, Joan,” broke in Henry, in a -hoarse voice. “Why should I spoil your life and mine for the sake of -others?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, you will not. Why should you spoil Emma Levinger’s life, -and your sister’s, and your mother’s, and bring yourself to -disgrace and ruin for the sake of a girl like me? No, you will not. You will -bid me farewell, now and for ever.” And she held out her hand to him, -while two great tears ran slowly down her face. -</p> - -<p> -He saw the tears, and his heart melted, for they moved him more than all her -words. -</p> - -<p> -“My darling!” he whispered, drawing her towards him. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” she answered: “kiss away my tears this once, that, -remembering it, whatever befalls me, I may weep no more for ever.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br/> -THE FIRSTFRUITS.</h2> - - -<p> -Some days had passed since this night of avowal when, very early one morning, -Henry was awakened from sleep by the sound of wheels and of knocking at the inn -door. A strange apprehension took hold of him, and he rose from his bed and -limped to the window. Then he saw that the carriage which had arrived was the -old Rosham shooting brake, a long plain vehicle with deal seats running down -its length on either side, constructed to carry eight or nine sportsmen to and -from the more distant beats. Knocking at the door was none other than Edward -Milward, and Henry guessed at once that he must have come to fetch him. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, perhaps it is as well,” he thought to himself grimly; then -again his heart was filled with fear. What had happened? Why did Milward come -thus, and at such an hour? -</p> - -<p> -In another minute Edward had entered the room, followed by Mrs. Gillingwater. -</p> - -<p> -“Your father is dying, Graves,” he blurted out. “I -don’t know what it is; he collapsed suddenly in the middle of the night. -If you want to see him alive—and you had better, if you can, while he has -got his senses—you must make shift to come along with me at once. I have -brought the brake, so that you can lie in it at full length. That was -Ellen’s idea: I should never have thought of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Great Heaven!” said Henry. Then, assisted by Mrs. Gillingwater, he -began to get into his clothes. -</p> - -<p> -In ten minutes they were off, Henry lying flat upon a mattress at the bottom of -the brake. Once he lifted his head and looked through the open rails of the -vehicle towards the door of the house. Mrs. Gillingwater, who was a shrewd -woman, interpreted the glance. -</p> - -<p> -“If you are looking for Joan, sir, to say good-bye to her, it is no use, -for she’s in her room there sleeping like the dead, and I couldn’t -wake her. I don’t think she is quite herself, somehow; but she’ll -be sorry to miss you, and so shall I, for the matter of that; but I’ll -tell her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, thank you—for everything,” he answered hastily, -and they started. -</p> - -<p> -The drive was long and the road rough, having been much washed by recent rains; -but after a fashion Henry enjoyed it, so far as his pressing troubles of mind -would allow him to enjoy anything, for it was a lovely morning, and the breath -of the open air, the first that he had tasted for many weeks, was like wine to -him. On the way he learned from his companion all that there was to be told -about his father. It appeared, as Henry had heard already, that he had been -unwell for the last two months—not in a way to give alarm, though -sufficiently to prevent him from leaving the house except on the finest days, -or at times his room. On the previous day, however, he seemed much better, and -dined downstairs. About ten o’clock he went to bed, and slept soundly -till a little past midnight, when the household was aroused by the violent -ringing of Lady Graves’s bell, and they rushed upstairs to find that Sir -Reginald had been seized with a fit. Dr. Childs was sent for at once, and gave -an opinion that death might occur at any moment. His treatment restored the -patient’s consciousness; and Sir Reginald’s first words expressed -the belief that he was dying, and an earnest wish to see his son, whereupon -Edward, who chanced to be spending the night at Rosham, was despatched with the -brake to Bradmouth. -</p> - -<p> -At length they reached the Hall, and Henry was helped from the vehicle; but in -ascending the stone steps, which he insisted upon doing by himself, one of his -crutches slipped, causing the foot of his injured limb to come down with some -force upon the edge of the step. The accident gave him considerable pain, but -he saved himself from falling, and thought little more of it at the time. -</p> - -<p> -In the dining-room he found Ellen, who looked pale, and seemed relieved to see -him. -</p> - -<p> -“How is my father?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Insensible again just now. But I am so glad that you have come, Henry, -for he has been asking for you continually. All this business about the -property seems to weigh more upon his mind now than it has done for years, and -he wants to speak to you on the subject.” -</p> - -<p> -Then his mother came down, and her eyes were red with weeping. -</p> - -<p> -“You have returned to a sad home, Henry,” she said kissing him. -“We are an unlucky family: death and misfortune are always at our doors. -You look very white, my dear boy, and no wonder. You had better try to eat -something, since it is useless for you to attempt to see your poor father at -present.” -</p> - -<p> -So Henry ate, or made a pretence of doing so, and afterwards was helped -upstairs to a room opposite to that in which his father lay dying, where he -settled himself in an invalid chair which Sir Reginald had used on the few -occasions when he had been outside the house during the past weeks, and waited. -All that day and all the next night he waited, and still his father did not -recover consciousness—indeed, Dr. Childs now appeared to be of opinion -that he would pass from coma to death. Much as he wished to bid a last farewell -to his father, Henry could not repress a certain sense of relief when he heard -that this was likely to be the case, for an instinct, coupled with some words -which Ellen had let fall, warned him that Sir Reginald wished to speak to him -upon the subject of Miss Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -But the doctor was mistaken; for about six o’clock in the morning, nearly -twenty-four hours after he had reached the house, Henry was awakened by Ellen, -who came to tell him that their father was fully conscious and wished to see -him at once. Seating himself in the invalid chair, he was wheeled across the -passage to the red bedroom, in which he had himself been born. The top halves -of some of the window-shutters were partly open, and by the light that streamed -through them into the dim death-chamber, he saw his father’s gaunt but -still stately form propped up with pillows in the great four-post bed, of which -the red curtains had been drawn back to admit the air. -</p> - -<p> -“Here comes Henry,” whispered Lady Graves. -</p> - -<p> -The old man turned his head, and, shaking back his snowy hair, he peered round -the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, my son?” he said in a low voice, stretching out a -trembling hand, which Henry took and kissed. “You find me in a bad way: -on the verge of death, where you have so lately been.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it is I, father.” -</p> - -<p> -“God bless you, my boy! and God be thanked that you have been able to -come to listen to my last words, and that I have recovered my senses so that I -can speak to you! Do not go away, my dear, or you, Ellen, for I want you all to -hear what I have to say. You know, Henry, the state of this property. -Mismanagement and bad times have ruined it. I have been to blame, and your dear -brother, whom I hope soon to see, was to blame also. It has come to this, that -I am leaving you beggars, and worse than beggars, since for the first time in -the history of our family we cannot pay our debts.” -</p> - -<p> -Here he stopped and groaned, and Lady Graves whispered to him to rest awhile. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no,” he answered. “Give me some brandy; I will go on; it -does not matter if I use myself up, and my brain may fail me at any moment. -Henry, I am dying here, on this spot of earth where so many of our forefathers -have lived and died before me; and more than the thought of leaving you all, -more than the memory of my sins, or than the fear of the judgment of the -Almighty, Whose mercy is my refuge, the thought crushes me that I have failed -in my trust, that my children must be beggared, my name dishonoured, and my -home—yes, and my very grave—sold to strangers. Henry, I have but -one hope now, and it is in you. I think that I have sometimes been unjust to -you in the past; but I know you for an upright and self-denying man, who, -unlike some of us, has always set his duty before his pleasure. It is to you, -then, that I appeal with my last breath, feeling sure that it will not be in -vain, since, even should you have other wishes, you will sacrifice them to my -prayer, to your mother’s welfare, and to the honour of our name. You know -that there is only one way of escape from all our liabilities for I believe you -have been spoken to on the subject; indeed, I myself alluded to it by a -marriage between yourself and Emma Levinger, who holds the mortgages on this -property, and has other means. Her father desires this, and I have been told -that the girl herself, who is a good and a sweet woman, has declared her -affection for you; therefore it all rests with you. Do you understand me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Say yes, and that you will marry her on the first opportunity,” -whispered Ellen into Henry’s ear. “He will kill himself with -talking so much.” Then she saw her brother’s face, and drew back -her head in horror. Heavens! could it be that he was going to refuse? -</p> - -<p> -“I will try to make myself plain,” went on Sir Reginald after a -pause, and swallowing another sip of brandy. “I want you to promise, -Henry, before us all, that nothing, except the death of one of you, shall -prevent you from marrying Emma Levinger so soon as may be possible after my -funeral. When I have heard you say that, I shall be able to die in peace. -Promise, then, my son, quickly; for I wish to turn my mind to other -matters.” -</p> - -<p> -Now all eyes were bent upon Henry’s face, and it was rigid and ashen. -Twice he tried to speak and failed; the third time the words came, and they -sounded like a groan. -</p> - -<p> -“Father, I <i>cannot!</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen gasped, and Lady Graves murmured, “! cruel, cruel!” As for -the dying man, his head sank back upon the pillow, and he lay there bewildered. -Presently he lifted it and spoke again. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not think—my hearing—I must have misunderstood. Did you -say you could not promise, Henry? Why not? With everything at stake, and my -dying prayer—mine, your father’s. Oh! why not? Are you married, -then?” -</p> - -<p> -The sweat broke from Henry’s brow and rolled down his face in large -drops, as he answered, always in the voice that sounded like a groan,— -</p> - -<p> -“I am not married, father; and, before God, sooner than be forced to -refuse you I would lie as you lie now. Have pity, I beseech you, on my cruel -strait, between my honour and the denial of your wish. I cannot promise that I -will marry Emma Levinger, because I am bound to another woman by ties that may -not be broken, and I cannot be so base as to desert her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Another woman? I am too late, then?” murmured his father more and -more feebly. “But stay: there is still hope. Who is she? At least you -will not refuse to tell me her name.” -</p> - -<p> -“Her name is Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“Joan Haste? What! the girl at the inn? The bastard! My son, my only -remaining son, denies his dying father, and brings his mother and his name to -disgrace and ruin, because he is bound in honour to a village bastard!” -he screamed. “Oh, my God! that I should have lived to hear this! Oh, my -God! my God!” -</p> - -<p> -And suddenly the old man flung his arms wide and fell back. Lady Graves and -Ellen ran to him. Presently the former came away from the bed. -</p> - -<p> -“Your father is dead, Henry,” she said. “Perhaps, after what -has passed, you will feel that this is no fit place for you. I will ring for -some one to take you to your room.” -</p> - -<p> -But the last bitterness of these words, so awful from a mother’s lips, -was spared to Henry, for he had swooned. As he sank into unconsciousness a -solemn voice seemed to speak within his tortured brain, and it said, -“Behold the firstfruits of iniquity.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry did not attend his father’s funeral, for the good reason that he -was ill in bed. In the first place, though he made light of it at the time, -that slip of his on the stone steps had so severely affected his broken limb as -to necessitate his lying by for at least another month; and in the second he -had received a shock to his nerves, healthy as they were, from which he could -not hope to recover for many a month. He was kept informed of all that went on -by Thomson, the old butler, for neither his mother nor Ellen came near him -during those dark days. He heard the footsteps of the carpenter who measured -his father’s body, he heard the coffin being brought upstairs; and the -day afterwards he heard the shuffling tramp of the tenants, who, according to -ancient custom, bore down the corpse of the dead owner of Rosham to lie in -state in the great hall. He heard the workmen nailing the hatchment of the -departed baronet beneath his window; and then at last a day came when he heard -a noise of the rolling wheels of carriages, and the sound of a church bell -tolling, as his father was laid to rest among the bones of his ancestors. -</p> - -<p> -So bitter was the resentment against him, that none had asked Henry to look his -last upon his father’s face. For a while he thought it better that he -should not do so, but on the second night after the death nature grew too -strong for him, and he determined to do that alone which, under happier -circumstances, it should have been his duty to do with his widowed mother and -his sister at his side. Painfully he dragged himself from the bed, and, placing -a candle and a box of matches in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he limped -upon his crutches across the silent corridor and into the death-chamber, where -the atmosphere was so heavy with the scent of flowers that for a moment it -brought back his faintness. Recovering himself, he closed the door and made -shift to light his candle. Then by its solitary light he approached the bed on -which his father’s corpse was lying, half hidden by wreaths and covered -with a sheet. With a trembling hand he drew down the wrapping and exposed the -dead man’s face. It was calm enough now: there was no trace there of the -tormenting grief that had been upon it in the moment of dissolution; it bore -the seal of perfect peace, and, notwithstanding the snowy hair, a more youthful -aspect than Henry could remember it to have worn, even in the days of his -childhood. -</p> - -<p> -In sad and solemn silence Henry gazed upon the clay that had given him life, -and great bitterness and sorrow took hold of him. He covered his eyes with his -hand, and prayed that God might forgive him for the pain which he had caused -his father in his last hour, and that his father might forgive him too in the -land where all things are understood, for there he would learn that he could -not have spoken otherwise. Well, he was reaping as he had sown, and there -remained nothing to him except to make amendment as best he could. Then with a -great effort he dragged himself up upon the bed, and kissed his father’s -forehead. -</p> - -<p> -Having replaced the sheet, he extinguished the candle and turned to leave the -room. As he opened the door he saw a figure draped in black, who stood in the -passage listening. It was his mother. She advanced towards him with a cold, sad -mien, and opened her lips as though to speak. Then the light fell upon his -face, and she saw that it was torn by grief and stained with tears, and her -look softened, for now she understood something of what her son’s -sufferings must be. Still she did not speak, and in silence, except for the -tapping of his crutches on the polished floor, Henry passed her with bowed -head, and reached his room again. -</p> - -<p> -In due course the family returned from the funeral, and, outwardly at any rate, -a break occurred in the conspiracy of silence and neglect of which Henry was -the object, for it was necessary that he should be present at the reading of -the will. This ceremony took place in the bedroom of the new baronet, and -gathered there were a representative from the London firm of lawyers that had -managed, or mismanaged, the Graves’s affairs for several generations, the -widow, Ellen, and Edward Milward. Bowing gravely to Sir Henry, the lawyer broke -the seals of the document and began the farce for a farce it was, seeing that -the will had been signed nearly five-and-twenty years before, when the position -of the family was very different. After reciting the provisions of the entail -that, by the way, had long been cut under which his deceased brother Reginald -should have entered into the enjoyment of all the land and hereditaments and -the real property generally, with remainder to his children, or, in the event -of his death without issue, to Henry, the testator went on to deal with the -jointure of the widow, which was fixed at eight hundred a year in addition to -the income arising from her own fortune, that, alas! had long since been lost -or muddled away. Then it made provision for the younger children,—ten -thousand to Henry and eight thousand to Ellen,—to be paid out of the -personalty, or, should this prove insufficient, to be raised by way of -rent-charge on the estate, as provided for under the marriage settlement of Sir -Reginald and his wife; and, after various legacies and directions as to the -disposal of heirlooms, ended by constituting Reginald, or, in the event of his -death without issue, Henry, residuary legatee. -</p> - -<p> -When he had finished reading this lengthy document, which he well knew not to -be worth the paper on which it was written, the lawyer solemnly exhibited the -signatures of the testator and of the attesting witnesses, and laid it down -with a sigh. Three of the listeners were aware that the will might as well have -affected to dispose of the crown of England as to devise to them these various -moneys, lands and chattels; but the fourth, Edward Milward, who had never been -admitted to full confidence as to the family position, was vastly pleased to -learn that his future wife inherited so considerable a sum, to say nothing of -her chance of succeeding to the entire estate should Henry die without issue. -That there had been embarrassments and mortgage charges he knew, but these, he -concluded, were provided for by life insurances, and had rolled off the back of -the property on the death of the late owner. Indeed, he showed his pleasure so -plainly in his face that the lawyer, guessing he was labouring under some such -delusion, hesitated and looked at him pointedly before he proceeded to make -remarks upon the document. Ellen, always on the watch, took the hint, and, -laying her hand affectionately on Milward’s shoulder, said in a low voice: -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will not mind leaving us for a few moments, Edward: I fancy -there are one or two matters that my mother would not like to be discussed -outside her own family at present.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” answered Edward, who, having learned all he wished to -know, rejoiced at the chance of escape, seeing that funerals and will-reading -exercised a depressing effect upon his spirits. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves was at the other end of the room and looking out of an open window, -so that she did not overhear these remarks. Henry, however, did hear them, and -spoke for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you had better stay, Milward,” he said: “there -is nothing to conceal,” and he smiled grimly at his own -<i>double-entendre.</i> -</p> - -<p> -“No, thanks,” answered Edward airily: “I have heard all I -want to know, so I will go into the garden and smoke a cigarette.” And -before Henry could speak again he was gone. -</p> - -<p> -“You are probably aware, Sir Henry,” began the lawyer, “that -all the main provisions of this document”—and he tapped the will -with his knuckle—“fall to the ground, for the reason that the -capital sums with which they dealt were exhausted some years since; though I am -bound to tell you that, in my opinion, the legality of the methods by which -some of those sums were brought into possession might even now be -contested.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” answered Henry, “and good money thrown after -bad.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” went on the lawyer, “you succeed to the estates, -which have been little, if at all, diminished in acreage; but they are, I -believe, mortgaged to more than their present value in favour of a Mr. -Levinger, who holds the securities in trust for his daughter, and to whom there -is a large sum due by way of back interest.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am aware of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Hem,” said the lawyer. “Then I am afraid that there is not -much more to say, is there? I trust that you may be able—to find means to -meet—these various liabilities, in which case we shall be most happy to -act for you in the matter. By the way, we still have a small sum in our hands -that was sent to us by our late esteemed client to pay a debt of your late -brother’s, which on enquiry was found not to be owing. This we propose to -remit to you, after deducting the amount of our account current.” -</p> - -<p> -“By all means deduct the account current,” said Henry; “for, -you see, you may not get another chance of paying yourselves. Well, the -carriage is waiting for you. Good afternoon.” -</p> - -<p> -The lawyer gathered up his papers, shook hands all round, bowed and went. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” he thought to himself as he drove towards the station, -“I am glad to be clear of this business: somehow it was more depressing -than most funerals. I suppose that there’s an end of a connection that -has lasted a hundred years, though there will be some pickings when the estate -is foreclosed on. I am glad it didn’t happen in Sir Reginald’s -time, for I had a liking for the old man and his grand last-century manners. -The new baronet seems a roughish fellow, with a sharp edge to his tongue; but I -dare say he has a deal to worry him, and he looks very ill. What fools they -were to cut the entail! They can’t blame us about it, anyway, for we -remonstrated with them strongly enough. Sir Reginald was under the thumb of -that dead son of his—that’s the fact, and he was a scamp, or -something like it. Now they are beggared, absolutely beggared: they won’t -even be able to pay their debts. It’s not one man’s funeral that I -have been assisting at—it is that of a whole ancient family, without -benefit of clergy or hope of resurrection. The girl is going to marry a rich -man: she knows which side her bread is buttered, and has a good head on her -shoulders—that’s one comfort. Well, they are bankrupt and done -with, and it is no good distressing myself over what can’t be helped. -Here’s the station. I wonder if I need tip the coachman. I remember he -drove me when I came down to the elder boy’s christening; we were both -young then. Not necessary, I think: I sha’n’t be likely to see him -again.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br/> -FORTITER IN RE.</h2> - - -<p> -When the lawyer had gone, for a while there was silence in Henry’s room. -Everybody seemed to wish to speak, and yet no one could find any words to say. -Of course Henry was aware that the subject which had been discussed at the last -dreadful scene of his father’s life would be renewed on the first -opportunity, but he was nervously anxious that it should not be now, when he -did not feel able to cope with the bitter arguments which he was sure Ellen was -preparing for him, and still less with the pleadings of his mother, should she -condescend to plead. After all it was he who spoke the first. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps, Ellen,” he said, “you will tell me who were present -at our father’s funeral.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everybody,” she answered; adding, with meaning, “You see, -the truth about us has not yet come out. We are still supposed to be people of -honour and position.” -</p> - -<p> -Her mother turned and made a gesture with her hand, as though to express -disapproval of the tone in which she spoke; and, taking the hint, Ellen went on -in a dry, clear voice, like that of one who reads an inventory, to give the -names of the neighbours who attended the burial, and of more distant friends -who had sent wreaths, saying in conclusion: -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Levinger of course was there, but Emma did not come. She sent a -lovely wreath of eucharist lilies and stephanotis.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment the old butler came in, his face stained with grief—for he -had dearly loved Sir Reginald, who was his foster-brother—and announced -that Dr. Childs was waiting to see Sir Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“Show him up,” said Henry, devoutly thankful for the interruption. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Captain I mean Sir Henry Graves?” said the doctor, -in his quiet voice, when Lady Graves and Ellen had left the room. “I -attended your poor father’s funeral, and then went on to see a patient, -thinking that I would give you a look on my way back. However, don’t let -us talk of these things, but show me your leg if you will. Yes, I thought so: -you have given it a nasty jar; you should never have tried to walk up those -steps without help. Well, you will have to stop quiet for a month or so, that -is all; and I think that it will be a good thing for you in more ways than one, -for you seem very much shaken, my dear fellow, and no wonder, with all this -trouble after a dangerous illness.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry thanked him; and then followed a little general conversation, in which -Dr. Childs was careful not to let him know that he was aware of the scene that -had occurred at his father’s death, though as a matter of fact the -wildest rumours were floating up and down the country side, based upon hints -that had fallen from Lady Graves in her first grief, and on what had been -overheard by listeners at the door. Presently he rose to go, saying that he -would call again on the morrow. -</p> - -<p> -“By the way,” he added, “I have got to see another patient -to-night—your late nurse, Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter with her?” asked Henry, flushing suddenly red, -a symptom of interest or distress that did not escape the doctor’s -practised eye. -</p> - -<p> -“So the talk is true,” he thought to himself. “Well, I -guessed as much; indeed, I expected it all along: the girl has been in love -with him for weeks. A pity, a sad pity!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! nothing at all serious,” he answered: “a chill and a -touch of fever. It has been smouldering in her system for some time, I think. -It seems she got soaked about ten days ago, and stood in her wet things. She is -shaking it off now, however.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed; I am glad to hear that,” Henry answered, in a tone of -relief which he could not quite conceal. “Will you remember me to Miss -Haste when you see her, and tell her that——” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes?” said the doctor, his hand on the door. -</p> - -<p> -“That I am glad she has recovered, and—that—I was sorry not -to be able to say good-bye to her,” he added hurriedly. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” answered Dr. Childs, and went. -</p> - -<p> -Henry saw no more of his mother or his sister that evening, which was a -sorrowful one for him. He grieved alone in his room, comforted only by the -butler Thomson, who came to visit him, and told him tales of his father’s -boyhood and youth; and they grieved elsewhere, each according to her own -nature. On the morrow the doctor called early and reported favourably of -Henry’s condition. He told him that Joan was doing even better than he -had expected, that she sent him her duty and thanked him kindly for his -message, and with this Henry was fain to be content. Indeed, what other message -could she have sent him, unless she had written? and something told him that -she would not write. Any words that could be put on paper would express both -too much and too little. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was not the only person at Rosham whose rest was troubled this night, -seeing that Ellen also did not sleep well. She had loved her father in her own -way and sorrowed for him, but she loved her family better than any individual -member of it, and mourned still more bitterly for its sad fate. Also she had -her own particular troubles to overcome, for she was well aware that Edward -imagined her to possess the portion of eight thousand pounds which had been -allotted to her under the will, and it was necessary that he should be -undeceived and enlightened on various other points in connection with the -Rosham affairs, which could no longer be concealed from him. On the morrow he -rode over from Upcott, and very soon gave Ellen a chance of explanation, by -congratulating her upon the prospective receipt of the eight thousand. Like a -bold woman she took her opportunity at once, though she did not care about this -task and had some fears for the issue. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t congratulate me, Edward,” she said, “for I must -tell you I have discovered that this eight thousand pounds is very much in the -clouds.” -</p> - -<p> -Edward whistled. “Meaning——?” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning, my dear, that after you left the lawyer explained our financial -position. To put it shortly, the entail has been cut, the estate has been -mortgaged for more than its value, and there is not a farthing for -anybody.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed!” answered Edward: “that’s jolly good news. -Might I ask what is going to happen then?” -</p> - -<p> -“It all depends upon Henry. If he is not a fool, and marries Miss -Levinger, everything will come right, except my eight thousand pounds of -course, for she holds the mortgages, or her father does for her. If he -<i>is</i> a fool—which I have reason to believe is the case—and -declines to marry Miss Levinger, then I suppose that the estate will be made -bankrupt and that my mother will be left to starve.” -</p> - -<p> -At this announcement Edward uttered an indignant grunt. -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, Ellen,” he said; “it is all very fine, but you -have been playing it pretty low down upon me. I never heard a word of this -mess, although, of course, I knew that you were embarrassed, like most people -nowadays. What I did not know—to say nothing of your not having a -penny— was that I am to have the honour of marrying into a family of -bankrupts; and, to tell you the truth, I am half inclined to reconsider my -position, for I don’t wish to be mixed up with this sort of thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“About that you must do as you like, Edward,” she answered, with -dignity; “but let me tell you that this state of affairs is not my fault. -In the first place, it is the fault of those who are dead and gone, and still -more is it the fault of my brother Henry, whose wickedness and folly threaten -to plunge us all into ruin.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean by his ‘wickedness and folly’?” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that matter of which I spoke to you before—the matter of -this wretched girl, Joan Haste. It seems that he has become involved in some -miserable intrigue with her, after the disgusting fashion of you men, and on -this account he refuses to marry Emma Levinger. Yes, although my father prayed -him to do so with his dying breath, he still refuses, when he knows that it -would be his own salvation and that of his family also.” -</p> - -<p> -“He must be mad,” said Edward—“stark, staring mad: -it’s no such great wonder about the girl, but that he should decline to -marry Miss Levinger is sheer insanity; for, although I don’t think much -of her, and the connection is a bad one, it is clear that she has got the -dollars. What does he mean to do, then? Marry the other one?” -</p> - -<p> -“Very possibly, for all I know to the contrary. It would be quite in -keeping with his conduct.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, hang it, Ellen!—that I could not stand. It is not to be -expected of any man that he should come into a family of which the head will be -a bankrupt, who insists upon marrying a barmaid.” -</p> - -<p> -“Again I say that you must please yourself, Edward; but if you feel so -strongly about Henry’s conduct—and I admit that it is quite natural -that you should do so—perhaps you had better speak to him yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right: I will,” he answered. “Although I don’t -like meddling with other people’s love affairs, for I have quite enough -to do to manage my own, I will give him my mind pretty straight. He’s a -nasty customer to tackle; but if he doesn’t know before he is an hour -older that there are other people to be considered in the world besides -himself, it sha’n’t be my fault, that’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sure it is very brave of you, dear,” said Ellen, with veiled -sarcasm. “But, if I may venture to advise, I would suggest what my poor -father used to call the <i>suaviter in modo</i> in preference to the -<i>fortiter in re.</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, bother your Latin!” said Edward. “Please speak -English.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that were I you I should go fair and softly; for, as you remarked -just now in your own classic tongue, Henry is a ‘nasty customer to -tackle.’ Well, I happen to know that he is up and alone just now, so you -cannot have a better opportunity.” Then she rang the bell, which was -almost immediately answered by the butler, and added, “Will you be so -good, Thomson, as to show Mr. Milward to Sir Henry’s room?” -</p> - -<p> -Edward hesitated, for, like another hero, he felt his courage oozing out of his -finger-tips. Looking up, he saw Ellen watching him with a little smile, and -remembered that to draw back now would mean that for many a long day to come he -must be the target of the bitter arrows of her irony. So he set his teeth and -went as to a forlorn hope. -</p> - -<p> -In another minute he was in the presence of the man whom he came to annihilate. -Henry was seated in a chair, against which his crutches were resting, looking -out of the window, with an open book upon his knee, and it cannot be said that -he appeared pleased on hearing the name of his visitor. Indeed, he was about to -tell Thomson that he was engaged, when Edward blundered in behind him, leaving -him no option but to shake hands and ask his visitor to sit down. Then ensued -this conversation. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Graves? I have come to see you on business.” -</p> - -<p> -“As well as I can expect, thank you.” -</p> - -<p> -A pause. -</p> - -<p> -“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems fine; but as you have been out, you will know more about it -than I do.” -</p> - -<p> -Another pause. -</p> - -<p> -“The pheasants ought to do well this year; they have had a wonderful fine -time for hatching.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed. I think you said that you wished to speak to me about some -business.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are not rearing any this season, are you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No: I am sorry to say that I have other chicks to hatch at present. But -about the business?” -</p> - -<p> -“All right, Graves; I am coming to that. The pheasants lead up to it. -<i>Fortiter in modo,</i> as Ellen says.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does she? Well, it is not a bad motto for her, though it’s wrong. -Well, if we have done with the pheasants——” -</p> - -<p> -There was yet another pause, and then Edward said suddenly, and with effort: -</p> - -<p> -“You are not rearing any pheasants, Graves, because you can’t -afford to; in fact, I have just found out that you are bankrupt, and the whole -thing is a swindle, and that Ellen won’t have a farthing of her eight -thousand pounds. She has sent me up here to talk to you about it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has she? That is <i>fortiter in modo</i> and no mistake. Well, talk on, -Mr. Milward. But, before you begin, let me remind you that I asked you to stop -and hear what passed after the reading of the will yesterday, and you would -not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, bother the will! It is a fraud, like everything else in this place. -I tell you, Graves——” -</p> - -<p> -“One moment. Pray lower your voice, keep your temper, and remember that -you are speaking to a gentleman.” -</p> - -<p> -“Speaking to a gentleman? A nice sort of gentleman! You mean an -uncertificated bankrupt, who won’t do the right thing by his family and -marry the girl who could set them on their legs again; a pious humbug who -preaches to everybody else, but isn’t above carrying on a low intrigue -with a barmaid, and then having the impudence to say that he means to disgrace -us by marrying her.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have asked you to lower your voice, Mr. Milward.” -</p> - -<p> -“Lower my voice? I think it is high time to raise it when I find myself -let in for an engagement with the sister of a man who does such things. You -needn’t look at <i>me,</i> Sir Henry Graves,—Sir Henry indeed! I -repeat, ‘let in.’ However, you must mend your manners, or Ellen -will suffer for it, that is all; for I shall throw her over and wash my hands -of the whole show. The bankruptcy is bad enough, but I’m hanged if I will -stand the barmaid. Edward Milward of Upcott with a barmaid for a sister-in-law! -Not if he knows it.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Henry answered, in a quiet and ominous voice: “You have been so -good, Mr. Milward, doubtless more in kindness than in anger, as to point out to -me with great directness the errors, or assumed errors, of my ways. Allow me, -before I say anything further, to point out to you an error in yours, about -which there is no possibility of doubt. You say that you propose ‘to -throw over’ my sister, not on account of anything that she has done, but -because of acts which I am supposed to have done. In my judgment it will indeed -be fortunate for her should you take this course. But not the less do I feel -bound to tell you, that the man who behaves thus towards a woman, having no -cause of offence against her, is not what is usually understood by the term -gentleman. So much for my sister: now for myself. It seems to me that there is -only one answer possible to conduct and language such as you have thought fit -to make use of; and were I well, much as I dislike violence, I should not -hesitate to apply it. I should, Mr. Milward, kick you out of this room and down -yonder stairs, and, should my strength not fail me, across that garden. Being -crippled at present, I am unable to advance this argument. I must, therefore, -do the best I can.” And, taking up the crutch that stood by his chair, -Henry hurled it straight at him. “Now go!” he thundered; and Mr. -Milward went. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that Ellen will feel pleased with the effect of her -embassy,” thought Henry; then suddenly he turned white, and, choking with -wrath, said aloud, “Great Heaven! to think that I should have come so low -as to be forced to suffer such insults from a cur like that! What will be the -end of it? One thing is clear: I can’t stand much more. I’m done -for in the Service; but I dare say that I could get a billet as mate on a -liner, or even a command of some vessel in the Canadian or Australian waters -where I am known. Unless there is a change soon, that is what I’ll do, -and take Joan with me. Nobody will sneer at her there, anyway —at least, -nobody who sees her.” -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile Ellen was standing in the hall making pretence to arrange some -flowers, but in reality waiting, not without a certain sense of anxiety, to -learn the result of the interview which she had been instrumental in bringing -about. She hoped that Henry would snub her <i>fiancé</i> in payment of -sundry remarks that Edward had made to her, and which she had by no means -forgotten, although she was not at present in a position to resent them. She -hoped also, with some lack of perspicuity, that Henry would be impressed by -Edward’s remonstrances, and that, when he came to understand that her -future was imperilled, he would hasten to sacrifice his own. But here she make -her great mistake, not foreseeing that a man of Milward’s moral fibre -could not by any possibility neglect to push a fancied vantage home, any more -than he could refrain from being insolent and brutal towards one whom he -thought at his mercy; for, even in the upper walks of life, individuals do -exist who take pleasure in grinding the heads of the fallen deeper into the -mire. -</p> - -<p> -Presently Ellen was alarmed to hear Henry’s words “Now go” -echo through the house, followed by the sound of a banging door. Next instant -Edward appeared upon the stairs, and the expression of his features betrayed a -wondrous mixture of astonishment, fear and indignation. -</p> - -<p> -“What have you been doing, Edward?” she said, as he approached. -“You do not mean to tell me that you have been brawling, and in this -house?” -</p> - -<p> -“Brawling? Oh yes, say that I have been brawling,” gasped Edward, -when at last he managed to speak. “That infernal brother of yours has -thrown a crutch at me; but by all means say that I have been brawling.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thrown a crutch? And what had you been doing to make him throw a -crutch?” -</p> - -<p> -“Doing? Why, nothing, except tell him that he was a fraud and a bankrupt. -He took it all quite quietly till the end, then suddenly he said that if he -wasn’t a cripple he would kick me downstairs, and threw a crutch at my -head; and, by George! I believe from the look of him that if he could he would -have done it too!” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very possible,” said Ellen, “if you were foolish -enough to use such language towards him. You have had an escape. Henry has a -fearful temper when roused.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then why on earth didn’t you say so before you sent me up there? -Do you suppose that I enjoy being pelted with crutches by a mad sailor? -Possible! Yes, it seems that anything is possible in this house; but I will -tell you one thing that isn’t, and it is that I should stay here any -longer. I scratch, now, on the spot. Do you understand, Ellen? The game is up, -and you can marry whom you like.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point Ellen touched him on the shoulder, and said, in a cold voice: -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you are not aware that there are at least two servants listening -to you? Will you be so kind as to follow me into the drawing-room?” -</p> - -<p> -Edward obeyed. When Ellen put on her coldest and most imperious manner he -always did obey, and it is probable that he will always continue to do so. He -was infuriated, and he was humbled, still he could not resist that invitation -into the drawing-room. It was a large apartment, and by some oversight the -shutters that were closed for the funeral had never been reopened, therefore -its aspect could not be called cheerful, though there was sufficient light to -see by. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Mr. Milward,” said Ellen, stationing herself in the centre of -a wide expanse of floor, for there were no little tables and knickknacks at -Rosham, “I will ask you to be so good as to repeat what you were -saying.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus adjured, Edward looked around him, and his spirits sank. He could be -vociferous enough in the sunlit hall, but here in this darkened chamber, that -reminded him unpleasantly of corpses and funerals, with Ellen, of whom he was -secretly afraid, standing cool and collected before him, a sudden humility fell -upon him. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you call me Mr. Milward?” he asked: “it doesn’t -sound right; and as for what I was saying, I was saying that I could not stand -this sort of thing any more, and I think that we had better shut up the -shop.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean by ‘shutting up the shop’ that our engagement is -at an end, Mr. Milward, so be it. But unfortunately, as you must understand, -questions will be asked, and I shall be glad to know what explanation you -propose to furnish.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! you can settle that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well; I presume you admit that I am not to blame, therefore we must -fall back upon the cause which you have given: that you insulted my brother, -who—notwithstanding his crippled condition—inflicted a physical -punishment upon you. Indeed, unless I can succeed in stopping it, thanks to -your own indiscretion, the story will be all over the place before to-morrow, -and I must leave you to judge what will be thought of it in the county, or let -us say at the militia mess, which I believe you join next Wednesday.” -</p> - -<p> -Edward heard and quailed. He was excessively sensitive to public opinion, and -more especially to the chaff of his brother-officers in the militia, among whom -he was something of a butt. If it became known there that Sir Henry Graves, a -man with a broken leg, had driven him out of the room by throwing crutches at -his head, he felt that his life would speedily become a burden to him. -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t be so mean as that, Ellen,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“So mean as what? To some people it might seem that the meanness is on -the other side. There are difficulties here, and you have quarrelled with my -brother; therefore, as I understand, you wish to desert me after being publicly -engaged to me for some months, and to leave me in an utterly false position. Do -so if you will, but you must not be surprised if you find your conduct called -by strong names. For my part I am indifferent, but for your own sake I think -that you would do well to pause. Do not suppose that I shall sit still under -such an affront. You know that I can be a good friend; you have yet to learn -that I can be a good enemy. Possibly, though I do not like to think it of you, -you believe that we are ruined and of no account. You will find your mistake. -There are troubles here, but they can be overcome, and very soon you will live -to regret that you dared to put such a deadly affront upon me and my family. -You foolish man!” she went on, with gathering vehemence, “have you -not yet realized the difference between us? Have you not learned that with all -your wealth you are nobody and I am somebody—that though I can stand -without you, without me you will fall? Now I am tired of talking: choose, -Edward Milward, choose whether you will jilt me and incur an enmity that shall -follow you to your death, or whether you will bide by me and be placed where of -late it has been the object of my life to set you.” -</p> - -<p> -If Edward had quailed before, now he positively trembled, for he knew that -Ellen spoke truth. Hers was the master mind, and to a great extent he had -become dependent on her. Moreover he had ambitions, for the most part of a -social and personal nature—which included, however, his entry into -Parliament, where he hoped that his power of the purse would ultimately earn -him some sort of title—and these ambitions he felt sure would never be -gratified without the help of Ellen. Lastly, he was in his own way sincerely -attached to her, and quite appreciated the force of her threats to make of him -an object of ridicule among his neighbours and brother-officers. Smarting -though he was under a sense of moral and physical injury, the sum of these -considerations turned the balance in favour of the continuance of his -engagement. Perhaps Ellen was right, and her family would ride out this -trouble; but whether they did so or not, he was convinced that without Ellen he -should sink below his present level, and what was more, that she would help him -on his downward career. So Edward gave in; indeed, it would not be too much to -say that he collapsed. -</p> - -<p> -“You shouldn’t speak so harshly, dear,” he said, “for -you know that I did not really mean what I told you about breaking off our -engagement. The fact is that, what between one thing and another, I scarcely -knew what I was saying.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed!” answered Ellen. “Well, I hope that you know what -you are saying now. If our engagement is to be continued, there must be no -further talk of breaking it off on the next occasion that you happen to have a -quarrel with my brother, or to be angry about the mortgages on this -property.” -</p> - -<p> -“The only thing that I bargain about your brother is, that I shall not be -asked to see him, or have anything to do with him. He can go to the deuce his -own way so far as I am concerned, and we can cut him when we are -married—that is, if he becomes bankrupt and the rest of it. I am sorry if -I have behaved badly, Ellen; but really and truly I do mean what I say about -our engagement, and I tell you what, I will go home and put it on paper if you -like, and bring you the letter this afternoon.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is as you like, Edward,” she answered, with a perceptible -softening of her manner. “But after what has happened, you may think -yourself fortunate that I ever consent to see you again.” -</p> - -<p> -Edward attempted no reply, at least in words, for he was crushed; but, bending -down, he imprinted a chaste salute upon Ellen’s smooth forehead, which -she acknowledged by touching him frostily on the cheek with her lips. -</p> - -<p> -This, then, is the history of the great quarrel between these lovers, and of -their reconciliation. -</p> - -<p> -“Upon my word,” said Ellen to herself, as she watched him depart, -“I am by no means certain that Henry’s obstinacy and violence have -not done me a good turn for once. They have brought things to a crisis, there -has been a struggle, and I have won the day. Whatever happens, I do not think -it likely that Edward will try to match himself against me again, and I am -quite certain that he will never talk any more of breaking off our -engagement.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br/> -BETWEEN DUTY AND DUTY.</h2> - - -<p> -For a while Ellen stood silent, enjoying the luxury of a well-earned victory; -then she turned and went upstairs to Henry’s room. The first thing that -she saw was the crutch which her brother had used as a missile of war with such -effect, still lying where it had fallen on the carpet. She picked it up and -placed it by his chair. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Henry?” she said blandly. “I hear that you -have surpassed yourself this morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, look here, Ellen,” he answered, in a voice that was almost -savage in its energy, “if you have come to bait me, I advise you to give -it up, for I am in no mood to stand much more. You sent Mr. Milward up here to -insult me, and I treated him as he deserved; though now I regret that under -intolerable provocation I forgot myself so far as to condescend to violence. I -am very sorry if I have interfered with your matrimonial projects, though there -is a certain justice about it, seeing how constantly you attempt to interfere -with mine; but I could not help it. No man of honour could have borne the -things that fellow thought fit to say, and it is your own fault for encouraging -him to say them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, pray, my dear Henry, let us leave this cant about that after all -that has happened and is happening, the less said of honour the better. It is -quite useless for you to look angry, since I presume that you will not try to -silence me by throwing things in my face. And now let me tell you that, -although you have done your best, you have not succeeded in ‘interfering -with my matrimonial projects’ which, in fact, were never so firmly -established as they are at this moment.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to say,” asked Henry in astonishment, “that the -man has put up with—well, with what I was obliged to inflict upon him, -and that you still contemplate marrying him after the way in which he has -threatened to jilt you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly I mean to say it. We have set the one thing against the other -and cried quits, though of course he has bargained that he shall have nothing -more to do with you, and also that, should you persist in your present conduct, -he shall not be forced to receive you at his house after our marriage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really he need not have troubled to make that stipulation.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are not all fools, Henry,” Ellen went on; “and I did not -feel called upon to break an engagement that in many ways suits me very well -because you have chosen to quarrel with Edward and to use violence towards him. -Do not be afraid, Henry: I have not come here to lecture you; I come to say -that I wash my hands of you. In the interests of the family, of which you are -the head, I still venture to hope that you will repent of the past and that -better counsels may prevail as to the future. I hope, for instance, that you -will come to see that your own prosperity and good name should not be -sacrificed in order to gratify a low passion. But this is merely a pious wish -and by the way. You are a middle-aged man, and must take your own course in -life; only I decline to be involved in your ruin. If in the future I should -however be able to do anything to mitigate its consequences so far as this -property is concerned, I will do it; for I at least think more of my family -than of myself, and most of all of the dying wishes of our father. And now, -Henry, as a sister to a brother I say good-bye to you for so long as you -persist in your present courses. Henceforth when we meet it will be as -acquaintances and no more. Good-bye, Henry.” And she left the room. -</p> - -<p> -“That is a pleasant speech to have to listen to,” reflected Henry -as the door closed behind her. “Of the two I really think that I prefer -Mr. Milward’s mode of address, for he can be answered, or at any rate -dealt with; but it is difficult to answer Ellen, seeing that to a great extent -she has the right on her side. What a position for a man! If I had tried, I -could not have invented a worse one. I shall never laugh again at the agonies -of a heroine placed between love and duty, for it is my own case. Or rather let -us leave the love out of it, and say that I stand between duty and duty, the -delicate problem to decide being: Which is the higher of these duties and who -shall be sacrificed?” -</p> - -<p> -As he thought thus, sadly enough, there was a knock upon his door, and Lady -Graves entered the room, looking very sorrowful and dignified in her -widow’s robe. -</p> - -<p> -“So I haven’t seen the worst of it,” Henry muttered. -“Well, I may as well get it over.” Then he added aloud, “Will -you sit down, mother? I am sorry that I cannot rise to receive you.” -</p> - -<p> -“My boy,” she said in a low voice, “I have been thinking a -great deal of the sad scene which took place in connection with your dear -father’s death, and of my subsequent conduct towards you, and I have come -to apologise to you. I do not know the exact circumstances that led you to act -as you have done,—I may even say that I scarcely wish to know them; but -on reflection I feel that nothing but the strongest reasons or considerations -of honour would have induced you to refuse your father’s last request, -and that I have therefore no right to judge you harshly. This came home to me -when I saw you leaving the room yonder a few nights since, and your face showed -me what you were suffering. But at that time my heart was too frozen with -grief, and, I fear, also too much filled with resentment against you to allow -me to speak. If you can tell me anything that will give me a better -understanding of the causes of all this dreadful trouble, I shall be grateful -to you; for then we may perhaps consult together and find some way out of it. -But I repeat that I do not come to force your confidence. I come, Henry, to -express my regret, and to mourn with you over a husband and a father whom we -both loved dearly,”—and, moved by a sudden impulse of affection, -she bent down and kissed her son upon the forehead. -</p> - -<p> -He returned the embrace, and said, “Mother, those are the first kind -words that I have heard for a long while from any member of my family; and I -can assure you that I am grateful for them, and shall not forget them, for I -thought that you had come here to revile me like everybody else. You say that -you do not ask my confidence, but fortunately a man can speak out to his mother -without shame, even when he has cause to be ashamed of what he must tell her. -Now listen, mother: as you know, I never was a favourite in this house; I dare -say through my own fault, but so it is. From boyhood everybody more or less -looked down upon me, and, with the exception of yourself, I doubt if anybody -cared for me much. Well, I determined to make my own way in the world and to -show you all that there was something in me, and to a certain extent I -succeeded. I worked hard to succeed too; I denied myself in many ways, and -above all I kept myself clear from the vices that most young men fall into in -one shape or another. Then came this dreadful business of my brother’s -death, and just as I was beginning really to get on I was asked to leave the -profession which was everything to me. From the letters that reached me I -gathered that in some mysterious way it lay in my power, and in mine alone, to -pull the family affairs out of the mire if I returned home. So I retired from -the Service and I came, because I thought that it was my duty, for hitherto I -have tried to do my duty when I could see my way to it. On the first night of -my arrival here I learned the true state of affairs from Ellen, and I learned -also what it was expected that I should do to remedy it—namely, that I -should marry a young lady with whom I had but a slight acquaintance, but who, -as it chances, is the owner of the mortgages on this estate.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was most indiscreet of Ellen to put the matter like that,” said -Lady Graves. -</p> - -<p> -“Ellen is frequently indiscreet, mother; but doubtless it never occurred -to her that I should object to doing what she is so ready to do for -herself—marry for money. I am glad you see, however, that her method was -not exactly calculated to prepossess any man in favour of a marriage, of which -he did not happen to have thought for himself. Still the young lady came, and I -liked her exceedingly; I liked her more than any woman that I had met before, -the one inexplicable thing about her to my mind—being why on earth she -should wish to marry me, as I understand is, or was, the case.” -</p> - -<p> -“You foolish boy!” said Lady Graves, smiling a little; “do -you not understand that she had become fond of you during that week when you -were here together the year before last?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t say that I understand it, mother, for I had not much to do -with her. But even if it is so, it does not satisfactorily explain why her -father should be equally anxious for this match. Of course I know that he has -given lots of reasons, but I cannot help thinking that there is something -behind them all. However, that is neither here nor there.” -</p> - -<p> -“I fancy, Henry, that the only thing behind Mr. Levinger’s reasons -is an earnest desire for the happiness of a daughter to whom he is much -attached.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, mother, as I was saying, I took a great fancy to the girl, and -though I did not at all like the idea of making advances to a lady to whom we -are under such obligations, I determined to put my pride in my pocket, and, if -I still continued to admire her after further acquaintance, to ask her if she -would allow me to share her fortune, for I think that is an accurate way of -putting it. So I went off to stay at Monk’s Lodge, and the chapter of -troubles began. The girl who indirectly was the cause of my accident became my -nurse, and it seems that she grew attached to me, and—I grew attached to -her. It was not wonderful: you know her; she is very beautiful, she has a good -heart, and in most ways she is a lady. In short, she is a woman who in any less -prejudiced country would certainly be received into society if she had the -means to enter it. Well, so things went on without anything remarkable -happening, until recently.” And he repeated to her fairly and fully all -that had passed between himself and Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, mother,” he said, “I have made my confession to you, -and perhaps you will understand how it came about that, fresh from such scenes, -and taken as I was utterly by surprise, I was unable to promise what my father -asked. I do not know what your judgment of my conduct may be; probably you -cannot think of it more harshly than I do myself, and in excuse of it I can -only say that the circumstances were strange, and, as I have discovered, I love -the woman. What, therefore, is my duty towards her?” “Did you ever -promise to marry her, Henry?” “Promise? Yes, I said that I would; -for, as you know, I am a bit of a puritan, although I have little right to that -title now, and it seemed to me that marriage was the only way out of the -trouble.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does she expect you to marry her, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly not. She declares that she would not allow it on any -consideration. But this goes for nothing, for how can I take advantage of her -inexperience and self-sacrificing folly? You have the whole facts: what do you -think that I should do?” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, I am older than you are; I have seen a great deal of life, and -perhaps you, who are curiously unworldly, may think me the reverse. I accept -your story as it stands, well knowing that you have told me the exact truth, -without hiding anything which would weigh against yourself; and on the face of -that story, I cannot say that I consider it to be your duty to marry this poor -girl, with whom, through your own weakness and folly, you have placed yourself -in such false relations though undoubtedly it is your duty to do everything in -your power to provide for her. If you had deliberately set yourself to lead her -astray, the case might be different; only, were you capable of such -conduct—which I know that you are not—you would not now be -tormented by doubts as to your duty towards her. You talk of Joan Haste’s -‘inexperience.’ Are you sure that this is so? The whole history of -her conduct seems to show experience, and even art, or at any rate a knowledge, -very unusual in a girl of her age and position, of how best to work upon a -man’s tenderness and to move his feelings. That art may have been -unconscious, an art which Nature gave her; and that knowledge may have been -intuitive, for of course all things are possible, and I can only judge of what -is probable. At least it is clear that she never expected that you would marry -her, because she knew that such an act would bring you to ruin, and I respect -her for her honesty in this particular.” -</p> - -<p> -“Should a man shrink from his duty because duty means disaster, -mother?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not if it <i>is</i> his duty, perhaps, Henry; but in the present case -that, to say the least of it, is not proved. I will answer your question by -another: Should a man neglect many undoubted duties, among them that of obeying -the dying petition of his father, in order to indulge his conscience with the -sense that he has fulfilled one which is open to doubt? Henry, I do not wish to -push you about this matter, for I see that, even if you do not love Joan Haste -so much as you think, at the least you are strongly attracted to her; also I -see that your self-questionings are honest, and that you are anxious to do what -is right, independently of the possible consequences to yourself. But I do pray -of you not to be led away, and, if you can avoid it, not to see this girl again -at present. Take time to consider: one month, two, three, as you like; and in -the meanwhile do not commit yourself beyond redemption. Remember all that is at -stake; remember that a man in your position is not entirely his own master. Of -myself I will not speak. Why should I? I am old, and my day is done; such years -as remain to me I can drag out in obscurity without repining, for my memories -are enough for me, and I have little care left for any earthly advantage. But -of your family I do not venture to speak. It has been here so long, and your -father loved this place so well, that it breaks my heart to think of its going -to the hammer—after three centuries,”—and the old lady turned -her head and wiped her eyes furtively, then added: “And it will go to the -hammer—it must. I know Mr. Levinger well; he is a curious man, and -whatever his real reasons may be, his mind is set upon this marriage. If he is -disappointed about it, he will certainly take his remedy; indeed, he is bound -to do so, for the money at stake is not his, but his daughter’s.” -</p> - -<p> -“You tell me to take three months to consider, mother; but, looking at -the matter from the family point of view, how am I to do this? It seems that we -have scarcely a sixpence in the world, and a heavy accumulation of debt. Where -is the money to come from to enable us to carry on for another three -months?” -</p> - -<p> -“Beyond the overdue interest there are not many floating liabilities, -Henry, for I have always made it a practice to pay cash. Of course, when the -farms come on hand at Michaelmas the case will be different, for then, unless -they can be let in the meantime, a large sum of money must be found to pay the -covenants and take them over, or they must go out of cultivation. Till then, -however, you need have no anxiety, for, as it chances, at the moment I have -ample funds at command.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ample funds! Where do they come from?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of all my fortune, Henry, there remained to me my jewels, the diamonds -and sapphires that my grandmother left me, which she inherited from her -grandmother. They should have gone to Ellen, but when our need was pressing, -rather than trouble your poor father any more, I sold them secretly. They -realized between two and three thousand pounds—about half their value, I -believe—of which I have a clear two thousand left. Do not tell Ellen of -this, I pray you, for she would be very angry, and I do not feel fit to bear -any scenes at present. And now, my dear, it is luncheon time, so I think that I -will leave you, hoping that you will consider the advice which I have ventured -to give you.” And again she kissed him affectionately and left the room. -</p> - -<p> -“Sold her jewels!” thought Henry, “the jewels that she valued -above any possession in the world! My poor mother! And if I marry this girl, or -do not marry the other, what will her end be? The workhouse, I suppose, unless -Milward gives her a home out of charity, or I can earn sufficient to keep her, -of which I see no prospect. Indeed, I begin to think that she is right, and -that my first duty is owing to my family. And yet how can I abandon Joan? Or if -I do, how can I marry Emma Levinger with this affair upon my hands, begun since -I became acquainted with her? Oh! what an unhappy man am I! Well, there is one -thing to be said,—my evil doing is being repaid to me full measure, -pressed down and running over. It is not often that punishment follows so hard -upon the heels of error.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> -CONGRATULATIONS.</h2> - - -<p> -Joan was not really ill: she had contracted a chill, accompanied by a certain -amount of fever, but this was all. Indeed, the fever had already taken her on -the night of her love scene with Henry, and to its influence upon her nerves -may be attributed a good deal of the conduct which to Lady Graves had seemed to -give evidence of art and experienced design. Nothing further was said by her -aunt as to her leaving the house, and things went on as usual till the morning -when she woke up and learned that her lover had gone under such sad -circumstances. It was a shock to her, but she grieved more for him than for -herself. Indeed, she thought it best that he should be gone; it even seemed to -her that she had anticipated it, that she had always known he must go and that -she would see him no more. The curtain was down for ever; her short tragedy had -culminated and was played out, so Joan believed, unaware that its most moving -acts were yet to come. It was terrible, and henceforth her life must be a -desolation; but it cannot be said that as yet her conscience caused her to -grieve for what had been: sorrow and repentance were to overtake her when she -learned all the trouble and ruin which her conduct had caused. -</p> - -<p> -No, at present she was glad to have met him and to have loved him, winning some -share of his love in return; and she thought then that she would rather go -broken-hearted through the remainder of her days than sponge out those memories -and be placid and prosperous without them. Whatever might be her natural -longings, she had no intention of carrying the matter any further, least of all -had she any intention of persuading or even of allowing Henry to marry her, for -she had been quite earnest and truthful in her declarations to him upon this -point. She did not even desire that his life should be burdened with her in any -way, or that she should occupy his mind to the detriment of other persons and -affairs; though of course she hoped that he would always think of her with -affection, or perhaps with love, and she would have been no true woman had she -not done so. Curiously enough, Joan seemed to expect that Henry would adopt the -same passive attitude towards herself which she contemplated adopting towards -him. She knew that men are for the most part desirous of burying their dead -loves out of sight—sometimes, in their minds, marking the graves with a -secret monument visible to themselves alone, be it a headstone with initials -and a date, or only a withered wreath of flowers; but more often suffering the -naked earth of oblivion to be trodden hard upon them, as though fearful lest -their poor ghosts should rise again, and, taking flesh and form, come back to -haunt a future in which they have no place. -</p> - -<p> -She did not understand that Henry was not of this class, that in many respects -his past life had been different to the lives of the majority of men, or that -she was absolutely the first woman who had ever touched his heart. Therefore -she came to the conclusion, sadly enough, and with an aching jealousy which she -could not smother, but with resignation, that the next important piece of news -she was likely to hear about her lover would be that of his engagement to Miss -Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -As it chanced, tidings of a totally different nature reached her on the -following day, though whether they were true or false she could not tell. It -was her aunt who brought them, when she came in with her supper, for Joan was -still confined to her room. -</p> - -<p> -“There are nice doings up there at Rosham,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, -eyeing her niece curiously. -</p> - -<p> -Joan’s heart gave a leap. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the matter?” she asked, trying not to look too -interested. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, the old baronet is gone for one thing, as was expected that he -must; and they say that he slipped off while he was cursing and swearing at his -son, the Captain, which don’t seem a right kind of way to die, to my -mind.” -</p> - -<p> -“Died cursing and swearing at Captain Graves? Why?” murmured Joan -faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t tell you rightly. All I know about it came to me from -Lucilla Smith, who is own sister to Mary Roberts, the cook up there, who, it -seems, was listening at the door, or, as she puts it, waiting to be called in -to say good-bye to her master, and she had it from the gardener’s -boy.” -</p> - -<p> -“She? Who had it, aunt?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Lucilla Smith had, of course. Can’t you understand plain -English? I tell you that old Sir Reginald sat up in bed and cursed and swore at -the Captain till he was black in the face. Then he screeched out loud and -died.” -</p> - -<p> -“How dreadful!” said Joan. “But what was he cursing -about?” -</p> - -<p> -“About? Why, because the Captain wouldn’t promise to marry Miss -Levinger, who’s got bonds on all the property, down to the plate in the -pantry, in her pocket. That old fox of a father of hers stole them when he was -agent there, I expect——” Here Mrs. Gillingwater checked -herself, and added hastily, “But that’s neither here nor there; at -any rate she’s got them, and can sell the Graves’s up to-morrow if -she likes, which being so, it ain’t wonderful that old Sir Reginald -cursed when he heard his son turn round coolly and say that he wouldn’t -marry her at any price.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did he tell why he wouldn’t marry her?” asked Joan, with a -desperate effort to look unconcerned beneath her aunt’s searching gaze. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know that he did. If so, Lucilla doesn’t know, so I -suppose that Mary Roberts couldn’t hear. She did hear one thing, however: -she heard your name, miss, twice, so there wasn’t no mistake about -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“My name? Oh! my name!” gasped Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yours, unless there is another Joan Haste in these parts, which I -haven’t heard on. And now, perhaps, you will tell me what it was doing -there.” -</p> - -<p> -“How can I tell you when I don’t know, aunt?” -</p> - -<p> -“How can you tell me when you won’t say, miss? That’s what -you mean. Look here, Joan: do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose that I -haven’t seen through your little game? Why, I have watched it all along, -and I’m bound to say that you don’t play half so bad for a young -hand. Well, it seems that you pulled it off this time, and I’m not saying -but what I am proud of you, though I still hold that you would have done better -to have married Samuel; for I believe, when all is said and finished, he will -be the richer man of the two. It’s very nice to be a baronet’s -lady, no doubt; but if you have nothing to live on—and I don’t -fancy that there are many pickings left up there at Rosham—I can’t -see that it helps you much forrarder.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean, aunt?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mean? Now, Joan, don’t you begin trying your humbug on me: keep -that for the men. You’re not going to pretend that you haven’t been -making love to the Captain—I beg his pardon, Sir Henry he is now—as -hard as you know how. Well, it seems that you have bamboozled him finely, and -have made him so sweet on your pretty face that he’s going to throw over -marrying the Levinger girl in order to marry you, for that’s what it -comes to, and you may very well be proud of it. But don’t you be carried -away; you wouldn’t take my advice about Samuel Rock, and I spoke to you -rough that night on purpose, for I wanted you to make sure of one or the other. -Well, take my advice about Sir Henry. Remember there is many a slip between the -cup and the lip, and that out of sight is apt to be out of mind. Don’t -you keep out of sight too long. You strike while the iron is hot, and marry -him; on the quiet if you like, but marry him. Of course there will be a row, -but all the rows under heaven can’t unmake a wife and a ladyship. Now -listen to me. I have gone out of my way to talk to you like this, because you -are a fine girl and I’m fond of you, which is more than you are of me, -and I should like to see you get on in the world; and perhaps when you’re -up you will not forget your old aunt who is down. I tell you I have gone out of -my way to give you this tip, for there’s some as won’t be pleased -to see you turned into Lady Graves. Yes, there’s some who’d give a -good deal to stop it: Samuel Rock, for instance; he don’t like parting, -but he’d lay down something handsome, and I doubt if I’ll ever see -the coin out of you that I might out of him and others, for after all you -won’t be a rich woman at best. However, we must sacrifice ourselves at -times, and that’s what I am doing on your account, Joan. And now, if you -want to get a note up to Rosham, I will manage it for you. But perhaps you had -better wait and go yourself.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus09"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig09.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘“My name? Oh! my -name!” gasped Joan.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Joan listened to this long address in amazement mingled with scorn. It would be -hard to say which of its qualities disgusted her the most—its coarseness, -its cunning, or its avarice. Above all these, however, it revolted her to learn -that her aunt thought her capable of conceiving and carrying out so disgraceful -a plot. What must the woman’s mind be like, that she could imagine such -evil in others? And what had she, Joan, ever done, that she should be so -misunderstood? -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand you, aunt: I don’t wish to marry Captain -Graves,” she said simply. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to tell me that you ain’t blind gone on him, and that -he’s not gone on you, Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“I said that I did not wish to marry him,” she answered, evading -the question. “To marry a girl like me would be the ruin of him.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater stared at her niece as she lay on the bed before her; then -she burst into a loud laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“Oho! you’re a simple one, you are,” she said, pointing her -finger at her. “You’re downright innocent, if ever a girl was, with -your hands folded and your hair hanging about your face, like a half-blown -angel, more fit for a marble monument than for this wicked world. You -couldn’t give anybody a kiss on the quiet, could you? Your lips would -blush themselves off first, wouldn’t they? And as for marrying him if his -ma didn’t like it, that you’d never, never do. I’ll tell you -what it is, Joan: I’m getting a better opinion of you every day; you -ain’t half the fool I thought you, after all. You remember what I said to -you about Samuel, and you think that I’ve got his money in my pocket and -other people’s too perhaps, and that I’m just setting a trap for -you and going to give you away. Well, as a matter of fact I wasn’t this -time, so you might just as well have been open with me. But there you are, -girl: go about your own business in your own fashion. I see that you can be -trusted to look after yourself, and I won’t spoil sport. I’ve been -blind and deaf and dumb before now—yes, blinder than you think, perhaps, -for all your psalm-singing air—and I can be again. And now I’m off; -only I tell you fair I won’t work for nothing, so don’t you begin -to whine about poor relations when once you’re married, else I may find a -way to make it hot for you yet, seeing that there’s things you -mightn’t like spoken of when you’re ‘my lady’ and -respectable.” And with this jocular threat on her lips Mrs. Gillingwater -vanished. -</p> - -<p> -When her aunt had gone, Joan drew the sheet over her face as though she sought -to hide herself, and wept in the bitterness of her shame. She was what she was; -but did she deserve to be spoken to like this? She would rather a hundred times -have borne her aunt’s worst violence than be made the object of her -loathly compliments. How much did this woman know? Surely everything, or she -would not dare to address her as she had done. She had no longer any respect -for her, and that must be the reason of her odious assumption that there was -nothing to choose between them, that they were equal in evil. She would not -believe her when she said that she had no wish to marry Henry—she thought -that the speech was dictated by a low cunning like her own. Well, perhaps it -was fortunate that she did not believe her; for, if she had, what would have -happened? -</p> - -<p> -Very soon it became clear to Joan that on this point it would be best not to -undeceive her aunt, since to do so might provoke some terrible catastrophe of -which she could not foresee the consequences. After further reflection, another -thing became clear to her: that she must vanish from Bradmouth. What was truth -and what was falsehood in Mrs. Gillingwater’s story, she could not say, -but obviously it contained an alloy of fact. There had been some quarrel -between Henry and his dying father, and in that quarrel her name had been -mentioned. Strange as it seemed, it might even be that he had declared an -intention of marrying her. Now that she thought of it, she remembered that he -had spoken of such a thing several times. The idea opened new possibilities to -her—possibilities of a happiness of which she had not dared to dream; -but, to her honour be it said, she never allowed them to take root in her -mind—no, not for a single hour. She knew well what such a marriage would -mean for Henry, and that was enough. She must disappear; but whither? She had -no means and no occupation. Where, then, could she go? -</p> - -<p> -For two or three days she stayed in her room, keeping her aunt as much at a -distance as possible, and pondering on these matters, but without attaining to -any feasible solution of them. -</p> - -<p> -On the day of Sir Reginald’s funeral, which Mrs. Gillingwater attended, -and of which she gave her a full account, she received Henry’s message -brought to her by the doctor, and returned a general answer to it. Next morning -her uncle Gillingwater, who chanced to be sober, brought her word that Mr. -Levinger had called, and asked that she would favour him with a visit at -Monk’s Lodge so soon as she was about again. Joan wondered for what -possible reason Mr. Levinger could wish to see her, and her conscience answered -that it had to do with Henry. Well, if he was not her guardian, he took an -undefined interest in her, and it occurred to her that he might be able to help -her to escape from Bradmouth, so for this reason, if for no other, she -determined to comply with his wish. -</p> - -<p> -Two days later, accordingly, Joan started for Monk’s Lodge, having -arranged with the local grocer to give her a lift to the house, whither his van -was bound to deliver some parcels; for, after being laid up, she did not feel -equal to walking both ways. About two o’clock, arrayed in her best grey -dress, she went to the grocer’s shop and waited outside. Presently she -heard a shrill voice calling to her from the stable-yard, that joined the shop, -and a red-haired boy poked his head through the open door. -</p> - -<p> -“Sorry to keep you waiting, Joan Haste,” said the boy, who was none -other than Willie Hood; “but I’ve been cleaning up the old -horse’s bit in honour of having such a swell as you to drive. Stand clear -now; here we come.” And he led out the van, to which a broken-kneed -animal was harnessed, that evidently had seen better days. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, you’re never going to drive me, Willie, are you?” asked -Joan in alarm, for she remembered the tale of that youth’s equestrian -efforts. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am, though. Don’t you be skeered. I know what you’re -thinking of; but I’ve been grocer’s boy for a month now, and have -learned all about hosses and how to ride and drive them. Come, up you get, -unless you’d rather walk behind.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus adjured, Joan did get up, and they started. Soon she perceived that her -fears as to Willie Hood’s powers of driving were not ill-founded; but, -fortunately, the animal that drew them was so reduced in spirit that it did not -greatly matter whether any one was guiding him or no. -</p> - -<p> -“Is <i>he</i> all right again?” said Willie presently, as, leaving -the village, they began to travel along the dusty road that lay like a ribbon -upon the green crest of the cliff. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean Captain Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes: who else? I saw him as they carried him into the Crown and Mitre -that night. My word! he did look bad, and his trouser was all bloody too. I -never seed any one so bloody before; though, now I come to think of it, you -were bloody also, just like people in a story-book. That was a bad beginning -for you both, they say.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is better; but he is not all right,” answered Joan, with a -sigh. Why would every one talk to her about Henry? “Captain Graves is not -here now, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; he’s up at the Hall. And the old Squire is dead and buried. I -went to see his funeral, I did. It was a grand sight—such lots of -carriages, and such a beautiful polished coffin, with a brass cross and a plate -with red letters on it. I’d like to be buried like that myself some -day.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan smiled, but made no answer; and there was silence for a little time, while -Willie thrashed the horse till his face was the colour of his hair. -</p> - -<p> -“I say, Joan,” he said, when at last that long-suffering animal -broke into a shuffling trot, which caused the dust to rise in clouds, “is -it true that you are going to marry him?” -</p> - -<p> -“Marry Sir Henry Graves! Of course not. What put that idea into your -head, you silly boy?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know; it’s what folks say, that’s all. At -least, they say that if you don’t you ought to—though I don’t -rightly understand what they mean by that, unless it is that you are pretty -enough to marry anybody, which I can see for myself.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan blushed crimson, and then turned pale as the dust. -</p> - -<p> -“No need to pink up because I pay you a compliment, Joan,” said -Willie complacently. -</p> - -<p> -“Folks say?” she gasped. “Who are the folks that say such -things?” -</p> - -<p> -“Everybody mostly—mother for one. But she says that you’re -like to find yourself left on the sand with the tide going out, like a dogfish -that’s been too greedy after sprats, for all that you think yourself so -clever, and are so stuck-up about your looks. But then mother never did like a -pretty girl, and I don’t pay no attention to her—not a mite; and if -I was you, Joan, I’d just marry him to spite them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, Willie,” answered Joan, who by now was almost beside -herself: “if you say another word about me and Sir Henry Graves, -I’ll get out and walk.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I dare say the old horse would thank you if you did. But I -don’t see why you should take on so just because I’ve been -answering your questions. I expect it’s all true, and that you do want to -marry him, or else you’re left on the beach like the dogfish. But if you -are, it’s no reason why you should be cross with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not cross, Willie, I am not indeed; but you don’t -understand that I can’t bear this kind of gossip.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you’d better get out of Bradmouth as fast as you can, Joan, -for you’ll have lots of it to bear there, I can tell you. Why, I’m -downright sick of it myself,” answered the merciless Willie. Then he -lapsed into a dignified silence, that for the rest of the journey was only -broken by his exhortations to the sweating horse, and the sound of the whacks -which he rained upon its back. -</p> - -<p> -At length they reached Monk’s Lodge, and drove round to the side -entrance, where Joan got down hurriedly and walked to the servants’ door. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br/> -RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.</h2> - - -<p> -On the day before Sir Reginald’s funeral Mr. Samuel Rock presented -himself at Monk’s Lodge, and was shown into the study. As he entered Mr. -Levinger noticed that his mien was morose, and that dejection beamed from his -pale blue eyes, if indeed dejection can be said to beam. -</p> - -<p> -“I fancy that my friend’s love affairs have gone wrong,” he -thought to himself; “he would scarcely look so sulky about a cow -shed.” Yet it was of this useful building that he began to speak. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Mr. Rock,” he said cheerfully, “have they dug out the -foundations of that shed yet?” -</p> - -<p> -“Shed, sir?” answered Samuel (he pronounced it <i>shodd</i>): -“I haven’t come to speak to you about no sheds. I have come to -speak to you about the advice you gave me as to Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! yes, I remember: you wanted to marry her, didn’t you? Well, -did you take it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I took it, sir, to my sorrow, for she wouldn’t have nothing to do -with me. I went so far as to try and kiss her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. And then?” -</p> - -<p> -“And then, sir, she pushed me off, that’s all, and stood there -saying things that I would rather forget. But here’s the story, -sir.” And with a certain amount of glozing and omission, he told the tale -of his repulse. -</p> - -<p> -“Your case does not seem very promising,” said Mr. Levinger -lightly, for he did not wish to show his vexation; “but perhaps the lady -will still change her mind. As you know, it is often darkest before the -dawn.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, sir,” answered Samuel, with a kind of sullen confidence, -“sooner or later she will change her mind, never fear, and I shall marry -her, I am sure of it; but she won’t change her heart, that’s the -point, for she’s given that to another.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, perhaps, if you get the rest of her, Mr. Rock, you may leave the -heart to the other, for that organ is not of very much practical use by itself, -is it? Might I ask who the other is?” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel shook his head gloomily, and answered: -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all very well for you to joke about hearts, sir, as -haven’t got one—I mean, as don’t take no interest in them; -but they’re everything to me—at least Joan’s is. And as for -who it is, sir, if half I hear is true, it’s that Captain, I mean Sir -Henry Graves. You warned me against him, you remember, and you spoke strong -because I grew angry. Well, sir, I did right to be angry, for it’s him -she loves, Mr. Levinger, and that’s why she hates me. They’re -talking about them all over Bradmouth.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed. Well, Bradmouth always was a great place for scandal, and I -should not pay much attention to their tongues, were I you, Mr. Rock. Girls -will have their fancies, you know, and I do not think it is necessary to hunt -round for explanations because this one happens to flout you. I dare say it -will all come right in time, if you have a little patience. Anyway there will -be no more gossip about Joan Haste and Sir Henry Graves, for he has gone home, -where he will find plenty of other things to occupy him, poor fellow. And now I -have a plan of the shed here: perhaps you can explain it to me.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel expounded his plan and went away, this time without the offer of any -port wine, for it seemed to his host that he was already quite sufficiently -excited. -</p> - -<p> -When he had gone, Mr. Levinger rose from his chair and began to limp up and -down the room, as was his custom when thinking deeply. To Samuel he had made -light of the talk about Sir Henry Graves and Joan Haste, but he knew well that -this was no light matter. He had been kept informed of the progress of their -intimacy by his paid spy, Mrs. Gillingwater, but at the time he could find no -pretext that would enable him to interfere without exposing himself to the risk -of questions, which he preferred should be left unasked. On the previous day -only, Mrs. Gillingwater had come to see him, and given him her version of the -rumours which were flying about as to the scene that occurred at the death-bed -of Sir Reginald. Discount these rumours as he would, he could not doubt but -that they had a basis in fact. That Henry had declined to bind himself to marry -his daughter Emma was clear; and it seemed probable that this refusal, made in -so solemn an hour, had something to do with the girl Joan. And now, on the top -of it, came Samuel Rock with the story of his angry and ignominious rejection -by this same Joan, a rejection that he unhesitatingly attributed to her -intimacy or intrigue with Henry Graves. -</p> - -<p> -The upshot of these reflections was the message received by Joan summoning her -to Monk’s Lodge. -</p> - -<p> -Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover her -equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr. Levinger. -Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her straight to the study, -where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook hands with her courteously, and -invited her to be seated. -</p> - -<p> -“You sent for me, sir,” she began nervously. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little -matter.” And he went to the window and stood with his face to the light, -so that she could only see the back of his head. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by -alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not wish to -pain you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir,” -answered Joan, with some warmth, “that it really cannot matter who speaks -to me about them. I know what I am, though I don’t know any particulars; -and such people should have no feelings.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger’s shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still -addressing the window-pane, “I fear I can give you no particulars now, -Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people are -responsible for your—unfortunate—position.” -</p> - -<p> -“The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,” -answered Joan aptly enough. “Not that I have a right to judge -anybody,” and she sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“As I have said,” went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her -interruption, “I am not in a position to give you any details about those -circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so would be to -violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise.” -</p> - -<p> -“What confidence and what promise, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, “Your dead father’s -confidence, and my promise to him.” -</p> - -<p> -“So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of -every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even after he -was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think worse of him than -ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have been a coward—yes, -such a coward that I can hardly believe it.” -</p> - -<p> -“The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such -assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from the fact -that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not have been difficult -to invent a false name for your father.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later I -should have found out that it was false.” -</p> - -<p> -“Without entering into argument on the question of the morality of his -decision, which is a matter for which he alone was responsible,” said Mr. -Levinger, in an irritated voice, “as I have told you, your father decided -that it would be best that you should never know his name, or anything about -him, except that he was of gentle birth. I believe that it was not cowardice, -as you suggest, which made him take this course, but a regard for the rights -and feelings of others whom he left behind him.” -</p> - -<p> -“And have I no rights and feelings, sir, and did he not leave me behind -him?” Joan answered bitterly. “Is it wonderful that I, who have no -mother, should wish to know who my father was? and could he not have foreseen -that I should wish it? Was it not enough that he should desert me to be brought -up in a public-house by a man who drinks, and a rough woman who hates me and -would like to see me as bad as herself, with no one even to teach me my prayers -when I was little, or to keep me from going to the bad when I grew older? Why -should he also refuse to let me know his name, or the kin from which I come? -Perhaps I am no judge of such matters, sir; but it seems to me that if ever a -man behaved wickedly to a poor girl, my father has done so to me, and, dead or -living, I believe that he will have to answer for it one day, since there is -justice for us all somewhere.” -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly Mr. Levinger wheeled round, and Joan saw that his face was white, as -though with fear or anger, and that his quick eyes gleamed. -</p> - -<p> -“You wicked girl!” he said in a low voice, “are you not -ashamed to call down curses upon your own father, your dead father? Do you not -know that your words may be heard—yes, even outside this earth, and -perhaps bring endless sorrow on him? If he has wronged you, you should still -honour him, for he gave you life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Honour him, sir? Honour the man who deserted me and left me in the mud -without a name? It isn’t such fathers as this that the Prayer-book tells -us to honour. He is dead, you say, and beyond me; and how can my words touch -the dead? But even if they can, could they do him more harm, wherever he is, -than he has done to me here? Oh! you do not understand. I could forgive him -everything, but I can’t forgive that he should make me go through my life -without even knowing his name, or who he was. Had he only left me a kind word, -or a letter, I dare say that I could even have loved him, though I never saw -him. As it is, I think I hate him, and I hope that one day he will know -it.” -</p> - -<p> -As she said these words, Mr. Levinger slowly turned his back upon her and began -to look out of the window again, as though he felt himself unable to face the -righteous indignation that shone in her splendid eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Joan Haste,” he said, speaking quietly but with effort, “if -you are going to talk in this way I think that we had better bring our -interview to an end, as the conversation is painful to me. Once and for all I -tell you, that if you are trying to get further information out of me you will -fail.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have said my say, sir, and I shall ask you no more questions, except -one; but none the less I believe that the truth will come out some time, for -others must have known what you know, and perhaps after all my father had a -conscience. I’m told that people often see things differently when they -come to die, and he may have done so. The question that I want to ask, sir, if -you will be so kind as to answer it, is: You knew my father, so I suppose that -you knew my mother also, though she’s been dead these twenty years. How -did she come by her death, sir? I have heard say that she was drowned, but -nobody seems able to tell me any more about it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I believe that your mother was found dead beneath the cliff opposite the -meres. How she came there is not known, but it is supposed that she missed her -footing in the dark and fell over. The story of her drowning arose from her -being found at high tide in the shallow water; but the medical evidence at the -inquest showed that death had resulted from a fall, and not from -suffocation.” -</p> - -<p> -“My poor mother!” said Joan, with a sigh. “She was unlucky -all her life, it seems, so I dare say that she was well rid of it, and her -death must have been good news to some. There’s only one thing I’m -sorry for—that I wasn’t in her arms when she went over the edge of -that cliff. And now, sir, about the business.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, about the business,” replied Mr. Levinger, with a hard little -laugh; “after so much sentiment it is quite refreshing to come to -business, although unfortunately this has its sentimental side also. You must -understand, Joan, that the parent whom you are so hard on, and whose agent I -chanced to be in bygone years, left me more or less in a fiduciary position as -regards yourself—that is to say, he entrusted me with a certain sum of -money to be devoted to your education, and generally to your advancement in -life, making the proviso that you were not to be brought up as a lady, since, -rightly or wrongly, he did not think that this would conduce to your happiness. -Well, I have strained the letter of my instructions, and you have had a kind of -half-and-half education. Now I think that I should have done better to have -held closer to them; for so far as I can judge, the result has been to make you -dissatisfied with your position and surroundings. However, that is neither here -nor there. You are now of age; the funds at my disposal are practically -exhausted; and I desire to wind up my trust by settling you happily in life, if -I can do so. You will wonder what I am driving at. I will tell you. I -understand that a very worthy farmer, a tenant of mine, who is also a large -freeholder—I mean Mr. Samuel Rock—wishes to make you his wife. Is -this so?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. Don’t think me rude; but I should be glad to know if -you are inclined to fall in with his views.” -</p> - -<p> -“On the whole, sir,” answered Joan composedly, “I think that -I would rather follow my mother’s example and walk over the cliff at high -tide.” -</p> - -<p> -“That statement seems pretty comprehensive,” said Mr. Levinger, -after a pause; “and, to be frank, I don’t see any way round it. I -am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline -to have anything to do with him?” -</p> - -<p> -“Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any -circumstances under which I would consent to marry him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have -been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity—a -great pity—especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty -roughly handled of late;—in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring -disgrace upon it.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or -leave undone, can matter to nobody. I have only myself to think of.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really this is a most unfortunate tone for any young woman to adopt; -still, I did hope that, if you considered nobody else, you would at least -consider your own reputation. Perhaps you know to what I allude?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir; I know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Might I ask you if there is any truth in it?” -</p> - -<p> -Then for the first time Joan lied. So far as she was aware, she had never -before told a deliberate falsehood; but now she had entered on a path in which -falsehood of necessity becomes a weapon of self-defence, to be used at all -times and places. She did not pause to think; she knew that she must protect -herself and her lover from this keen-eyed, plausible man, who was searching out -their secret for some purpose of his own. -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir,” she said boldly, looking him in the face, “there -is no truth. I nursed Sir Henry Graves, and I tried to do my duty by him, and -of course people talked about us. For years past I never could speak to a man -but what they talked about me in Bradmouth.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger shrugged his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“I have asked my question, and I have got my answer. Of course I believe -you; but even if the story were ever so true, I should not have expected any -other reply. Well, I am glad to hear that it is not true, for it would have -been much to the detriment of both yourself and Sir Henry -Graves—especially of Sir Henry Graves.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why especially of Sir Henry, sir? I have always understood that it is -the girl who suffers if there is any talk, because she is the weaker. Not that -talk matters to one like me who has nothing to lose.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because it might interfere with his matrimonial prospects, that is all. -As you may have heard, the affairs of this family are in such a condition that, -if Sir Henry does not marry advantageously, he will be utterly ruined. He may -as well commit suicide as attempt to take a wife without money, however fond he -might be of her, or however charming she was,” Mr. Levinger said -meaningly, watching Joan’s face. -</p> - -<p> -She understood him perfectly, and did not hesitate as to her answer, though it -must have cost her much to speak it. -</p> - -<p> -“I have heard, sir. I have a great regard and respect for Sir Henry -Graves, and I hope that he will settle himself well in life. I happen to know, -also, that there is a young lady who has fortune and is fond of him. I trust -that he will marry her, as she will make him a good wife.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger nodded. -</p> - -<p> -“I trust so too, Joan, for everybody’s sake. Thank you for your -good wishes. I was afraid, to speak frankly, that there was some truth in these -tales; that you might selfishly, though naturally enough, adopt a course -towards Sir Henry Graves which would be prejudicial to his true interests; and -that he would possibly be so foolish as to suffer himself to be led -away—as, indeed, any man might be without much blame—by the -affection of such a woman as you are, Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have given you my answer about it, sir. If you think for a minute you -will understand that, had there been any truth in these tales, the more reason -would there be that I should speak as I have done, seeing that no true woman -could wish to injure the man whom she dearly loves, no, not even if it broke -her heart to part with him.” -</p> - -<p> -And Joan turned her head, in a somewhat ineffectual attempt to hide the tears -that welled into her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger looked at her with admiration. He did not believe a word of her -statement with reference to herself and Henry. Indeed, he knew it to be false, -and that her denials amounted merely to a formal plea of “not -guilty.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, of course,” he said; “but all the same you are a -brave girl, Joan, and I am sure that it will be made up to you in some way or -other. And now—what do you intend to do with yourself?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was of this that I wished to speak to you, sir. I want to go away -from Bradmouth. I am not fit to be a governess: I don’t know enough, and -there are very few people who would care to take me. But I could do as a -shop-girl in London. I have a decent figure, and I dare say that they will -employ me to hang cloaks on for the ladies to look at, only you see I have no -money to start with.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger hesitated. Her plan had great advantages from his point of view, -and yet— -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose that you really mean to seek honest employment, Joan? Forgive -me, but—you know you have been talking a little wildly once or twice this -afternoon as to your being without responsibilities to anybody.” -</p> - -<p> -“You need not be afraid, sir,” she said, with a sad smile; “I -want to earn my bread away from here, that is all. If there has been talk about -me in Bradmouth, there shall be none in London, or anywhere else I may -go.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad to hear it, Joan. Without some such assurance, an assurance in -which I put the most implicit faith, I could never have helped you in your -plan. As it is, you shall not lack for money. I will give you five-and-twenty -pounds to put in your pocket, and make you an allowance of five pounds a month -for so long as you require it. If you wish to go to London, I know a -respectable woman who takes in girls to lodge, mostly ladies in reduced -circumstances who are earning their living in one way or another. Here is the -address: Mrs. Thomas, 13, Kent Street, Paddington. By the way, you will do well -to get a certificate of character from the clergyman at Bradmouth; my name -would carry no weight, you see. But of course, if you fall into any -difficulties, you will communicate with me at once; and as I have said I -propose to allow you sixty pounds a year, which will be a sufficient sum to -keep you in comfort whether or no you succeed in obtaining employment. Now for -the money,” and he drew his cheque-book from a drawer, but replaced it, -saying, “No, perhaps gold would be more convenient.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he went to a small safe, and, unlocking it, extracted twenty-four pounds -in sovereigns, which, with the exception of some bank-notes, was all that it -contained. -</p> - -<p> -“Twenty-four,” he said, counting them. “I dare say that I can -make up the other sovereign;” and he searched his pockets, producing a -ten-shilling bit and some loose silver. -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you give me one of the notes, sir, instead of so much -money?” asked Joan innocently. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no. I always like to make payments in gold, which is the legal -tender, you know; though I am afraid I must give you some silver in this case. -There you are, all but threepence. I shall have to owe you the threepence. -What, you haven’t got a purse? Then tie up the money in the corner of -your pocket-handkerchief, and put it in the bosom of your dress, where it -can’t fall out. I have found that the safest way for a woman to carry -valuables.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan obeyed, saying, “I don’t know if I have to thank you for this -money, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all, not at all. It is a portion of your trust fund.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought you said that the amount was almost exhausted, sir; and if so, -how can you give me this and promise to pay me sixty pounds a year?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, you are mistaken; I did not say that—I said it was getting -rather low. But really I don’t quite know how the account stands. I must -look into it. And now, is there anything more?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, one thing, sir. I do not want anybody in Bradmouth, or anybody -anywhere, and more especially my aunt, to know whither I have gone, or what my -address is. I have done with the old life, and I wish to begin a new one.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly; I understand. Your secret will be safe with me, Joan. And now -good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, sir; and many thanks for all that you have done for me in the -past, and for your kindness to-day. You must not think too much of any bitter -words I may have said: at times I remember how lonely I am in the world, and I -think and speak like that, not because I mean it, but because my heart is -sore.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is perfectly natural, and I do not blame you,” answered Mr. -Levinger, as he showed her out of the room. “Only remember what I say: -for aught you know, even the dead may have ears to hear and hearts to feel, and -when you judge them, they, whose mouths are closed, cannot return to explain -what you believe to be their wickedness. Where are you going? To the kitchen? -No, no—the front door, if you please. Good-bye again: good luck to -you!” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank Heaven that she has gone!” Mr. Levinger thought to himself, -as he sat down in his chair. “It has been a trying interview, very -trying, for both of us. She is a plucky woman, and a good one according to her -lights. She lied about Henry Graves, but then it was not to be expected that -she would do anything else; and whatever terms they are on, she is riding -straight now, which shows that she must be very fond of him, poor girl.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br/> -“LET IT REMAIN OPEN.”</h2> - - -<p> -Outside the door of Monk’s Lodge, Joan met Emma returning from a walk. As -usual she was dressed in white, and, to Joan’s fancy, looked pure as a -wild anemone in the April sun, and almost as frail. She would have passed her -with a little salutation that was half bow, half courtesy, but Emma held out -her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Miss Haste?” she said, with a slight nervous tremor -of her voice. “I did not know that you were up here,” and she -stopped; but her look seemed to add, “And I wonder why you have -come.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am going to leave Bradmouth, and I came to say good-bye to Mr. -Levinger, who has always been very kind to me,” Joan replied, with -characteristic openness, answering the look and not the words. She felt that, -in the circumstances, it was best that she should be open with Miss Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -Emma looked surprised. “I was not aware that you were going,” she -said; but again Joan felt that what astonished her was not the news of her -approaching departure, but the discovery that she was on intimate terms with -her father. She was right. Emma remembered that he had spoken disparagingly of -this girl, and as though he knew nothing about her. It seemed curious, then, -that he should have been “very kind” to her, and that she should -come to bid him good-bye. Here was another of those mysteries with which her -father’s life seemed to be surrounded, and which so frequently made her -feel uncomfortable and afraid of she knew not what. “Won’t you come -in and have some tea?” Emma asked kindly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, thank you, miss; I have to walk home, and I must not stay any -longer.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is a long way, and you look tired. Let me order the dog-cart for -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed no, thank you. I haven’t been very well—that is why I -am paler than usual. But I am quite strong again now,” and Joan made a -movement as though to start on her walk. -</p> - -<p> -“If you will allow me, I will come a little way with you,” said -Emma timidly. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall be very pleased, miss.” -</p> - -<p> -The two girls turned, and, for a while, walked side by side in silence, each of -them wondering about the other and the man who was dear to both. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you going to be a nurse?” asked Emma at length. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no! What made you think that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because you nursed Captain—I mean Sir Henry—Graves so -wonderfully,” Emma answered, colouring. “Dr. Childs told me he -believed that you saved his life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I have done something in the world,” said Joan, with a little -laugh; “but it is the first that I have heard of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really! Haven’t they thanked you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Somebody offered to pay me, if you mean that, miss.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no; I didn’t mean it. I meant that we are all grateful to you, -so very grateful—at least, his family are. Then what do you intend to do -when you go away?” she asked, changing the subject suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, miss. Earn my living as best I can—as a shop -girl probably.” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems rather terrible starting by oneself out into the unknown, like -this. Does it not frighten you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it does,” answered Joan; “but beggars cannot be -choosers. I can’t stop here, where I have nothing to do; and, you see, I -am alone in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma understood the allusion, and said hastily: -</p> - -<p> -“I am very sorry for you—I am indeed, if you won’t be angry -with me for saying so. It is cruel that you should have to suffer like this for -no fault of your own. It would kill me if I found myself in the same -position—yes, I am sure that it would.” -</p> - -<p> -“Luckily, or unluckily, it doesn’t kill me, miss, though sometimes -it is hard enough to bear. You see that the burden is laid upon the broadest -back, and I can carry what would crush you. Still, I thank you for your -sympathy and the kind thought which made you speak it. I have very few memories -of that sort, and I shall never forget this one.” -</p> - -<p> -For another five minutes or so they went on without speaking, since their fount -of conversation seemed to have dried up. At length, beginning to feel the -silence irksome, Emma stopped and held out her hand, saying that she would now -return. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you listen to a word or two from me before you go, miss? And would -you promise not to repeat it no, not to Mr. Levinger even?” said Joan -suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, if you wish it. What is it about?” -</p> - -<p> -“About you and myself and another person. Miss Levinger, I am going away -from here—I believe for good—and I think it likely that we shall -not meet again. It is this that makes me bold to speak to you. When I am gone -you will hear all sorts of tales about me and Sir Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really—really!” said Emma, in some distress. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen to me, miss: there is nothing very dreadful, and I speak for your -own good. While all this sickness was on I learned something I learned that you -are fond of Sir Henry, never mind how——” -</p> - -<p> -“I know how,” murmured Emma. “Oh! did you tell him?” -</p> - -<p> -“I told him nothing; indeed, I had nothing to tell. I saw you faint, and -I guessed the rest. What I want to ask you is this: that you will believe no -stories which may be told against Sir Henry, for he is quite blameless. Now I -have only one thing more to say, and it is, that I have watched him and known -him well; and, if you do not cling to him through good and through evil, you -will be foolish indeed, for there is no better man, and you will never find -such another for a husband. I wish that it may all come about, and that you may -be happy with him through a long life, Miss Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma heard, and, though vaguely as yet, understood all the nobility and -self-sacrifice of her rival. She also loved this man, and she renounced him for -the sake of his own welfare. Otherwise she would never have spoken thus. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not know what to answer you,” she said. “I do not deny -it is true that I am attached to Sir Henry, though I have no right to be. What -am I to answer you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing, except this: that under any circumstances you will not believe -a word against him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can promise that, if it pleases you.” -</p> - -<p> -“It does please me; for, wherever I am, I should like to think of you and -of him as married and happy, for I know that he will make you a good husband, -as you will make him a good wife. And now again, good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly -she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her. -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Joan, holding her back; “do not kiss me, but -remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing -bewildered upon the road. -</p> - -<p> -“I have done it now,” thought Joan to herself “for good or -evil I have done it, though I don’t quite know what made me speak like -that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think -that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake, -I’d have acted very differently. I’ve been a wicked girl, and -it’s coming home to me. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it -seems I may ruin him, and that I’ll never do; I’d rather make away -with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent -must suffer with the guilty, that’s the truth of it, as I suffer to-day -because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it -is hard—very hard—to have to go away and give him up to her; to -have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know -that if it wasn’t for my being nobody’s child, and not fit to marry -an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him -that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure -that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune, -and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck -flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I -were dead, I do—I do!” -</p> - -<p> -Then the poor girl began to sob as she walked, and, thus sobbing and furtively -wiping away the tears that would run from her eyes, she crept back to the inn -in the twilight, thoroughly weary and broken in spirit. -</p> - -<p> -When Emma reached Monk’s Lodge she found her father leaning over the -front gate, as though he were waiting for her. -</p> - -<p> -“Where have you been, love?” he said, in that tone of tenderness -which he always adopted when speaking to his daughter. “I thought that I -saw you on the road with somebody, and began to wonder why you were so -late.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have been walking with Joan Haste,” she answered absently. -</p> - -<p> -“Why have you been walking with her?” he asked, in a quick and -suspicious voice. “She is very well in her way, but not altogether the -person for you to make a companion of.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about that, father. I should say that she was quite -my equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better -educated.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not -become too intimate with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from -Bradmouth.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else did -she tell you?” -</p> - -<p> -“A good deal about herself. Of course I knew something of her story -before; but I did not know that she felt her position so bitterly. Poor girl! -she has been cruelly treated.” -</p> - -<p> -“I really fail to see it, Emma. Considering the unfortunate circumstances -connected with her, it seems to me that she has been very well treated.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think so, father, and you only believe it because you are -not a woman and do not understand. Suppose, now, that I, your daughter whom you -are fond of, were in her place to-day, without a friend or home, feeling myself -a lady and yet obliged to mix with rough people and to be the mark of their -sneers, jealousy and evil-speaking, should you say that I was well treated? -Suppose that I was going to-morrow to be thrown, without help or experience, on -to the world to earn my bread there, should you——” -</p> - -<p> -“I absolutely decline to suppose anything of the sort, Emma,” he -answered passionately. “Bother the girl! Why does she put such ideas into -your head?” -</p> - -<p> -“Really, father,” she said, opening her eyes wide, “there is -no need for you to get angry with Joan Haste, especially as she told me that -you had always been so kind to her.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not angry, Emma, but one way and another that girl gives me more -trouble than enough. She might make a very good marriage, and settle herself in -life out of reach of all these disagreeables, about which she seems to have -been whining to you, but she is so pig-headed that she won’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“But surely, father, you wouldn’t expect her to marry a man she -doesn’t like, would you? Why, I have heard you say that you thought it -better that a woman should never be born than that she should be forced into a -distasteful marriage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Circumstances alter cases, and certainly it would have been better if -<i>she</i> had never been born,” answered Mr. Levinger, who seemed quite -beside himself with irritation. “However, there it is: she won’t -marry, she won’t do anything except bring trouble upon others with her -confounded beauty, and make herself the object of scandal.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that it is time for me to go and dress,” said Emma coldly. -</p> - -<p> -“I forgot, my dear; I should not have spoken of that before you, but -really I feel quite unhinged to-night. I suppose that you have no idea of what -I am alluding to, but if not you soon will have, for some kind friend is sure -to tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I—have an idea, father.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. Then I may as well tell you that it is all nonsense.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not sure that it is all nonsense,” she answered, in the same -restrained voice; “but whether it is nonsense or no, it has nothing to do -with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing to do with you, Emma! Do you mean that? Listen, my love: these -are delicate matters, but if any one may speak to a woman about them, her -father may. Do you remember that nearly two years ago, when you were more -intimate and open with me than you are now, Emma, you told me that Henry Graves -had—well, taken your fancy?” -</p> - -<p> -“I remember. I told you because I did not think it likely that I should -meet him again, and because you said something to me about marrying, and I -wished to put a stop to the idea.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I quite understand; but I gathered from what took place the other -day, when poor Graves was so ill, that you still entertain an affection for -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray do not speak of that,” she murmured: “I cannot bear -it even from you; it covers me with shame. I was mad, and you should have paid -no attention to it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sorry to give you pain or to press you, Emma, but I should be -deeply grateful if you would make matters a little clearer. Never mind about -Henry Graves and his attitude towards you: I want to understand yours towards -him. As you know, or if you do not know I beg you to believe it, your happiness -is the chief object of my life, and to secure that happiness to you I have -planned and striven for years. What I wish to learn now is: do you desire to -have done with Henry Graves? If so, tell me at once. It will be a great blow to -me, for he is the man of all others to whom, for many reasons, I should like to -see you married, and doubtless if matters are left alone he will marry you. But -in this affair your wish is my law, and if you would prefer it I will wind up -the mortgage business, cut the connection to-morrow, and then we can travel for -a year in Egypt, or wherever you like. Sometimes I think that this would be the -best course. But it is for you to choose, not for me. You are a woman full -grown, and must know your own mind. Now, Emma.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean by winding up the mortgage business, father?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! the Graves’s owe us some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and -it is not a paying investment, that is all. But don’t you bother about -that, Emma: confine yourself to the personal aspect of the question, -please.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very hard to have to decide so quickly. Can I not give you an -answer in a few days, father?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Emma, you can’t. I will not be kept halting between two -opinions any longer. I want to know what line to take at once.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, then, on the whole I think that perhaps you had better not -‘wind up the business.’ I very much doubt if anything will come of -this. I am by no means certain that I wish anything to come of it, but we will -let it remain open.” -</p> - -<p> -“In making that answer, Emma, I suppose that you are bearing in mind -that, though I believe it to be all nonsense, the fact is not to be concealed -that there is some talk about Graves and Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am bearing it in mind, father. The talk has nothing to do with me. I -do not wish to know even whether it is false or true, at any rate at present. -True or false, there will be an end of it now, as the girl is going away. I -hope that I have made myself clear. I understand that, for reasons of your own, -you are very anxious that I should marry Sir Henry Graves, should it come in my -way to do so; and I know that his family desire this also, because it would be -a road out of their money difficulties. What Sir Henry wishes himself I do not -know, nor can I say what I wish. But I think that if I stood alone, and had -only myself to consider, I should never see him again. Still I say, let it -remain open, although I decline to bind myself to anything definite. And now I -must really go and dress.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not know that I am much ‘for’arder,’ after all, -as Samuel Rock says,” thought Mr. Levinger, looking after her. “Oh, -Joan Haste! you have a deal to answer for.” Then he also went to dress. -</p> - -<p> -The two interviews in which Emma had taken part this afternoon—that with -Joan and that with her father—had, as it were, unsealed her eyes and -opened her ears. Now she saw the significance of many a hint of Ellen’s -and her father’s which hitherto had conveyed no meaning to her, and now -she understood what it was that occasioned the forced manner which had struck -her as curious in Henry’s bearing towards herself, even when he had -seemed most at his ease and pleased with her. Doubtless the knowledge that he -was expected to marry a particular girl, in order that by so doing he might -release debts to the amount of fifty thousand pounds, was calculated to cause -the manner of any man towards that girl to become harsh and suspicious, and -even to lead him to regard her with dislike. This was why he had been forced to -leave the Service, for this reason “his family had desired his -presence,” and the opening in life, the only one that remained to him, to -which he had alluded so bitterly, but significantly enough avoided specifying, -was to marry a girl with fortune, to marry her—Emma Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -It was a humiliating revelation, and though perhaps Emma had less pride than -most women, she felt it sorely. She was deeply attached to this man; her heart -had gone out to him when she first saw him, after the unaccountable fashion -that hearts sometimes affect. Still, having learned the truth, she was quite in -earnest when she told her father that, were she alone concerned, she would meet -him no more. But she was not alone in the matter, and it was this knowledge -that made her pause. To begin with, there was Henry himself to be considered, -for it seemed that if he did not marry her he would be ruined or something very -like it; and, regarding him as she did, it became a question whether she ought -not to outrage her pride in order to save him if he would be saved. Also she -knew that her father wished for this marriage above all things—that it -was, indeed, one of the chief objects of his life; though it was true that in -an inexplicable fit of irritation with everything and everybody, he had but now -offered to bring the affair to nothing. Why he should be so set upon it she -could not understand, any more than she could understand why he should have -been so vexed when she illustrated her sense of the hardship of Joan’s -position by supposing herself to be similarly placed. These were some of the -mysteries by which their life was surrounded, mysteries that seemed to thicken -daily. After what she had seen and heard this afternoon she began to believe -that Joan Haste herself was another of them. Joan had told her that her father -had always been kind to her. Taken by itself there was nothing strange about -this, for Emma knew him to be charitable to many people, but it was strange -that he should have practically denied all knowledge of the girl some few weeks -before. Perhaps he knew more about her than he chose to say—even who she -was and where she came from. -</p> - -<p> -Now it appeared that her presentiment was coming true, and that Joan herself -was playing some obscure and undefined part in the romance or intrigue in which -she, Emma, was the principal though innocent actor. In effect, Joan had given -her to understand that she was in love with Henry, and yet she had implored her -to marry Henry. Why, if Joan was in love with him, should she desire another -woman to marry him? It was positively bewildering, also it was painful, and, -like everything else connected with this business, humbling to her pride. She -felt herself being involved in a network of passions, motives and interests of -which she could only guess the causes, and the issues whereof were dark; and -she longed, ah, how she longed to escape from it back into the freedom of clear -purpose and honest love! But would she ever escape? Could she ever hope to be -the cherished wife of the man whom too soon she had learned to love? Alas! she -doubted it. And yet, whatever was the reason, she could not make up her mind to -have done with him, either for his sake or her own. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> -A LUNCHEON PARTY.</h2> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR SIR HENRY GRAVES, -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“Obediently yours, -</p> - -<p> -“JOAN HASTE.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus10"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig10.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Her few books with -which she could not …part.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you do something for me, Willie?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Anything to oblige a customer, I am sure, Joan Haste,” answered -that forward youth. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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:—<br/><br/> -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR AUNT,— -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Your affectionate niece      -</p> - -<p class="right"> -JOAN. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to say that Joan is gone?” said that worthy, twirling -his hat vacantly on the table. “Then I’m sorry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Sorry, you lout?—why didn’t you stop her, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p class="p2"> -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, that is something,” said Mr. Levinger, with a little smile. -“For the last two years I have been accustomed to receive nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is no good playing with facts,” answered Henry doggedly: -“for my part I have no such hope.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger rose, and laying his hand upon Henry’s shoulder spoke -earnestly. -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’d rather you didn’t; but as you like,” answered -Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“What makes you ask that question, Mr. Levinger?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who told you of this? my sister?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps she felt obliged to go, or perhaps she was sent, Mr. -Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are right there: I never wish to see her again, unless it is in -order to ask her to become my wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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 -<i>mésalliances,</i> 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -Henry reflected, and answered, “Thank you, yes, I will.” -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “Here, give me a hand into -the chair.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” she answered quickly, bending her head as though to -examine the pattern of her plate. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br/> -AN INTERLUDE.</h2> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been waiting to see you, sir,” said Samuel -obsequiously, and lifting his hat—“in fact, I’ve been waiting -these three mornings.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel looked at Henry’s blue eyes, that shone somewhat ominously, and at -his determined chin and mouth, and understood. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sure I meant no offence, sir,” he replied, again -becoming obsequious. -</p> - -<p> -“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!” -</p> - -<p> -“That, sir, is a——” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, pray be careful.” And Henry turned to go. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then say it to my face; don’t keep sneaking behind me like an -assassin. What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, confound you and your ewe-lamb!” said Henry, who was fast -getting beyond argument. “What do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then, go and find her; but don’t bother me.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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!” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -Messrs. Jeffries and Bates grinned and obeyed; for, as it happened, they both -knew Samuel, and one of them had a grudge against him. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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:— -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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!” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning the eleventh of October?” said Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” he answered, following her to the writing-table. -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“The goodness is on your side, Sir Henry: it is very kind of you to have -come to see us.” -</p> - -<p> -“And it is very nice of you to say so, Miss Levinger. Again good-bye, or -rather <i>au revoir.</i>” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br/> -A NEW DEPARTURE.</h2> - -<p> -Joan reached town in safety. Willie Hood called for her box as he had promised, -and conveyed it to the station before anybody at the inn was up, whither she -followed after breakfast. It gave Joan a new and strange sensation to sit -opposite her aunt, who took the opportunity of a -<i>têteàtête</i> to scold and grumble at her from one end of -the meal to the other, and to reflect that they were about to separate, for -aught she knew, never to meet again. She could not pretend any affection for -Mrs. Gillingwater, and yet the thought moved her, for after all she belonged to -the familiar round of daily life from which Joan was about to cut herself -adrift. Still more did it move her, yes, even to silent tears, when for the -last time she looked upon the ancient room that had been hers, and in which she -had nursed Henry back to health. Here every chair and picture was an old -friend, and, what is more, connected with his presence, the presence which -to-day she finally refused. -</p> - -<p> -In turning her back upon that room she forsook all hope of seeing him again, -and not till she had closed its door behind her did she learn how bitter was -this renunciation. -</p> - -<p> -Finding her luggage at the station, she saw it labelled, and took her seat in -the train. Just as it was about to start Willie Hood sauntered up. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! there you are, Joan Haste,” he said. “I thought that you -would be following your box, so I’ve just dropped round to say good-bye -to you. Good-bye, Joan: I hope that you will have a pleasant time up in London. -Let me know your address, and I shouldn’t wonder if I looked you up there -one day, for somehow I don’t feel as though there were room for another -smart young man in Bradmouth, and the old place won’t seem the same -without you. Perhaps, as you ain’t going to marry him after all,” -and Willie jerked his red head in the direction of Rosham, “if -you’ll have the patience to wait a year or two, we might set up together -yonder in the grocery line.” -</p> - -<p> -“You impudent young monkey!” said Joan, laughing in spite of -herself; and then the train steamed off, leaving Master Willie on the platform, -kissing his hand in the direction of her carriage. -</p> - -<p> -On arriving at Liverpool Street, Joan took a cab and directed the man to Kent -Street, Paddington, whither she came after a drive that seemed interminable. -</p> - -<p> -Kent Street, Paddington, was a shabby little place in the neighbourhood of the -Edgware Road. The street itself ended in a <i>cul-de-sac,</i> a recommendation -to the lover of quiet, as of course no traffic could pass through it; but, -probably on this account, it was the happy hunting ground of hundreds of dirty -children, whose shrill voices echoed through it from dawn to dark, as they -played and fought and screamed. The houses were tall, and covered with a dingy -stucco, that here and there had peeled away in flakes, exposing patches of -yellow brick; the doors were much in need of paint, some of the area railings -were broken, and the window curtains for the most part presented the appearance -of having been dried in a coal cellar. Indeed, the general squalor and the -stuffy odours of the place filled Joan’s heart with dismay, for she had -never before visited the poorer quarters of a large town. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you sure that this is Kent Street, Paddington?” she asked -feebly of the driver. -</p> - -<p> -“If you don’t believe me, miss, look for yourself,” he -answered gruffly, pointing to the corner of a house upon which the name was -painted. “No. 13, you said, didn’t you? Well, here it is, and -here’s your box,” he added, bumping her luggage down upon the -steps; “and my fare is three-and-six, please.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan paid the three-and-sixpence, and the sulky cabman drove off, yelling at -the children in front to get out of the way of his horse, and lashing with his -whip at those who clung behind. -</p> - -<p> -Left to herself, Joan pulled the bell and waited. Nobody came, so she pulled it -again, and yet a third time; after which she discovered that it was broken, and -there being no knocker, was reduced to rapping on the door with the handle of -her umbrella. Presently it was opened with great violence, and a sour-faced -slattern with a red nose asked shrilly,— -</p> - -<p> -“Who the dickens are you, that you come a-banging of the door to bits? -This ain’t the Al’ambra, my fine miss. Don’t you make no -mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“My name is Haste,” said Joan humbly, “and I have come here -to lodge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you’d better haste out of this, for you won’t lodge -here.” And the vixen prepared to slam the door. -</p> - -<p> -“Does not Mrs. Thomas live here?” asked Joan desperately. -</p> - -<p> -“No, she don’t. Mrs. Thomas was sold up three days ago, and -you’ll find her in the Marylebone Workhouse, I believe. I am the -caretaker. Now take that box off those steps, and cut it sharp, or I’ll -send for the policeman.” And before Joan could say another word the door -was shut in her face. -</p> - -<p> -She turned round in despair. Where was she to go, and what could she do in this -horrible place? By now a crowd had collected about her, composed largely of -dirty children and dreadful blear-eyed men in very wide-skirted tattered coats, -who made audible remarks about her personal appearance. -</p> - -<p> -“Now then,” screamed the vixen from the area, “will you take -thim things off the steps?” -</p> - -<p> -Thus adjured, Joan made a desperate effort to lift the box, but she was weak -with agitation and could not stir it. -</p> - -<p> -“Carry yer things for yer, miss?” said one creature in a raucous -whisper. “Don’t you mind him, miss,” put in another; -“he’s a blooming area sneak, he is. You give ’em me.” -“Hullo, Molly, does your mother know you’re out?” asked a -painted-faced slut, who evidently had taken more to drink than was good for -her; and so forth. -</p> - -<p> -For a few moments Joan bore it. Then she sank down upon the box and began to -weep—a sight that touched the better feelings of some of the men, for one -of them offered to punch the “blooming ’ead” of anybody who -annoyed her. -</p> - -<p> -It was at this juncture that Joan, chancing to look up, saw a little -pale-faced, straw-coloured woman, who was neatly dressed in black, pushing her -way through the crowd towards her. -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter, my dear?” said the little woman, in a small -and gentle voice. -</p> - -<p> -“I have come from the country here to lodge,” answered Joan, -choking back her tears; “and there’s nobody in the house except -that dreadful person, and I don’t know where to go.” -</p> - -<p> -The little woman shook her head doubtfully; and at that moment once more the -fiend in the area yelled aloud, “If you won’t get off thim steps, -I’ll come and put you off. I’m caretaker here, and I’ll show -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! what shall I do?” said Joan, wringing her hands. -</p> - -<p> -The sight of her distress seemed to overcome the scruples of the little woman; -at any rate she bade one of the loafers lift the box and bring it across the -street. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, my dear, take your bag and your umbrella, and follow me.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan obeyed with joy: just then she would have followed her worst enemy -anywhere, also her new friend’s face inspired her with confidence. On the -other side of the street the little woman opened the door of a house—it -was No. 8—with a latchkey, and Joan noticed that on it was a brass plate -inscribed “Mrs. Bird, Dressmaker.” -</p> - -<p> -“Go in,” she said. “No, I will settle with the man; he will -cheat you.” -</p> - -<p> -She went in, and found herself in a tiny passage of spotless cleanliness; and, -her baggage having been set down beside her, the door was closed, and the crowd -which had accompanied them across the street melted away. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! thank you,” said Joan. “What do I owe you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Threepence, my dear; it is a penny too much, but I would not stop to -argue with the man.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan fumbled in her pocket and found the threepence. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, my dear. I am glad to see that you pay your debts so readily. -It is a good sign, but, alas! appearances are often deceptive;” and her -hostess led the way into a small parlour, beautifully neat and well kept. -“Sit down,” said the little woman, lifting a dress that she was in -process of making from a chair which she offered to Joan, “and take a cup -of tea. I was just going to have some myself. Bobby, will you be quiet?” -This last remark was addressed to a canary, which was singing at the top of its -voice in a cage that hung in the window. “I am afraid that you find him -rather shrill,” she went on, nodding towards the canary, “but I -have so much to do with silence that I don’t mind the noise.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all: I like birds,” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad of that, my dear, for my name is Bird. Quite a coincidence, -isn’t it?—not but what coincidences are deceptive things. And now, -here is your tea.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan took the tea and drank it thankfully, while Mrs. Bird watched her. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear, you are very handsome,” she said at length, “if you -will forgive me for making a personal remark— <i>dreadfully</i> handsome. -I am sure that, being so handsome, you cannot be happy, since God does not give -us everything; and I only hope that you are good. You look good, or I should -not have come to help you just now; but it is impossible to put any trust in -appearances.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid that I am neither very happy nor very good,” answered -Joan, “but I am most grateful to you. I have come up from the country to -look for work, and I want to find a decent lodging. Perhaps you can help me, -for I have never been in London before, and do not know where to go. My name is -Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps I can, and perhaps I can’t,” said Mrs. Bird. -“It depends. Yours is a very strange story, and I am not sure that I -believe it. It is not usual for beautiful young women like you to wander to -London in this kind of way—that is, if they are respectable. How am I to -know that you are respectable? That you look respectable does not prove you to -be so. Do your friends know that you have come here, or have you perhaps run -away from home?” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that I am respectable,” answered Joan meekly; “and -some of my friends know about my coming.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then they should have made better arrangements for you. That house to -which you were going was not respectable; it is a mercy that it was shut -up.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not respectable!” said Joan. “Surely Mr. Levinger could -never have been so wicked,” she added to herself. -</p> - -<p> -“No: it used to be a while ago—then there were none but very decent -people there; but recently the woman, Mrs. Thomas, took to drink, and that was -why she was sold up.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” said Joan; “I suppose that my friend did not know. -I fancy it is some years since he was acquainted with the house.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your friend! What sort of friend?” said Mrs. Bird suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, he is a kind of guardian of mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then he ought to have known better than to have sent you to a house -without making further inquiries. This world is a changeable place, but nothing -changes in it more quickly than lodging-houses, at any rate in Kent -Street.” -</p> - -<p> -“So it seems,” answered Joan sadly; “but now, what am I to -do?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, Miss Haste—I think you said Haste was your -name; although,” she added nervously, sweeping off her lap some crumbs of -the bread and butter that she had been eating, “if I was quite sure that -you are respectable I might be able to make a suggestion.” -</p> - -<p> -“What suggestion, Mrs. Bird?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I have two rooms to let here. My last lodger, a most estimable -man, and a very clever one too—he was an accountant, my dear—died -in them a fortnight ago, and was carried out last Friday; but then, you see, it -is not everybody that would suit me as a tenant, and there are many people whom -I might not suit. There are three questions to be considered; the question of -character, the question of rent, and the question of surroundings. Now, as to -the question of character——” -</p> - -<p> -“I have a certificate,” broke in Joan mildly, as she produced a -document that she had procured from Mr. Biggen, the clergyman at Bradmouth. -Mrs. Bird put on a pair of spectacles and perused it carefully. -</p> - -<p> -“Satisfactory,” she said, “very satisfactory, presuming it to -be genuine; though, mind you, I have known even clergymen to be deceived. Now, -would you like to see my references?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, thank you, not at all,” said Joan. “I am quite sure that -<i>you</i> are respectable.” -</p> - -<p> -“How can you be sure of anything of the sort? Well, we will pass over -that and come to the rent. My notion of rent for the double furnished room on -the first floor, including breakfast, coals, and all extras, is eight shillings -and sixpence a week. The late accountant used to pay ten-and-six, but for a -woman I take off two shillings; not but what I think, from the look of you, -that you would eat more breakfast than the late accountant did.” -</p> - -<p> -“That seems very reasonable,” said Joan. “I should be very -glad to pay that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, my dear, you might be very glad to pay it, but you will excuse me -for saying that the desire does not prove the ability. How am I to know that -you would pay?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have plenty of money,” answered Joan wearily; “I can give -you a month’s rent in advance, if you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“Plenty of money!” said the little woman, holding up her hands in -amazement, “and that <i>very</i> striking appearance! And yet you wander -about the world in this fashion! Really, my dear, I do not know what to make of -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“For the matter of that, Mrs. Bird, I do not quite know what to make of -myself. But shall we get on with the business?—because, you see, if we do -not come to an agreement, I must search elsewhere. What was it you said about -surroundings?” -</p> - -<p> -“That reminds me,” answered Mrs. Bird; “before I go a step -further I must consult my two babies. Now, do you move your chair a little, and -sit so. Thank you, that will do.” And she trotted off through some -folding doors, one of which she left carefully ajar. -</p> - -<p> -Joan could not in the least understand what this odd little person was driving -at, nor who her two babies might be, so she sat still and waited. Presently, -from the other side of the door, there came a sound as though several people -were clapping their hands and snapping their fingers. A pause followed, and the -door was pushed a little farther open, apparently that those on the farther -side might look into the room where she was sitting. Then there was more -clapping and snapping, and presently Mrs. Bird reentered with a smile upon her -kind little face. -</p> - -<p> -“They like you, my dear,” she said, nodding her head “both of -them. Indeed, Sal says that she would much prefer you as a lodger to the late -accountant.” -</p> - -<p> -“They? Who?” asked Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, my dear, when I spoke of surroundings you may have guessed that -mine were peculiar; and so they are very peculiar, though harmless. The people -in the next room are my husband and my daughter; he is paralytic, and they are -both of them deaf and dumb.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, how sad!” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it is sad; but it might have been much sadder, for I assure you -they are not at all unhappy. Now, if I had not married Jim it would have been -otherwise, for then he must have gone to the workhouse, or at the best into a -home, and of course there would have been no Sal to love us both. But come in, -and you shall be introduced to them.” And Mrs. Bird lit a candle and led -the way into the small back room. -</p> - -<p> -Here Joan saw a curious sight. Seated in an armchair, his withered legs -supported on a footstool, was an enormous man of about forty, with flaxen hair -and beard, mild blue eyes, and a face like an infant’s, that wore a -perpetual smile. Sometimes the smile was more and sometimes it was less, but it -was always there. Standing by his side was a sweet and delicate-faced little -girl of about twelve; her eyes also were blue and her hair flaxen, but her face -was alight with so much fire and intelligence that Joan found it hard to -believe that she could be deaf and dumb. Mrs. Bird pointed to her, and struck -her hands together this way and that so swiftly that Joan could scarcely follow -their movements, whereon the two of them nodded vigorously in answer, and Sal, -advancing, held out her hand in greeting. Joan shook it, and was led by her to -where Mr. Bird was sitting, with his arm also outstretched. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus11"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig11.jpg" width="700" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘There, my dear,’ said Mrs. Bird ... ‘ -this is my family.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“There, my dear—now you are introduced,” said Mrs. Bird. -“This is my family. I have supported them for many many years, thanks be -to God; and I hope that I have managed that, if I should die before them, there -will be no need for them to go to the workhouse; so you see I have much to be -grateful for. Though they are deaf and dumb, you must not think them stupid, -for they can do lots of things—read and write and carve. Oh, we are a -very happy family, I can assure you; though at times I want somebody to talk -to, and that is one of the reasons why I like to have a lodger—not that -the late accountant was much use in that respect, for he was a very gloomy man, -though right-thinking. And now that you have seen the surroundings, do you -think that you would wish to stay here for a week on trial?” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like nothing better,” answered Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then. Will you come upstairs and see your rooms and wash your -hands for supper? I will call the girl, Maria, to help you carry up the -box.” -</p> - -<p> -Presently Maria arrived. She was a strong, awkward-looking damsel of fifteen, -“a workhouse girl,” Mrs. Bird explained, but, like everything else -in that house, scrupulously clean in appearance. With her assistance the box -was dragged up the narrow stairs, and Joan found herself in the apartments of -the late accountant. They were neat little rooms, separated from each other by -double doors, and furnished with a horsehair sofa, a round deal table with a -stained top, and some old chairs with curly backs and rep-covered seats. -</p> - -<p> -“They look a little untidy,” said Mrs. Bird, eyeing these chairs; -“but the fact is that the late accountant was a careless man, and often -upset his coffee over them. However, I will run you up some chintz covers in no -time, and for the sofa too if you like. And now do you think that the rooms -will do? You see here is a good cupboard and a chest of drawers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very nicely, thank you,” answered Joan. “I never expected a -sitting-room all to myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad that you are pleased. And now I will leave you. Supper will be -ready in half an hour—fried eggs and bacon and bread and butter. But if -you like anything else I dare say that I can get it for you.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan hastened to assure her that eggs and bacon were her favourite food; and, -having satisfied herself that there was water in the jug and a clean towel, -Mrs. Bird departed, leaving her to unpack. Half an hour later Joan went down -and partook of the eggs and bacon. It was an odd meal, with a deaf-and-dumb -child pouring out the tea, a deaf-and-dumb giant smiling at her perpetually -across the table, and her little hostess attending to them all, and keeping up -a double fire of conversation, one with her lips for Joan’s benefit, and -one with her head and hands for that of her two “babies.” -</p> - -<p> -After supper the things were cleared away; and having first inquired whether -Joan objected to the smell of smoke, Mrs. Bird filled a large china pipe for -her husband, and brought him some queer-shaped tools, with which he began to -carve the head of a walking-stick. -</p> - -<p> -“I told you that he was very clever,” she said; “do you know, -he sometimes makes as much as four shillings in a week. He gives me the money, -and thinks that I spend it; but I don’t, not a farthing. I put it all -into the Savings Bank for him and Sally. There is nearly forty pounds there on -that account alone. There, do you know what he is saying?” -</p> - -<p> -Joan shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“He says that he is going to carve a likeness of you. He thinks that you -have a beautiful head for a walking-stick. Oh! don’t be afraid; he will -do it capitally. Look, here is the late accountant. I keep it in memory of -him,” and Mrs. Bird produced a holly stick, on the knob of which appeared -a dismal, but most lifelike, countenance. -</p> - -<p> -“He wasn’t very handsome,” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“No, he wasn’t handsome—only right-thinking; and that is why -Jim would like to carve you, because you see you are handsome, though whether -or no you are right-thinking remains to be proved.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan smiled; there was something very quaint about the little lady. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that Mr. Bird does not want me to sit to him to-night,” she -said, “for, do you know, I am dreadfully tired, and I think that I will -go to bed.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no; he will only make a beginning to-night, perhaps of two or three -sticks, and afterwards he will study you. You will be much better for some -sleep after your journey,—though you have not yet told me where you came -from,” and she shook her straw-coloured head doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -Joan made no answer, not feeling inclined to submit herself to -cross-examination at the moment; but, going round the table, she shook hands -with Mr. Bird and with Sally, who had been watching her all the evening and now -put up her face to be kissed in a way that quite won Joan’s heart. -</p> - -<p> -“That shows that Sally likes you,” said Mrs. Bird, in a gratified -voice; “and if Sally likes you I shall too, for she is never wrong about -people. And now good night, my dear. We breakfast at half-past seven; but first -I read some prayers if you would like to attend them: I read, and my two -babies’ follow in a book. Be sure you put your light out.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan stumbled upstairs, and, too tired even for thought, was soon in bed. -Beneath her she could hear a clapping and cracking of fingers, which told her -that she was being vigorously discussed by the Bird family after their own -strange fashion; and to this queer lullaby she went to sleep. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br/> -MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER.</h2> - -<p> -Joan slept well that night, and woke to find the sunlight streaming in at her -window. Coming down to the sitting-room at a quarter past seven, she saw that, -early as it was, it had been swept and garnished and the breakfast laid. -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird: “I am glad to see -that you are an early riser. I suppose it is a habit which you bring with you -from the country. It was not so with the late accountant, who would never -breakfast till nine if he could help it, and on Sundays not till ten; but I -think that an affection of the liver from which he suffered made him sleepy. -And now I am going to have prayers. Maria, come to prayers.” -</p> - -<p> -Maria shuffled in, obedient, and diving into the back room reappeared wheeling -her master before her, who, as he came, smiled sweetly and waved his hand in -greeting to Joan. Presently Sally arrived, and the ceremony began. First Mrs. -Bird handed two Bibles to her husband and her daughter, pointing out the -passage which was to be read with her finger, then she gave them each a manual -of prayer. These preparations finished, she began to read the chapter of the -Bible aloud; and it was curious and touching to see the attention with which -her deaf-and-dumb audience followed the words they could not hear, glancing -from time to time at the motions of her lips to make sure that they were -keeping pace with her. When the reading was finished she shut the Bible and -knelt down an example that Mr. Bird could not follow, for his limbs were -paralysed. Sally, however, placed herself near Joan, making it clear to her by -signs that she was to indicate by pointing each sentence as it passed her -mother’s lips. -</p> - -<p> -Prayers being over—and surely family worship was never carried on under -greater difficulties—breakfast followed, and then the business of the day -began. Mr. Bird carved while Mrs. Bird and her daughter sewed at gowns that -they were making. For a time Joan looked on helplessly; then, wearying of -idleness, asked if she could not do something. -</p> - -<p> -“Can you sew, my dear?” said Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“Pretty well,” she answered; “but not like you.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is scarcely wonderful, considering that I have done nothing else -for more than twenty years; but here are some seams to be run up, if you have -nothing better to do.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan took the seams and began to run them; indeed, she “ran” until -her back ached with stooping. -</p> - -<p> -“You are getting tired, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “as I -expected you would, not being accustomed to the work,” and she peered at -her kindly through her spectacles. “Now you had better rest awhile and -talk. What part of England do you come from?” -</p> - -<p> -“From the Eastern counties,” answered Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Dear me! that is strange—quite a coincidence, I declare. I come -from the East coast myself. I was born at Yarmouth, though it is many and many -a year since I have seen a herring boat. You see, my story is a very simple -one. I was an orphan girl, for my dear father was drowned in an October gale -when fishing at sea, and I came to London with a family as nursemaid. They did -not treat me kindly—even now I cannot say that they did, although I wish -to be charitable—for they discharged me because I was not strong enough -to do the work, and if I had not been taken in out of pity by a widow woman, a -dressmaker and my predecessor in this very house, I do not know what would have -become of me. My husband was her only child, and it was part of my duty, and -indeed of my pleasure, to look after him in his affliction so far as I was -able. Then when his mother died I married him, for I could not make up my mind -to leave him alone, and this of course I must have done unless I became his -wife. So you see, my dear, I took him on and the business with him, and we have -been very happy ever since—so happy that sometimes I wonder why God is so -good to me, who am full of faults. One sorrow we have had, it is true, though -now even that seems to have become a joy: it was after Sally was born. She was -a beautiful baby, and when for the first time I grew sure that she would be -deaf and dumb also, I cried till I thought my heart would break, and wished -that she might die. Now I see how wicked this was, and every night I thank -Heaven that I was not taken at my word, for then my heart would have broken -indeed.” And the dear little woman’s eyes filled with tears as, -putting her arm round the child’s waist, she kissed her tenderly. -</p> - -<p> -There was something so beautiful in the scene that Joan almost cried in -sympathy, and even Jim, who seemed to understand everything, for one moment -ceased to smile, and having wiped away a tear from his round blue eye, -stretched out his great arms and swept both the mother and the daughter into a -confused embrace. -</p> - -<p> -“You say that you are full of faults,” said Joan, turning her head -until the three of them had recovered their composure, “but I think you -are an angel.” -</p> - -<p> -“If to tend and care for those whom one loves is to be an angel, <i>I</i> -think that we shall most of us get to heaven,” she answered, shaking her -head; then added, “Oh! you wretched Jim, you have broken my -spectacles—the new ones.” -</p> - -<p> -Jim, watching his wife’s lip and the damaged glasses, looked so comically -distressed that Joan burst out laughing, while Sally, seeing what was the -matter, ran to the back room to fetch another pair. -</p> - -<p> -“And now, my dear,” Mrs. Bird said presently, “you say that -you have come to London to get work, though why you should want work if you -have plenty of money I do not quite understand. What kind of employment do you -wish to take? For my part I cannot think, for, to be frank with you, my dear, -you seem too much of a lady for most things.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought,” said Joan diffidently, “that I might perhaps get -a situation as one of those girls in shops whom they use to hang cloaks on for -the approval of customers. You see, I am—tall, and I am not clever enough -to teach, so I know nothing else for which I should be fit.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird shook her head. “I dare say that you might come by such -employment, my dear, but I tell you at once that I do not approve of it. I know -something of the wickedness of London, and I think that this sort of occupation -puts too many temptations in the way of a young lady like you, who are so -beautiful, and do not seem to have any home ties to keep your thoughts from -them. We are most of us weak, remember; and flattery, and promises, and grand -presents, all of which would be offered to you, are very nice things.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not afraid of such temptations, Mrs. Bird,” Joan answered, -with a sad confidence that at once attracted the quick little woman’s -attention. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, when a person tells me that she is not afraid of a thing,” -she said, glancing at her, “I conclude that she is either totally without -experience and foolhardy, or that, having won the experience and passed through -the fire, she no longer fears a danger which she has overcome, -or——” and she stopped. -</p> - -<p> -This vein of speculative reflection did not seem to recommend itself to Joan: -at any rate she changed the subject. -</p> - -<p> -“You have twice called me a lady, Mrs. Bird,” she said, “but -I must tell you that I am nothing of the sort. Who my father was I don’t -even know, though I believe him to have been a gentleman, and my mother was the -daughter of a yeoman farmer.” -</p> - -<p> -“Married?” asked Mrs. Bird interrogatively. -</p> - -<p> -Joan shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! I understand,” said Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“I—That is partly why I left home,” explained Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning Bradmouth? Don’t look surprised, my dear. I saw the name -on the clergyman’s testimonial, and also on your box.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Bradmouth. I lived there with an aunt, and everybody looked down -upon me because of my position.” -</p> - -<p> -“That was very wicked of them. But did they begin to look down upon you -all at once, or had you, perhaps, some other reason for coming away? I suppose -your aunt knew that you were coming?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, she did not know. We do not get on together, and I thought it best -not to tell her. Also, she wanted me to marry somebody whom I dislike.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because there is somebody else whom you do like, I suppose, my dear. -Well, it is no affair of mine. But if you will not think me impertinent, where -then do you get your money from?” -</p> - -<p> -“A gentleman——” -</p> - -<p> -“A gentleman!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, dropping her work in horror. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! no, not that,” said Joan, blushing; “he is a kind of -guardian, a friend of my father’s, I believe. At any rate he has paid for -me all these years, and says that he will allow me five pounds a month though I -would rather earn my own living if possible.” -</p> - -<p> -“A friend of your father’s? What a strange story! I suppose that -<i>he</i> is not your father, my dear?” -</p> - -<p> -“My father!” said Joan, opening her eyes wide in amazement,— -“Mr. Levinger my father! Of course not. Why, if he were, would he have -treated me like a stranger all my life?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is possible,” said Mrs. Bird drily; “I have heard of such -things.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no, he is not bad enough for that; in fact, he is very good and kind. -He knew that I was coming away, and gave me five-and-twenty pounds to start on, -and he told me himself that he was left my trustee by my father, who is dead, -but whose name he was bound not to reveal.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed,” answered Mrs. Bird, pursing up her lips. “And now I -must go and see about the dinner. As it happens, I do work for some of the big -shops; and I will inquire if there is any situation vacant that might suit you. -Look: Jim wants you to turn your head a little, so that he can see your nose. -Is he not making a beautiful likeness?” And, nodding affectionately at -her husband, she left the room. -</p> - -<p> -Once outside the door, Mrs. Bird stood still and reflected. “There is a -mystery about that girl,” she thought, “and she has not told me all -her story: she has left out the love affair—I could see it in her face. -Now, if I were wise, I should send her about her business without more words; -but, somehow, I cannot find the heart to do it. I suppose it is because she is -so beautiful, and seems so sad and friendless; and after all it is one’s -duty to help those who are placed thus—yes, even if they have not been -quite respectable, though of course I have no right to suppose that she has -not. No, I cannot turn her away. To do so might be to bring her to ruin, and -that would be a dreadful thing to have upon one’s mind. But I do not -think much of that guardian of hers, Mr. Levinger she called him, who can send -such a lovely girl to take her chance in London without providing her with a -proper home. It looks almost as if he wished to be rid of her: altogether it is -a very strange story. I must say that it interests me; but then curiosity -always was one of my sins, and I have not conquered it yet.” And again -shaking her head, this time at the thought of her own depravity, Mrs. Bird made -her way to the kitchen. -</p> - -<p> -After dinner was over she announced to Joan that they were all going out for a -walk in the Park, and asked her if she would like to accompany them. Joan, of -course, was delighted, for already she began to feel a want of the fresh air to -which she was accustomed; but as she accepted she looked inquiringly at Mr. -Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, my dear,” said his wife, “you are wondering how he can -come out walking when his legs are crippled. Well, presently you shall see. Now -go and put on your hat.” -</p> - -<p> -By the time that Joan was ready she found that a long wheel-chair, which she -had noticed standing in the passage, had been run into the sitting-room, and -into this chair Mr. Bird shifted himself with marvellous agility by the help of -his muscular arms, nodding and smiling at Joan the while. -</p> - -<p> -“How on earth will they get it down the steps?” she wondered. Soon -the mystery was solved, for, the front door having been opened, Sally appeared -with three grooved boards which reached from the lintel to the pavement. The -three wheels of the chair having been set in the grooves, Mr. Bird grasped the -iron railings on either side of the steps, and, smiling triumphantly, launched -himself with much dignity into the street. -</p> - -<p> -“There, my dear!” said Mrs. Bird, while Sally replaced the boards -in the passage and shut the door, “necessity is the mother of invention. -Quite clever, isn’t it? But we have other contrivances that are even -cleverer.” -</p> - -<p> -Then they started, Mr. Bird guiding himself, while Sally and Mrs. Bird who was -arrayed in a prim little bonnet and mantle, pushed behind. Joan offered to -assist, but was not allowed this honour because of her inexperience of the -streets, at any rate until they reached the Park. So she walked by the side of -the chair, wondering at the shops and the noise and bustle of the Edgware Road. -</p> - -<p> -Presently they came to the corner opposite the Marble Arch, where, as usual, -the wide roadway was blocked with traffic. “How ever will they get across -there?” thought Joan: “it frightens me to look at it.” -</p> - -<p> -But it did not frighten Mrs. Bird and her family, who, without a moment’s -hesitation, plunged into the thick of it, calling to Joan to keep close to -them. It was really wonderful to see the skill with which the transit was -accomplished; cabs, omnibuses and carriages bore down upon them from all -directions, but the Bird family were not dismayed. Here and there the chair -headed, now passing under the nose of a horse and now grazing the wheel of a -cab, till at length it arrived safely at the farther pavement. Joan was not so -fortunate, however; about half-way across she lost her head, and, having been -nearly knocked down by the pole of an omnibus, stood bewildered till a -policeman seized her by the arm and dragged her into safety. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, “although you are so -strong, you are not quite competent to wheel Jim at present. First you must -learn to look after yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -Then they went for their walk in the Park, which Joan enjoyed, for it was all -new to her, especially when she was allowed to push the precious chair; and -returned to Kent Street in time for tea. -</p> - -<p> -The rest of the afternoon and evening passed like those of the previous day, -and the morrow was as the yesterday had been. Indeed, there was little variety -in the routine of the Bird ménage—so little that Joan soon began -to wonder how they distinguished one month or one year from another. Few -customers came to the house, for most of the dressmaking was put out to Mrs. -Bird by the managers of large shops, who had confidence in her, and were not -afraid to trust her with costly materials, which she made up, generally into -skirts, and took back in the evenings. -</p> - -<p> -So it came about that all day long Mrs. Bird and Sally sewed, while Jim carved -endless walking-sticks, and Joan sat by giving such help as she could, now -listening to her hostess’s good-natured chatter and now to the shrill -song of the canary. At first, after all that she had gone through, this mode of -life was a rest to her. It was delightful to be obliged neither to think nor to -work unless she so wished; it was delightful to know that she was beyond the -reach of Samuel Rock, and could not be harried by the coarse tongue of Mrs. -Gillingwater or by the gossip of her neighbours. The atmosphere of goodness in -which she lived was very soothing also: it was a new thing for Joan to pass her -days where there was no hate, no passion, no jealousy, and no -violence—where, on the contrary, charity and loving-kindness reigned -supreme. Soon she grew very fond of little Mrs. Bird, as, indeed, anybody must -have done who had the good fortune to know her; and began to share her -adoration of the two “babies,” the great patient creature who faced -his infirmities with a perpetual smile, and the sweet child from whom love -seemed to radiate. -</p> - -<p> -But after a while, as her body and mind shook off their weariness, these things -began to pall; she longed for work, for anything that would enable her to -escape from her own thoughts,—and as yet no work was forthcoming. At -times, tiring of Jim’s smile as he hewed out libellous likenesses of -herself upon his walking-sticks, and of the trilling of the canary, she would -seek refuge in her own sitting-room, where she read and re-read the books that -Henry had given her; and at times, longing for air, she would escape from the -stuffy little house to the Park, to walk up and down there till she grew -weary—an amusement which she found had its drawbacks. At last, when she -had been a fortnight in Kent Street, she asked Mrs. Bird if there was any -prospect of getting employment. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear,” was the answer, “I have inquired everywhere, and -as yet without success. To-night I am taking this skirt back to Messrs. Black -and Parker, in Oxford Street, and I will ask their manager, who is quite a -friend of mine, if he has an opening. Failing this I think you had better -advertise, for I see that you are getting tired of doing nothing, and I do not -wonder at it,—though you should be most thankful that you can afford to -live without work, seeing that many people in your position would now be -reduced to starvation.” -</p> - -<p> -That night Mrs. Bird returned from Messrs. Black and Parker’s with a -radiant countenance. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear,” she said, “there is a coincidence, quite a -wonderful coincidence. The young woman at Messrs. Black and Parker’s -whose business it was to fit on the cloaks in the mantle department has -suddenly been called away to nurse a sick uncle in Cornwall from whom she has -expectations, and they are looking out for some one to take her place, for, as -it chances, there is no one suitable for the post in their employ. I told the -manager about you, and he said that I was to bring you there to-morrow morning. -If they engaged you your pay would be eighteen shillings a week to begin with; -which is not much, but better than nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -Accordingly, on the following morning, having arrayed herself in her best -dress, and a pretty little bonnet that she had made with the help of Sally, -Joan set out for Messrs. Black and Parker’s in the company of Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment was an enormous one, having many -departments. -</p> - -<p> -“You see it is a first-class shop, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird, -glancing with veneration at the huge windows filled with -<i>chefs-d‘oeuvres</i> of the milliner’s and other arts. “Now -follow me, and don’t be nervous.” And she led the way through -various divisions till she reached a large box built of mahogany and glass -labelled “Manager’s Office. No admittance except on business.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment the door of the box opened, and from it issued an oiled and -curled specimen of manhood, with very white hands and hair so wavy, that it -conveyed a suggestion of crimping tongs. -</p> - -<p> -His eye fell upon Joan, and he bowed obsequiously. -</p> - -<p> -“Can I do anything for you, madam?” he said. “We are so full -this morning that I fear you are not being attended to.” -</p> - -<p> -“She is not a customer, Mr. Waters,” said Mrs. Bird, emerging from -behind Joan’s tall shape: “she is the young person about whom I -spoke to you, who wants a situation as show-woman.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! is she?” said Mr. Waters, with a complete change of manner; -“then why didn’t you say so at first? Well, she’s a pretty -girl anyway. Step in here, miss, and take off your jacket, please, so that I -can see what your figure is like.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan did as she was told, although she felt a hate of this individual swelling -in her heart. Mr. Waters surveyed her critically for half a minute or more, -shutting first one eye and then the other, as though to bring her better into -focus. -</p> - -<p> -“Any experience?” he said laconically. “I mean of -business.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir, none,” Joan answered. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! I see: a lady, I suppose.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not a lady, sir,” replied Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Ain’t you?—then you imitate the article very well.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just what I feared,” murmured Mrs. Bird, shaking her head. -</p> - -<p> -“However,” he went on, “we can overlook that fault; but I -have another doubt about you. You’re too good-looking. Our customers like -to see their things tried on a fine figure, of course, but they don’t -like to see them tried on a girl who makes them look common dowds beside her. -Why, a three-guinea mantle would seem a better thing on your back than a -forty-pound cloak on most of them. You’d show off the goods, I dare say, -but I doubt that you would frighten away custom.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought that tall people were always wanted,” hesitated Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Tall people!” said Mr. Waters, with an admiring snigger; -“just you look at yourself in this pier glass, and I think that you will -see something else there beside height. Now, I’ll give you a bit of -advice: you drop this show and go on to the stage. You’ll draw there; -yes, even if you can’t sing or act a bit, there are hundreds who would -pay to come and look at you. By George! I’m not sure that I -wouldn’t myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not wish to go on the stage,” answered Joan stiffly; and Mrs. -Bird behind her murmured, “No! never!” in sympathetic tones. -“If you think that I shall not suit,” she added, “I will not -take up your time any longer.” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t say that, miss. Here!”—and he put his head -out of the door and called to a shop-woman—“just give me that -velvet mantle, will you? Now, miss,” he said: “you fancy that Mrs. -Bird’s a customer, and let me see you try to sell her this cloak.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan’s first impulse was to refuse, but presently a sense of the fun of -the situation prevailed, and she rose to it, mincing, smiling, and praising up -the garment, which she hung upon her own shoulders, bending her graceful shape -this way and that to show it in various lights and attitudes, till at length -Mrs. Bird exclaimed, “Well, I never!—you’re a born actress, -my dear. You might have been bred to the business. I should have bought that -cloak long ago, I should, though, saving your presence, Mr. Waters, I -don’t think it is worth the price asked.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll do,” said the manager, rubbing his hands, “if -only you can forget that you are a lady, and have <i>nous</i> enough to flatter -when you see that it is welcome, and that’s always where ladies and their -clothes are concerned. What’s your name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Haste: Joan Haste.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, Miss Haste. Let’s see: to-day is Saturday, so you may -as well begin on Monday. Hours nine to seven, dinner and tea provided, also -black silk dress, that you put on when you come and take off when you leave. I -should think that the last young lady’s would fit you pretty well with a -little alteration, unless you like to buy one yourself at cost price.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, I think that I will buy one for myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed! Well, so much the better for us. It is usual to ask for -references as to character, and security, or a sum on deposit; but I understand -that Mrs. Bird guarantees all that, so we will say no more about it. The wages -will be eighteen shillings a week for the first six months, and after that a -pound if we are satisfied with you. Do you agree to these terms?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then. Good morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s a smart girl,” reflected Mr. Waters to himself, -“and a real beauty too. But she’s a fool for all that; she ought to -go on the boards,—she’d have a future there. However, it’s -her affair, not mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Bird to Joan, “you got through -that capitally. At first I thought that he would never engage you, but he -seemed to take quite a liking to you before the end. What do you think of -him?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think him odious,” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Odious, my dear! What a strong term! Free and easy, if you like, but not -odious. He is much better than most of them, I can tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then the rest must be very bad indeed,” said Joan, and continued -on her way in silence. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br/> -“I FORBID YOU.”</h2> - -<p> -On the following Monday morning Joan began her career as a shop-girl, to -describe which in detail would be too long, however instructive it might prove. -Her actual work, especially at this, the dead season of the year, was not so -hard as she had expected, nor was she long in mastering her duties; but, -accustomed as she had been to a country life and the fresh air, she soon found -confinement for so many hours a day in the close atmosphere of the shop -exceedingly irksome. From Kent Street to Messrs. Black and Parker’s was -but a quarter of an hour’s walk; and, as Joan discovered by experiment, -without exposing herself to many annoyances it was impossible for her to wander -about the streets after dark in search of exercise. As a last resource she was -driven to rising at the peep of day and taking her walks abroad in the Park so -soon as the gates were open—a daily constitutional which, if wholesome, -was not exhilarating, and one that could only be practised in fine weather and -while the days were long. This craving for air, however, was among the least of -her troubles, for soon it became clear to her that she had no vocation for shop -life; indeed, she learned to loathe it and its surroundings. At first the -humours of the business amused her a little, but very shortly she discovered -that even about these there was a terrible sameness, for one cannot be -perpetually entertained by the folly of old ladies trying to make themselves -look young, or by the vanity of the young ones neglected by nature and -attempting to supply their deficiencies with costly garments. -</p> - -<p> -What galled her chiefly, however, were the attentions with which she was -honoured by the young men of the establishment. Worst of all, the oiled and -curled Mr. Waters singled her out as the object of his especial admiration, -till at length she lost her temper, and answered him in such a fashion as to -check his advances once and for all. He left her muttering “You shall pay -for that”; and he kept his word, for thenceforth her life was made a -misery to her, and it seemed that she could do nothing right. As it chanced, he -could not actually discharge her, for Joan had attracted the favourable notice -of one of the owners of the business, who, when Mr. Waters made some trumped-up -complaint against her, dismissed it with a hint that he had better be more -careful as to his facts in future. -</p> - -<p> -For the rest, she had no amusements and no friends, and during all the time she -spent in London she never visited a theatre or other place of entertainment. -Her only recreation was to read when she could get the books, or, failing this, -to sit with little Mrs. Bird in the Kent Street parlour and perfect herself in -the art of conversation with the deaf and dumb. -</p> - -<p> -As may be imagined, such an existence did not tend to cause Joan to forget her -past, or the man who was to her heart what the sun is to the world. She could -renounce him, she could go away vowing that she would never see him more; but -to live without him, and especially to live such a life as hers, ah! that was -another matter. -</p> - -<p> -Moreover, as time went on, a new terror took her, that, vague in the beginning, -grew week by week more definite and more dreadful. At first she could scarcely -believe it, for somehow such a thing had never entered into her calculations; -but soon she was forced to acknowledge it as a fact, an appalling, unalterable -fact, which, as yet secret to herself, must shortly become patent to the whole -world. The night that the truth came home to her without the possibility of -further doubt was perhaps the most terrible which she ever spent. For some -hours she thought that she must go mad: she wept, she prayed, she called upon -the name of her lover, who, although he was the author of her woe, in some -mysterious fashion had now grown doubly dear to her, till at last sleep or -insensibility brought her relief. But sleep passes with the darkness, and she -awoke to find this new spectre standing by her bedside and to know that there -it must always stand till the end came. All that day she went about her work -dazed by her secret agony of mind, but in the evening her senses seemed to come -back to her, bringing with them new and acuter suffering. -</p> - -<p> -Where was she to go and what was she to do, she who had no friend in the wide -world, or at least none in whom she could confide? Soon they would turn her out -upon the streets; even the Bird family would shrink from her as though she had -a leprosy. Would it not be better to end it at once, and herself with it? -Abandoning her usual custom, Joan did not return home, but wandered about -London heedless of the stares and insults of the passers-by, till at length she -came to Westminster Bridge. She had not meant to come there—indeed, she -did not know the way—but the river had drawn her to its brink, as it has -drawn so many an unfortunate before her. There beneath those dim and swirling -waters she could escape her shame and find peace, or at least take it to a -region beyond all familiar things, whereof the miseries and unrest would not be -those of the earth, even if they surpassed them. Twice she crossed the bridge; -once she tore herself away, walking for a while along the Embankment; then she -returned to it again, brought back by the irresistible attraction of the -darkling river. -</p> - -<p> -Now she thought that she would do it, and now her hand was on the parapet. She -was quite alone for the moment, there were none to stop her,—alone with -her fear and fate. Yes, she would do it: but oh! what of Henry? Had she a right -to make him a murderer? Had she the right to be the murderess of his child? -What would he say when he heard, and what would he think? After all, why should -she kill herself? Was it so wicked to become a mother? According to religion -and custom, yes—that is, such a mother as she would be—but how -about nature? As for the sin, she could not help it. It was done, and she must -suffer for it. She had broken the law of God, and doubtless God would exact -retribution from her; indeed, already He was exacting it. At least she might -plead that she loved this man, and there were many married women who could bear -their children without shame, and could not say as much. Yet they were virtuous -and she was an outcast—that was the rule. Well, what did it matter to -her? They could not put her in prison, and she had no name to lose. Why should -she kill herself? Why should she not bear her baby and love it for its -father’s sake and its own? Now she came to think of it, there was nothing -that she would like better. Doubtless there would be difficulties and troubles, -but she was answerable to no one. However much she might be ashamed of herself, -there were none to be ashamed of her, and therefore it was a mere question of -pounds, shillings and pence. She could get these from Mr. Levinger, or, failing -him, from Henry. He would not leave her to starve, or his child -either—she knew him too well for that. What a fool she had been! Had she -not come to her senses, by now she would be floating on that river or lying in -the mud at the bottom of it. Well, she had done with that, and so she might as -well go home. The future and the wrath of Heaven she must face, that was all; -she had sown, and she must reap—as we always do. -</p> - -<p> -Accordingly she hailed a passing hansom and told the driver to take her to the -Marble Arch, for she was too weary to walk; moreover she did not know the road. -</p> - -<p> -It was ten o’clock when she reached Kent Street. “My dear,” -said Mrs. Bird, “how flushed you look! Where have you been? We were all -getting quite anxious about you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have been walking,” answered Joan: “I could not stand the -heat of that shop any longer, and I felt as though I must get some exercise or -faint.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not think that young women ought to walk about the streets by -themselves at night,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly. “If you were so -very anxious for exercise I dare say that I could have managed to accompany -you. Have you had supper?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, and I don’t want any. I think that I will go to bed. I am -tired.” -</p> - -<p> -“You will certainly not go to bed, Joan, until you have had something to -eat. I don’t know what has come to you—I don’t indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -So Joan was forced to sit down and go through the farce of swallowing some -food, while Sally ministered to her, and Jim, perceiving that something was -wrong, smiled sympathetically across the table. How she got through the meal -she never quite knew, for her mind was somewhat of a blank; though she could -not help wondering vaguely what these good people would say, could they become -aware that within the last hour she had been leaning on the parapet of -Westminster Bridge purposing to cast herself into the Thames. -</p> - -<p> -Next morning Joan went to her work as usual. All day long she stood in the shop -attending to her duties, but it seemed to her as though she had changed her -identity, as though she were not Joan Haste, but a different woman, whom as yet -she could not understand. Once before she had suffered this fancied change of -self: on that night when she lay in the churchyard clasping Henry’s -shattered body to her breast; and now again it was with her. That was the hour -when she had passed from the regions of her careless girlhood into love’s -field of thorns and flowers—the hour of dim and happy dream. This, the -second and completer change, came upon her in the hour of awakening; and though -the thorns still pierced her soul, behold, the red bloom she had gathered was -become a bitter fruit, a very apple of Sodom, a fruit of the tree of sinful -knowledge that she must taste of in the wilderness which she had won. Love had -been with her in the field, and still he was with her in the desert; but oh! -how different his aspect! Then he was bright and winged and beautiful, with -lips of honey, and a voice of promise murmuring many a new and happy word; now -he appeared terrible and stern, and spoke of sin, of sorrow, and of shame. Then -also her lover had been at her side, now she was utterly alone, alone with the -accusing angel of her conscience, and in this solitude she must suffer, with no -voice to cheer her and no hand to help. -</p> - -<p> -From the hour of their parting she had longed for him, and desired the comfort -of his presence. How much more, then, did she long for him now! Soon indeed -this craving swallowed up every other need of her nature, and became a physical -anguish that, like some deadly sickness, ended in the conquest of her mind and -body. Joan fought against it bravely, for she knew what submission meant. It -meant that she would involve Henry in her own ruin. She remembered well what he -had said about marrying her, and the tale which she had heard as to his -refusing to become engaged to Miss Levinger on the ground that he considered -himself to be already bound to her. If she told him of her sore distress, would -he not act upon these declarations? Would he not insist upon making her his -wife, and could she find the strength to refuse his sacrifice? Beyond the -barrier that she herself had built between them were peace and love and honour -for her. But what was there for him? If once those bars were down—and she -could break them with a touch—she would be saved indeed, but Henry must -be lost. She was acquainted with the position of his affairs, and aware that -the question was not one of a <i>mésalliance</i> only. If he married -her, he would be ruined socially and financially in such a fashion that he -could never lift up his head again. Of course even in present circumstances it -was not necessary that he should marry her, especially as she would never ask -it of him; but if once they met, if once they corresponded even, as she knew -well, the whole trouble would begin afresh, and at least there would be an end -of his prospects with Miss Levinger. No, no; whatever happened, however great -her sufferings, her first duty was silence. -</p> - -<p> -Another week went by, leaving her resolution unchanged; but now her health -began to fail beneath the constant strain of her anxieties, and a physical -languor that rendered her unfit for long hours of work in a heated shop. Now -she lacked the energy to tramp about the Park before her early breakfast; -indeed, the advance of autumn, with its rain and fogs, made such exercise -impossible. Her first despair, the despair that suggested suicide, had gone by, -but then so had the half-defiant mood which followed it. Whatever may have been -her faults, Joan was a decent-minded woman, and one who felt her position -bitterly. Never for one moment of the day or night could she be free from -remorse and care, and the weight of apprehension that seemed to crush all -courage out of her. Even if from time to time she could succeed in putting -aside her mental troubles, their place was taken by anxieties for the future. -Soon she must leave the home that sheltered her, and then where was she to go? -</p> - -<p> -One afternoon, about half-past three o’clock, Joan was standing in the -mantle department of Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment awaiting -customers. The morning had been a heavy one, for town was filling rapidly, and -she felt very tired. There was, it is true, no fixed rule to prevent Messrs. -Black and Parker’s employés from seating themselves when not -actually at work; but since a pique had begun between herself and Mr. Waters, -in practice Joan found few opportunities of so doing. On two occasions when she -ventured to rest thus for a minute, the manager had rated her harshly for -indolence, and she did not care to expose herself to another such experience. -Now she was standing, the very picture of weariness and melancholy, leaning -upon a chair, when of a sudden she looked up and saw before her—Ellen -Graves and Emma Levinger. They were speaking. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, dear,” said Ellen, “you go and buy the gloves -while I try on the mantles. I will meet you presently in the doorway.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Emma, and went. -</p> - -<p> -Joan’s first impulse was to fly; but flight was impossible, for with -Ellen, rubbing his white hands and bowing at intervals, was Mr. Waters. -</p> - -<p> -“I think you asked for velvet mantles, madam, did you not? Now, miss, the -velvet mantles—quick, please—those new shapes from Paris.” -</p> - -<p> -Almost automatically Joan obeyed, reaching down cloak after cloak to be -submitted to Miss Graves’s critical examination. Three or four of them -she put by as unsuitable, but at last one was produced that seemed to take her -fancy. -</p> - -<p> -“I should like the young person to try on this one, please,” she -said. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, madam. Now, miss: no, not that, the other. Where are your -wits this afternoon?” -</p> - -<p> -Joan put on the garment in silence, turning herself round to display its -perfections, with the vain hope that Ellen’s preoccupation and the -gathering gloom in the shop would prevent her from being recognised. -</p> - -<p> -“It is very dark here,” Ellen said presently. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, madam; but I have ordered them to turn on the electric light. Will -you be seated for a moment, madam?” -</p> - -<p> -Ellen took a chair, and began chatting with the manager about the advantages of -the employment of electricity in preference to gas in shops, while Joan, with -the cloak still on her shoulders, stood before them in the shadow. -</p> - -<p> -Just then she heard a footstep, the footstep of a lame man who was advancing -towards them from the stairs, and the sound set her wondering if Henry had -recovered from his lameness. Next moment she was clinging to the back of a -chair to save herself from falling headlong to the floor, for the man was -speaking. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you here, Ellen?” he said: “it is so infernally dark in -this place. Oh! there you are. I met Miss Levinger below, and she told me that -I should find you upstairs trying on bodices or something.” -</p> - -<p> -“One does not generally try on bodices in public, Henry. What is the -matter?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing more than usual, only I have made up my mind to go back to -Rosham by the five o’clock train, and thought that I would come to see -whether you had any message for my mother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! I understood that you were not going till Wednesday, when you could -have escorted us home. No, I have no particular message, beyond my love. You -may tell her that I am getting on very well with my trousseau, and that Edward -has given me the loveliest bangle.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have to go,” answered Henry: “those confounded farms, as -usual,” and he sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! farms,” said Ellen,—“I am sick of farms. I wish -that the art of agriculture had never been invented. Thank -goodness”—as the electric light sprang out with a sudden -glare—“we can see at last. If you have a minute, stop and give me -your opinion of this cloak. Taste is one of your redeeming virtues, you -know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it is about all the time I have,” he said, glancing at his -watch. “Where’s the article?” -</p> - -<p> -“There, before you, on that young woman.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” said Henry, “I see. Charming, I think; but a little -long, isn’t it? Now I’m off.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment, for the first time Ellen saw Joan’s face. -</p> - -<p> -She recognised her instantly—there was no possibility of mistake in that -brilliant and merciless light. And what a despairing face it was! so much so, -indeed, that it touched even Ellen’s imagination and moved her to pity. -The great brown eyes were opened wide, the lips were set apart and pale, the -head was bent forward, and from beneath the rich folds of the velvet cloak the -hands were a little lifted, as though in entreaty. -</p> - -<p> -In an instant Ellen grasped the facts: Joan Haste had seen Henry, and was about -to speak to him. Trying as was the situation, Ellen proved herself its -mistress, as she had need to do, for an instinct warned her that if once these -two recognised each other incalculable trouble must result. With a sudden -movement she threw herself between them. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, dear,” she said: “good-bye. You had better be -going, or you will miss the train.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right,” answered Henry, “there is no such desperate -hurry; let me have another look at the cloak.” -</p> - -<p> -“You will have plenty of opportunities of doing that,” Ellen said -carelessly; “I have settled to buy it. Why, here comes Emma; I suppose -that she is tired of waiting.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry turned and began to walk towards the stairs. Joan saw that he was going, -and made an involuntary movement as though to follow him, but Ellen was too -quick for her. Stepping swiftly to one side, she spoke, or rather whispered -into her ear: -</p> - -<p> -“Go back: I forbid you!” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus12"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig12.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Go back: I forbid you!’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Joan stopped bewildered, and in another moment Henry had spoken some civil -words of adieu to Emma and was gone. -</p> - -<p> -“Will you be so good as to send the cloak with the other things?” -said Ellen to Mr. Waters. “Come, Emma, we must be going, or we shall be -late for the ‘at home,’” and, followed by the bowing manager, -she left the shop. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my God!” murmured Joan, putting her hands to her face, -“oh, my God! my God!” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br/> -A LOVE LETTER.</h2> - -<p> -Joan never knew how she got through the rest of that afternoon. She did not -faint, but she was so utterly overcome and bewildered that she could do nothing -right. Three times Mr. Waters spoke to her, with ever-increasing harshness, and -on the third occasion she answered him saying,— -</p> - -<p> -“I am very sorry, but it is not my fault. I feel ill: let me go -home.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, you’d better go, miss,” he said, “and so far as I -am concerned you can stop there. I shall report your conduct to the -proprietors, so you need not trouble to return unless you hear from me -again.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan went without a word; and so ended her life as a show-woman, for never -again did she set eyes upon the establishment of Messrs. Black and Parker, or -upon their estimable manager, Mr. Waters. -</p> - -<p> -The raw damp of the October evening revived her somewhat, but before she -reached Kent Street she knew that she had not exaggerated when she said that -she was ill—very ill, in body as well as in mind. The long anxiety and -mental torture, culminating in the scene of that afternoon, together with -confinement in the close atmosphere of the shop and other exciting causes, had -broken down her health at last. Sharp pains shot through her head and limbs; -she felt fever burning in her blood, and at times she trembled so violently -that she could scarcely keep her feet. Sally opened the door to her with an -affectionate smile, for the dumb girl had learned to worship her; but Joan went -straight to her room without noticing her, and threw herself upon the bed. -Presently Mrs. Bird, learning from the girl that something was wrong, came -upstairs bringing a cup of tea. -</p> - -<p> -“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” answered Joan; “I feel very bad in my -head and all over me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Influenza, I expect,” said Mrs. Bird; “there is so much of -it about now. Let me help you off with your cloak and things, then drink this -tea and try to go to sleep. If you are not better to-morrow morning, we shall -have to send for the doctor.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan obeyed listlessly, swallowing the tea with an effort. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you sure that you have nothing on your mind, my dear?” asked -Mrs. Bird. “I have been watching you for a long while, and I find a great -change in you. You never did seem happy from the hour that you came here, but -of late you have been downright miserable.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan laughed: the sound of that laugh gave Mrs. Bird “the creeps,” -as she afterwards expressed it. -</p> - -<p> -“Anything on my mind? Yes, I have everything on my mind, enough to drive -me mad twice over. You’ve been very kind to me, Mrs. Bird, and I shall -never forget your goodness; but I am going to leave you to-morrow they have -dismissed me from the shop already so before I go I may as well tell you what I -am. To begin with, I am a liar; and I’m more than that, I am -Listen!” and she bent her head forward and whispered into the little -woman’s ear. “Now,” she added, “I don’t know if -you will let me stop the night in the house after that. If not, say so, and -I’ll be off at once. I dare say that they would take me in at a hospital, -or a home, or if not there is always the Thames. I nearly threw myself into it -the other day, and this time I should not change my mind.” And again she -laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“My poor child! my poor, poor child!” said Mrs. Bird, wiping her -eyes, “please don’t talk like that. Who am I, that I should judge -you? though it is true that I do like young women to be respectable; and so -they would be if it wasn’t for the men, the villains! I’d just like -to tear the eyes out of this wicked one, I would, who first of all leads you -into trouble and then deserts you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t speak of him like that,” said Joan: “he -didn’t lead me,—if anything, I led him; and he didn’t desert -me, I ran away from him. I think that he would have married me if I had asked -him, but I will have nothing to do with him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, the girl must be mad!” said Mrs. Bird blankly. “Is he a -gentleman?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, if ever there was one; and I’m not mad, only can’t you -understand that one may love a man so much that one would die rather than bring -him into difficulties! There, it’s a long story, but he would be ruined -were he to marry me. There’s another girl whom he ought to marry a -lady.” -</p> - -<p> -“He would be ruined, indeed! And what will <i>you</i> be, pray?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, and I don’t care: dead, I hope, before long. -Oh!” and she wrung her hands piteously, “I saw him in the shop this -afternoon; he was quite close to me. Yes, he looked at a cloak that I was -showing, and never knew me who wore it. That’s what has broken me down: -so long as I did not see him I could bear it, but now my heart feels as though -it would burst. To think that he should have been so close to me and not have -known me, oh! it is cruel, cruel!” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bird, “really I feel quite upset: I -am not accustomed to this sort of thing. If you will excuse me I will go and -look for my salts. And now you get into bed like a good girl, and stop -there.” -</p> - -<p> -“Am I not to go away, then?” asked Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly not—at any rate for the present. You are much too ill to -go anywhere. And now there is just one thing that I should like to know, and -you may as well tell it me as you have told me so much. What is this -gentleman’s name?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll not tell you,” answered Joan sullenly: “if I told -you, you would be troubling him; besides, I have no right to give away his -secrets, whatever I do with my own.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it is no such great secret after all, my dear. Say now, -isn’t his name Henry Graves, and doesn’t he live at a place called -Rosham?” -</p> - -<p> -“Who told you that?” asked Joan, springing up and standing over -her. Then she remembered herself, and sat down again upon the bed. “No, -that’s not the name,” she said; “I never heard that -name.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody told me,” answered Mrs. Bird quietly, ignoring Joan’s -denial. “I saw the name in those poetry books that you are so fond of, -and which you lent me to read; and I saw one or two notes that you had made in -them also, that’s all. I’ve had to watch deaf-and-dumb people for -many years, my dear, and there’s nothing like it for sharpening the wits -and teaching one how to put two and two together. Also you could never hear the -name of Henry without staring round and blushing, though perhaps you -didn’t know it yourself. Bless you, I guessed it all a month ago, though -I didn’t think that it was so bad as this.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! it’s mean of you to have spied on me like that, Mrs. -Bird,” said Joan, giving in; “but it’s my fault, like -everything else.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you fret about your faults, but just go to bed, -there’s a good girl. I will come back in half an hour, and if I -don’t find you fast asleep I shall be very angry.” And she put her -arms about her and kissed her on the forehead, as a mother might kiss her child. -</p> - -<p> -“You are too kind to me, a great deal too kind,” said Joan, with a -sob. “Nobody ever was kind to me before, except him, and that’s why -I feel it.” -</p> - -<p> -When Mrs. Bird had gone, Joan undressed herself and put on a wrapper, but she -did not get into bed. For a while she wandered aimlessly backwards and forwards -through the doors between the two rooms, apparently without much knowledge of -what she was doing. Some note-paper was lying on the table in the sitting-room, -where the gas was burning, and it caught her eye. -</p> - -<p> -“Why shouldn’t I write?” she said aloud: “not to him, -no, but just to put down what I feel; it will be a comfort, to play at writing -to him, and I can tear it up afterwards.” -</p> - -<p> -The fancy seemed to please her excited brain; at any rate she sat down and -began to write rapidly, never pausing for a thought or words. She wrote:— -</p> - -<p> -“MY DARLING,— -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I have no business to call you that, but then you see this is -not a real letter, and you will never get it, for I shall post it presently in -the fire; I am only playing at writing to you. Henry, my darling, my lover, my -husband—you can see now that I am playing, or I shouldn’t call you -that, should I?—I am very ill, I think that I am going to die, and I hope -that I shall die quickly, quickly, and melt away into nothingness, to be blown -about the world with the wind, or perhaps to bloom in a flower on my own grave, -a flower for you to pick, my own. Henry, I saw you this afternoon; I wore that -cloak your sister was choosing, and I think that I should have spoken to you, -only she forbade me, and looked so fierce that she frightened me. Wasn’t -it strange—it makes me laugh now, though I could have cried then to think -of my standing there before you with that mantle on my shoulders, and of your -looking at it, and taking no more notice of me than if I were a -dressmaker’s shape? Perhaps that is what you took me for; and oh! I wish -I was, for then I couldn’t feel. But I haven’t told you my secret -yet, and perhaps you would like to know it. I am going to have a child, -Henry—a child with big blue eyes, like yours. I was ashamed about it at -first, and it frightened me. I used to dream at nights that everybody I knew -was hunting me through the streets, pointing and gibbering at me, with my aunt, -Mrs. Gillingwater, at the head of them. Now I’m not ashamed any more. I -don’t care: why should I? Nobody will bother because a nameless girl has -a nameless baby nobody except me; and I shall love it, and love it, and love it -almost as much as I love you, my dear. But I forgot: I am going to -die—kiss me when I am dead, Henry—pale lips for you to kiss, my -own! so there will be no child after all, and that is a pity, for you -won’t be able to see it. If it is born at all it will be born in heaven, -or wherever poor girls who have gone wrong are sent to. I wonder what is the -meaning of it, Henry; I wonder, not why I should love you, for I was bred to -that, that was my birth-luck, but why I should suffer so because I love you? Is -it my fault, or somebody else’s?—I don’t mean yours, dear, or -is it simply a punishment because I am wicked?—because, if so, it seems -curious. You see, if I had taken you at your word and married you, then I -shouldn’t have been wicked—that is, in the eyes of others—and -I shouldn’t have suffered. I should have been as good as all married -women are, and oh! a great deal happier than most of them. But because I -couldn’t think of marrying you, knowing that it would be your ruin, I am -wicked and I suffer; at least I can guess no other reason. Well, Henry, I -don’t mind suffering so long as you are happy, and I hope that you will -always be happy. But I am selfish too: When I am dead, I hope that you will -think of me at times —yes, and of the baby that wasn’t -born—and if I can, I shall try to wander into your sleep now and again, -and you will see me there white robed, and with my hair spread out—for -you used to praise my hair holding the dream-baby in my arms. And at last you -will die also and come to find me; not that you will need to seek, for though I -am a sinner God will be good and pitiful to me because I have endured so much, -and I shall be waiting at your bedside to draw your passing spirit to my -breast. Oh! I have been lonely, so dreadfully lonely; I have felt as though I -stood by myself in a world where nobody understood me and everybody scorned and -hated me. But I know now that this was only because I could not see you. If -only I could see you I should die happy. Oh! my darling, my darling, if only I -could see you, and you were kind to me for one short hour, I -would——” -</p> - -<p> -Here Joan’s letter came to an abrupt termination, for the simple reason -that the agony in her head grew so sharp that she fainted for a moment, then, -recovering herself, staggered to her bed, forgetting all about the disjointed -and half-crazy epistle which it had been her fancy to write. -</p> - -<p> -A few minutes later Mrs. Bird entered the room accompanied by a -doctor—not a “red lamp” doctor, but a very clever and rising -man from the hospital, who made a rapid examination of the patient. -</p> - -<p> -“Um!” he said, after taking her temperature, “looks very like -the beginnings of what you would call ‘brain fever,’ though it may -be only bad influenza; but I can’t tell you much about it at present. -What do you know of the history of the case, Mrs. Bird?” -</p> - -<p> -She told him, and even repeated the confession that Joan had made to her. -</p> - -<p> -“When did she say all this?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“About an hour and a half ago, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you must not pay much attention to it. She is in a state of -cerebral excitement with high fever, and was very likely wandering at the time. -I have known people invent all sorts of strange stories under such conditions. -However, it is clear that she is seriously ill, though a woman with such a -splendid physique ought to pull through all right. Indeed, I do not feel -anxious about her. What a beautiful girl she is, by the way! You’ll sit -up with her to-night, I suppose? I’ll be round by eight o’clock -to-morrow morning, and I will send you something in half an hour that I hope -will keep her quiet till then.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird did not go to bed that night, the most of which she spent by -Joan’s side, leaving her now and again to rest herself awhile upon the -sofa in the sitting-room. As she was in the act of lying down upon this sofa -for the first time, her eye fell upon the written sheets of Joan’s -unfinished letter. She took them up and glanced at them, but seeing from its -opening words that the letter was of a strictly confidential character, she put -it down and tried to go to sleep. The attempt, however, was not successful, for -whenever Mrs. Bird closed her eyes she saw those passionate words, and a great -desire seized her to learn to whom they were addressed, and whether or no the -document threw any light upon the story that Joan had told her. Now, if Mrs. -Bird had a weak point it was curiosity; and after many struggles of conscience, -the end of it was, that in this instance temptation got the better of her. From -time to time glancing guiltily over her shoulder, as though she feared to see -the indignant writer rise from the bed where she lay in semi-torpor, she -perused the sheets from beginning to end. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I never did!” she said, as she finished them— -“no, not in all my born days. To think of the poor girl being able to -write like that: not but what it is mad enough, in all conscience, though -there’s a kind of sense in the madness, and plenty of feeling too. I -declare I could cry over it myself for sixpence, yes, that I could, with all -this silly talk about a babe unborn. She seems to have thought that she is -going to die, but I hope that isn’t true; it would be dreadful to have -her die here, like the late accountant, let alone that we are all so fond of -her. Well, I know her aunt’s name now, for it’s in the letter; and -if things go bad I shall just take the liberty to write and tell her. Yes, and -I’m by no means sure that I won’t write to this Mr. Graves too, -just to harrow him up a bit and let him know what he has done. If he’s -got the feelings of a man, he’ll marry her straight away after -this—that is, if she’s left alive to marry him. Anyhow I’ll -make bold to keep this for a while, until I know which way things are -going.” And she placed the sheets in an envelope, which she hid in the -bosom of her dress. -</p> - -<p> -Next morning the doctor came, as he had promised, and announced that Joan was -worse, though he still declined to express any positive opinion as to the -nature of her illness. Within another twenty-four hours, however, his doubts -had vanished, and he declared it to be a severe case of “brain -fever.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wish I had moved her to the hospital at once,” he said; -“but it is too late for that now, so you will have to do the best you can -with her here. A nurse must be got: she would soon wear you out; and what is -more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“A nurse!” said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, “how am I -to afford all that expense?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know; but can’t she afford it? Has she no -friends?” -</p> - -<p> -“She has friends, sir, of a sort, but she seems to have run away from -them, though I think that I have the address of her aunt. She’s got money -too, I believe; and there’s some one who gives her an allowance.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very likely, poor girl,” answered the doctor drily. “Well, I -think that under the circumstances you had better examine her purse and see -what she has to go on with, and then you must write to this aunt and let her -know how things are. I dare say that you will not get any answer, but -it’s worth a penny stamp on the chance. And now I’ll be witness -while you count the money.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan’s purse was easily found; indeed, it lay upon the table before them, -for, notwithstanding Mr. Levinger’s admonitions, she was careless, like -most of her sex, as to where she put her cash. On examination it was found to -contain over fifteen pounds. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, there’ plenty to go on with,” said the doctor; -“and when that’s gone, if the relations won’t do anything I -must get a sister to come in and nurse her. But I shouldn’t feel -justified in recommending her case to them while she has so much money in her -possession.” -</p> - -<p> -Within three hours the nurse arrived—a capable and kindly woman of middle -age who thoroughly understood her business. As may be imagined, Mrs. Bird was -glad enough to see her; indeed, between the nursing of Joan, who by now was in -a high fever and delirious, upstairs, and attending to her paralytic husband -below, her strength was well-nigh spent, nor could she do a stitch of the work -upon which her family depended for their livelihood. That afternoon she -composed a letter to Mrs. Gillingwater. It ran as follows:— -</p> - -<p> -“MADAM,— -</p> - -<p> -“You may think it strange that I should write to you, seeing that you -never heard of me, and that I do not know if there is such a person as -yourself, though well enough acquainted with the name of Gillingwater down -Yarmouth way in my youth; but I believe, whether I am right or wrong and if I -am wrong this letter will come back to me through the Post Office—that -you are the aunt of a girl called Joan Haste, and that you live at Bradmouth, -which place I have found on the map. I write, then, to tell you that Joan Haste -has been lodging with me for some months, keeping herself quiet and -respectable, and working in a situation in Messrs. Black & Parker’s -shop in Oxford Street, which doubtless is known to you if ever you come to -London. Two nights ago she came back from her work ill, and now she lies in a -high fever and quite off her head (so you see she can’t tell me if you -are her aunt or not). Whether she lives or dies is in the hands of God, and -under Him of the doctor; but he, the doctor I mean, thinks that I ought to let -her relations, if she has any, know of her state, both because it is right that -they should, and so that they may help her if they will. I have grown very fond -of her myself, and will do all I can for her; but I am a poor woman with an -invalid husband and child to look after, and must work to support the three of -us, so that won’t be much. Joan has about fifteen pounds in her purse, -which will of course pay for doctor, food and nursing for a few weeks; but her -illness, if things go well with her, is likely to be a long one, and if they -don’t, then there will be her funeral expenses to meet, for I suppose -that you would wish to have her buried decent in a private grave. Joan told me -that there was some one who is a kind of guardian to her and supplies her with -money, so if you can do nothing yourself, perhaps you will send him this -letter, as I can’t write to him not knowing his address. Madam, I do hope -that even if you have quarrelled with Joan, or if she hasn’t behaved -right to you, that you will not desert her now in her trouble, seeing that if -you do and she dies, you may come to be sorry for it in after years. Trusting -to hear from you, -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“Believe me, Madam, -</p> - -<p class="center"> -        “Obediently yours, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -JANE BIRD, <i>Dressmaker.</i>       -</p> - -<p> -“P. S. I enclose my card, and you will find my name in the London -Directory.” -</p> - -<p> -When she had finished this letter, and addressed it thus, -</p> - -<p class="center"> -<i>“Mrs. Gillingwater,</i> -</p> - -<p class="center"> -     <i>“Bradmouth,</i> -</p> - -<p> -  <i>“Please deliver at once,”</i><br/> Mrs. Bird posted -it with her own hands in the pillar-box at the corner of Kent Street. -</p> - -<p> -Then she returned to the house and sat down to reflect as to whether or not she -should write another letter—namely, to the Mr. Henry Graves of Rosham, -who, according to Joan’s story, was the author of her trouble, enclosing -in it the epistle which the girl had composed at the commencement of her -delirium. Finally she decided not to do so at present, out of no consideration -for the feelings of this wicked and perfidious man, but because she could not -see that it would serve any useful purpose. If Joan’s relations did not -come forward, then it would be time enough to appeal to him for the money to -nurse or to bury her. Or even if they did come forward, then she might still -appeal to him—that is, if Joan recovered—to save her from the -results of his evil doings and her folly by making her his wife. Until these -issues were decided one way or another, it seemed to Mrs. Bird, who did not -lack shrewdness and a certain knowledge of the world, that it would be wisest -to keep silent, more especially in view of the fact that, as the doctor had -pointed out, the whole tale might be the imagining of a mind diseased. -</p> - -<p> -And here it may be convenient to say that some weeks went by before it was -known for certain whether Joan would die or live. Once or twice she was in -considerable if not in imminent danger; moreover, after periods of distinct -improvement, she twice suffered from relapses. But in the end her own splendid -constitution and youth, aided by the care and skill with which she was nursed, -pulled her through triumphantly. When her return to life and health was -assured, Mrs. Bird again considered the question of the advisability of -communicating with Henry in the interests of her patient. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br/> -LUCK AT LAST.</h2> - -<p> -On the morning after the posting of Mrs. Bird’s letter, Mrs. Gillingwater -was sitting at breakfast in the parlour of the Crown and Mitre, in no happy -frame of mind. Things had gone very ill with her since Joan disappeared, some -months previously. To begin with, the ample allowance that Mr. Levinger had -been in the habit of paying for his ward’s support no longer found its -way into her pocket, and the sums received from that quarter were now -inconsiderable, amounting indeed to a remission of rent only. Then, try as she -would, she could not extract another farthing from Samuel Rock, who, in fact, -had shown the very nastiest temper when she ventured to ask him for a trifle, -having gone so far as to allege that she had been playing a double game with -him as to Joan, and was concealing from him the secret of that young -lady’s whereabouts. -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, mum,” he had said in conclusion, “if you want -money you must give value, do you understand? At present you have had lots of -money out of me, but I have had precious little value out of you. On the day -that you tell me Joan’s true address there will be five-and-twenty -sovereigns to go into your pocket. Look, I keep them ready,”—and -going to a drawer he unlocked it and showed her the gold, at which Mrs. -Gillingwater glared avariciously. “Yes, and on the day that I marry her -there’ll be fifty more to follow. Don’t you be afraid but what I -can afford it and will keep my word. But till I get that address you -sha’n’t have a sixpence—no, not if it was to save you from -the poorhouse.” -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you, Mr. Rock, that I have no more notion where she has flitted -to than a babe unborn. If any one knows, it’s old Levinger or Sir -Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“And if they know, they keep their mouths shut,” said Samuel. -“Well ma’am, you have got my answer, so now I will wish you good -morning. When you can let me have that address I shall be glad to see you, but -till then perhaps you’ll keep clear, as it don’t look well for a -married woman to be always hanging about my house.” -</p> - -<p> -“Any one with a grain of sense in his head might be pretty certain that -she wasn’t hanging after an oily-tongued half-bred saint like you,” -retorted Mrs. Gillingwater furiously. “I don’t wonder that Joan -never could abide you, that I don’t, with your sneaking, snuffling ways, -and your eye cocked round the corner. She hates the sight of you, and -that’s why she’s run away. She hates you as much as she loves Sir -Henry, and small blame to her: ay, you may turn green with jealousy if you -like, but it’s true for all that. She’d rather run a mile barefoot -to kiss his little finger than she would be carried in a coach-and-four to -marry you. So there, you put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Rock!” -And she retired, slamming the office and kitchen doors behind her. -</p> - -<p> -When her just wrath against Samuel had subsided, Mrs. Gillingwater considered -the position, and since she must get money by hook or by crook, she determined -to renew her attack upon Henry, this time by letter. Accordingly she wrote a -long and rambling epistle, wherein among other things she accused him of the -abduction of her niece, mildly suggesting even that he had murdered her in -order to hide his misdeeds. The letter ended with a threat that she would -publish his true “karacter” from one end of the county to the other -unless the sum of ten pounds was immediately forthcoming. In a few days the -answer came; but on opening it Mrs. Gillingwater discovered, to her disgust and -dismay, that it was from a firm of lawyers, who informed her in the most -pointed language that if any further attempt was made to blackmail their client -she would be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. -</p> - -<p> -All this was bad enough, yet it was but a beginning of troubles. Since -Joan’s departure Mr. Gillingwater had been drunk at least twice as often -as usual—as he declared in his sober moments, and with some truth, in -order to console himself for the loss of Joan, who was the one human creature -to whom he was attached. One of these drinking bouts culminated in his making a -furious attack, in the bar of the Crown and Mitre, upon a customer who was also -drunk. For this assault he was fined at the petty sessions; and on the matter -coming before the bench on licensing day, his license to keep a public-house, -that already had been twice endorsed by the police, was taken away from -him,—which meant, of course, that the Crown and Mitre was closed as a -place of refreshment for man and beast for so long as the landlord, Mr. -Levinger, chose to allow him to occupy it. -</p> - -<p> -No wonder, then, that on this morning of the receipt of Mrs. Bird’s -letter Mrs. Gillingwater was depressed in mind as she sat drinking her tea and -trying to master an invitation from no less a person than “Victoria, by -the grace of God, etc.,” to attend a county court and show cause why she -should not pay a certain sum of four pounds three and nine-pence halfpenny, -with costs, for various necessaries of life bought by and duly delivered to -her, the said defendant. -</p> - -<p> -Hearing a knock at the door, Mrs. Gillingwater threw down the summons with an -expression that was more forcible than polite having reference, indeed, to the -temporal and spiritual welfare of her august sovereign and of all those who -administer justice under her. Then, having looked carefully through the window -to make sure that her visitor was not another bailiff or policeman, she opened -the door and took her letter. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know the writing,” she muttered, turning it round -and round suspiciously. “It may be another of those dratted summonses, or -something of that sort; I’ve half a mind to throw it into the fire and -swear that I never got it, only then that fool of a postman would give me the -lie, for I took it from him myself.” -</p> - -<p> -In the end she opened the letter and spelt through its contents with difficulty -and ever growing astonishment. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said, as she put it down, “here’s some luck -at last, anyway. If that silly girl doesn’t go and die it will be hard if -I don’t turn an honest penny out of her, now that I know where -she’s got to. Samuel would pay up to learn, but it’s best to let -him lie awhile, for I can work more out of him when she gets well again if she -does. I’m off up to the old man’s, for that’s the safest -game: he’ll scarcely bow me out with this in my hand; and if I -don’t give him a nip or two before I am done with him, the mean old -scamp, then my fingers grow on my feet, that’s all!” For be it -known that on two recent occasions when Mrs. Gillingwater called, Mr. Levinger -had declared himself not to be at home, and this when she could plainly see him -standing by the study window. -</p> - -<p> -Reaching Monk’s Lodge in due course, Mrs. Gillingwater, who was not -afflicted with Joan’s humility, went to the front door and rang the bell -boldly. Its sound disturbed Mr. Levinger from his reading, and he stepped to -the window to perceive her standing on the doorstep, red and hot from her walk, -and looking, as he thought, unusually large, coarse and violent. -</p> - -<p> -“There is that dreadful woman again,” he said to himself. “I -can’t bear the sight of her. I wonder now if, had she lived, poor Mary -would have looked like her by this time. Perhaps,” and he sighed; then, -opening the door, told the servant to say that he was not at home. -</p> - -<p> -She obeyed, and presently there arose sounds of altercation. “It -ain’t no use, you impudent barefaced thing, for you to stand there -a-lying your soul away, when I saw him with my own eyes,” shrilled the -rough voice of Mrs. Gillingwater. -</p> - -<p> -“Not at home: them’s my orders,” answered the girl with -warmth, as she attempted to shut the door. -</p> - -<p> -“No, you don’t, hussy!” retorted the visitor, thrusting her -foot between it and the jamb. “I’ve got some orders must see him, -about Joan Haste, and if he won’t let me in I’ll holler what -I’ve got to say outside the house.” -</p> - -<p> -Alarmed by the violence of her antagonist, the girl retreated, and, returning -presently, showed Mrs. Gillingwater into the study without a word. Here she -found Mr. Levinger standing by the fire, his face white with anger. -</p> - -<p> -“Be seated, Mrs. Gillingwater,” he said in a quiet voice, -“and tell me what you mean by coming to make a disturbance here.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that I want to see you, sir,” she answered sullenly, -“and that I won’t be driven away from your door like a dog. Once -for all I tell you, sir, that you’d better be careful how you treat me, -for if you turn dirty to me, I’ll turn dirty to you. It’s only the -dead that don’t speak, sir, and I’m very much alive, I am.” -Then she paused and added threateningly, “You can’t treat me as -I’ve heard say you did another, Mr. Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you quite done?” he asked. “Very well, then; be so good -as to listen to me: you can tell nothing about me, for the best of all possible -reasons, that you know nothing. On the other hand, Mrs. Gillingwater, I can, if -necessary, tell something about you perhaps you may remember to what I refer, -if not I can refresh your memory ah! I see that there is no need. A -moment’s reflection will show you that you are entirely in my power. If -you dare to make any attack upon my character, or even to repeat such a -disturbance as you have just caused, I will ruin you and drive you to the -workhouse, where, except for me, you would have been long ago. In earnest of -what I say, your husband will receive to-morrow a summons for the rent that he -owes me, and a notice to quit my house. I trust that I have made myself -clear.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater knew Mr. Levinger well enough to be aware that he would keep -his word if she drove him to it; and, growing frightened at the results of her -own violence, she began to whimper. -</p> - -<p> -“You never would be so cruel as to deal with a poor woman like that, -sir,” she said. “If I’ve spoken rash and foolish it’s -because I’m as full of troubles as a thistle-head with down; yes, -I’m driven mad, that’s what I am. What with having lost the -license, and that brute of a husband of mine always drunk, and Joan, my poor -Joan, who was like a daughter to me, a-dying:—— -</p> - -<p> -“What did you say?” said Mr. Levinger. “Stop that snivelling, -woman, and tell me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now you see, sir, that you would have done foolish to send me -away,” Mrs. Gillingwater jerked out between her simulated sobs, -“with the news that I had to tell you. Not as I can understand why it -should trouble you, seeing that of course the poor dear ain’t nothing to -you; though if it had been Sir Henry Graves that I’d gone to, it -wouldn’t have been surprising.” -</p> - -<p> -“Will you tell me what you are talking about?” broke in Mr. -Levinger, striking his stick upon the floor. “Come, out with it: -I’m not to be trifled with.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes, wondering if -it would be safe to keep up the game any longer. Coming to an adverse -conclusion, she produced Mrs. Bird’s letter, saying, “This is what -told me about it, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -He took, or rather snatched the letter from her hand, and read it through with -eagerness. Apparently its contents moved him deeply, for he muttered, -“Poor girl! to think of her being so ill! Pray Heaven she may not -die.” Then he sat down at the table, and taking a telegram form, he -filled it in as follows: -</p> - -<p> -“To Mrs. Bird, 8 Kent Street, London, W. -</p> - -<p> -“Your letter to Mrs. Gillingwater received. Spare no expense. Am writing -by to-day’s post. -</p> - -<p> -“James Levinger, Monk’s Lodge, Bradmouth.” -</p> - -<p> -“Would you mind ringing the bell, Mrs. Gillingwater?” said Mr. -Levinger, as he re-read the telegram and, placing it in an envelope, directed -it to the postmaster at Bradmouth. “No, stay: I will see to the matter -myself.” And he left the room. -</p> - -<p> -Presently he returned. “I do not know that I need keep you, Mrs. -Gillingwater,” he said, “or that I have anything more to say. I -shall do my best to look after your niece, and I will let you know how she goes -on.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, sir; and about the rent and the notice?” -</p> - -<p> -“At present, Mrs. Gillingwater, I shall dispense with both of them. I do -not wish to deal hardly with you unless you force me to it. I suppose that you -are in a bad way, as usual?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, yes, sir, I am. In fact, I don’t quite know what I can do -unless I get a little help.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ten pounds?” suggested Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“That will tide me over for a bit, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, then, here you are,” and he produced the money. -“But mind, I give you this for the sake of old associations, little as -you deserve it; and if there is any more trouble you will get nothing further -from me. One more thing: I expect you to hold your tongue about poor -Joan’s illness and her address especially to Sir Henry Graves and Mr. -Rock. Do you understand me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perfectly, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then remember what I say, and good morning; if you want to communicate -with me again, you had better write.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater departed humbly enough, dropping all awkward courtesy at the -door. -</p> - -<p> -“Like the month of March, she came in like a lion and has gone out like a -lamb,” reflected Mr. Levinger as the door closed behind her. “She -is a dangerous woman, but luckily I have her in hand. A horrible woman I call -her. It makes me shudder to think of the fate of anybody who fell into the -power of such a person. And now about this poor girl. If she were to die many -complications would be avoided; but the thing is to keep her alive, for in the -other event I should feel as though her blood were on my hands. Much as I hate -it, I think that I will go to town and see after her. Emma is to start for home -to-morrow, and I can easily make an excuse that I have come to fetch her. Let -me see: there is a train at three o’clock that would get me to town at -six. I could dine at the hotel, go to see about Joan afterwards, and telegraph -to Emma that I would fetch her in time for the eleven o’clock train -to-morrow morning. That will fit in very well.” -</p> - -<p> -Two hours later Mr. Levinger was on his road to London. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater returned to Bradmouth, if not exactly jubilant, at least in -considerably better spirits than she had left it. She had wrung ten pounds out -of Mr. Levinger, which in itself was something of a triumph; also she had hopes -of other pickings, for now she knew Joan’s address, which it seemed was a -very marketable commodity. At present she had funds in hand, and therefore -there was no need to approach Samuel Rock which indeed she feared to do in the -face of Mr. Levinger’s prohibition; still it comforted her not a little -to think that those five-and-twenty sovereigns also were potentially her own. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br/> -THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD.</h2> - -<p> -A month went by, and at the end of it every farthing of Mr. Levinger’s -ten pounds was spent, for the most part in satisfying creditors who either had -sued, or were threatening to sue, for debts owing to them. Finding herself once -more without resources, Mrs. Gillingwater concluded that it was time to deal -with Samuel Rock, taking the chance of her breach of confidence being found out -and visited upon her by Mr. Levinger. Accordingly, towards dusk one -evening— for she did not wish her errand to be observed by the -curious—Mrs. Gillingwater started upon her mission to Moor Farm. -</p> - -<p> -Moor Farm is situated among the wind-torn firs that line the ridge of ground -which separates the sea heath between Bradmouth and Ramborough from the meadows -that stretch inland behind it. Perhaps in the whole county there is no more -solitary or desolate building, with its outlook on to the heath and the chain -of melancholy meres where Samuel had waylaid Joan, beyond which lies the sea. -The view to the west is more cheerful, indeed, for here are the meadows where -runs the Brad; but, as though its first architect had determined that its -windows should look on nothing pleasant, the house is cut off from this -prospect by the straggling farm buildings and the fir plantation behind them. -</p> - -<p> -The homestead, which stands quite alone, for all the labourers employed about -the place live a mile or more away in the valley, is large, commodious, and -massively built of grey stone robbed from the ruins of Ramborough. When the -Lacons, Joan’s ancestors on the mother’s side, who once had owned -the place, went bankrupt, their land was bought by Samuel Rock’s -grandfather, an eccentric man, but one who was very successful in his business -as a contractor for the supply of hay to His Majesty’s troops. After he -had been the possessor of Moor Farm for little more than a year, this James -Rock went suddenly mad; and although his insanity was of a dangerous character, -for reasons that were never known his wife would not consent to his removal to -an asylum, but preferred to confine him in the house, some of the windows of -which are still secured by iron bars. The end of the tale was tragic, for one -night the maniac, having first stunned his keeper, succeeded in murdering his -wife while she was visiting him. This event took place some seventy years -before the date of the present story, but the lapse of two generations has not -sufficed to dispel the evil associations connected with the spot, and that -portion of the house where the murder was committed has remained uninhabited -from that day to this. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater was not a person much troubled by imaginative fears, but the -aspect of Moor House as she approached it on that November evening affected her -nerves, rudimentary as they were. The day had been very stormy, and angry rays -from the setting sun shone through gaps in the line of naked firs behind the -house, and were reflected from the broken sky above on to the surface of the -meres and of the sea beyond them. The air was full of the voices of wind and -storm, the gale groaned and shrieked among the branches of the ancient trees; -from the beach a mile away came the sound of the hiss of the surge and of the -dull boom of breakers, while overhead a flock of curlews appeared and -disappeared as they passed from sunbeam into shadow and from shadow into -sunbeam, till they faded among the uncertain lights of the distance, whence the -echo of their unhappy cries still floated to the listener’s ear. The -front of the house was sunk in gloom, but there was still light enough to -enable Mrs. Gillingwater, standing by the gate of what in other times had been -a little pleasure garden, but was now a wilderness overrun with sea grasses, to -note its desolate aspect, and even the iron bars that secured the windows of -the rooms where once the madman was confined. Nobody could be seen moving about -the place, and she observed no lamp in the sitting-room. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope those brutes of dogs are tied up, for I expect <i>he’s</i> -out,” Mrs. Gillingwater said to herself; “he’s fond of -sneaking about alone in weather like this.” -</p> - -<p> -As the thought passed through her mind, she chanced to glance to her left, -where some twenty paces from her, and beyond the intercepting bulk of the -building, a red sunbeam pierced the shadows like a sword. There in the centre -of this sunbeam stood Samuel Rock himself. He was wrapped in his long dark -cloak that fell to the knees, but his hat lay on the ground beside him, and his -upturned face was set towards the dying sun in such a fashion that the vivid -light struck full upon it, showing every line of his clear-cut features, every -hair of the long beard that hung from the square protruding chin, and even the -motion of his thin lips, and of the white hands that he moved ceaselessly, as -though he were washing them in the blood-red light. -</p> - -<p> -There was something so curious about his aspect that Mrs. Gillingwater started. -</p> - -<p> -“Now what’s he a-doing there?” she wondered: “bless me -if I know, unless he’s saying prayers to his master the devil. I never -did see a man go on like that before, drunk or sober; he gives me the creeps, -the beast. Look, there he goes sneaking along the wall of the house, for all -the world like a great black snake wriggling to its hole. Well, he’s in -now, so here’s after him, for his money is as good as anybody -else’s, and I must have it.” -</p> - -<p> -In another half-minute she was knocking at the door, which was opened by Samuel. -</p> - -<p> -“Who’s that?” he said. “I don’t want no visitors -at this time of day.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s me, Mr. Rock—Mrs. Gillingwater.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I want you least of all, you foul-mouthed, lying woman. Get you -gone, or I’ll loose the dogs on you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’d better not,” she answered, “for I’ve -something to tell you that you’d like to hear.” -</p> - -<p> -“Something that I’d like to hear,” he answered, hesitating: -“is it about <i>her?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it’s about her—all about her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come in,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -She entered, and he shut and locked the door behind her. -</p> - -<p> -“What are you a-doing that for?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater -suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing,” he answered, “but doors are best locked. You -can’t tell who will come through them, nor when, if they’re left -open.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just another of his nasty ways,” muttered Mrs. -Gillingwater, as she followed him down the passage into the sitting-room, which -was quite dark except for some embers of a wood fire that glowed upon the -hearth. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop a minute, and I will light the lamp,” said her host. -</p> - -<p> -Soon it burnt brightly, and while Samuel was making up the fire Mrs. -Gillingwater had leisure to observe the room, in which as it chanced she had -never been before, at any rate since she was a child. On the occasions of their -previous interviews Samuel had always received her in the office or the kitchen. -</p> - -<p> -It was long and low, running the depth of the house, so that the windows faced -east and west. The fireplace was wide, and over it hung a double-barrelled -muzzle-loading gun, which Mrs. Gillingwater noticed was charged, for the light -shone upon the copper caps. There were two doors one near the fireplace, -leading to the offices and kitchen, and one by which she had entered. The floor -was of oak, half covered with strips of matting, and the ceiling also was -upheld by great beams of oak, that, like most of the materials in this house, -had been bought or stolen from the Abbey at the time when it was finally -deserted, a hundred and fifty years before. This was put beyond a doubt, -indeed, by the curious way in which it had been the fancy of the builder to -support these huge beams namely, by means of gurgoyles that once had carried -off the water from the roofs of the Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine -anything more grotesque, or indeed uncanny, than the effect of these -weather-worn and grinning heads of beasts and demons glaring down upon the -occupants of the chamber open-mouthed, as though they were about to spring upon -and to devour them. Indeed, according to a tale in Bradmouth, a child of ten, -finding herself left alone with them for the first time, was so terrified by -their grizzly appearance that she fell into a fit. For the rest, the walls of -the room were hung with a dingy paper, and adorned with engravings of a -Scriptural character, diversified by prints taken from Fox’s “Book -of Martyrs.” The furniture was good, solid and made of oak, like -everything else in the place, with the sole exception of an easy chair, in -which it was Samuel’s custom to smoke at night. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose, now, Mr. Rock,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, pointing to the -grinning gurgoyles, “that you don’t find it lonesome up here at -nights, with those stone parties for company?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a bit of it, Mrs. Gillingwater; why, I’ve known them all ever -since I was a child, as doubtless others have before me, and they are downright -good friends to me, they are. I have names for every one of them, and I talk to -them sometimes too—now this and now that, as the fancy takes me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just what I should have expected of you, Mr. Rock,” answered Mrs. -Gillingwater significantly; “not but what I dare say it is good -training.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning?” said Samuel. -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning, Mr. Rock, that as it is getting late, and it’s a long and -windy walk home, we’d better stop talking of stone figures and come to -business—that is, if you have a mind for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“By all means, Mrs. Gillingwater. But what is the business?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it’s this: last time we met, when we parted in anger, though -through no fault of mine, you said that you wanted Joan’s address: and -now I’ve got it.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve got it? Then tell it me. Come, be quick!” and he -leaned towards her across the polished oak table. -</p> - -<p> -“No, no, Mr. Rock: do you think that I am as green as an alder shoot, -that you should ask such a thing of me? I must have the money before you get -the address. Do you understand?” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand, Mrs. Gillingwater; but be reasonable. How can you expect -me to pay you five-and-twenty pounds for what may be gammon after all?” -</p> - -<p> -“Five-and-twenty pounds, Mr. Rock! No such thing, indeed: it is fifty -pounds I want, every farthing of it, or you get nothing out of me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Fifty pounds!” answered Samuel; “then I don’t think -that we need talk no longer, Mrs. Gillingwater, seeing that I ain’t going -to give you fifty pounds, no, not for the address of all the angels in -heaven.” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say not, Mr. Rock: <i>they’d</i> be precious little use to -you when you’d got them, either now or at any future time, to judge from -what I knows of you”—and she glanced significantly at the -sculptured demons beneath the ceiling—“but you see Joan’s -whereabouts is another matter, more especially since she isn’t an angel -yet, though she’s been nigh enough to it, poor dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean by that, ma’am? Is she ill, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“When I’ve got the fifty pounds in my pocket, Mr. Rock, I’ll -be glad enough to tell you all about it, but till then my mouth is sealed. -Indeed, it’s a great risk that I run letting you know at all, for if the -old man yonder finds it out, I think that he’ll be the ruin of me. And -now, will you pay, or won’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t give you the fifty pounds,” he answered, setting his -teeth; “I’ll give you thirty, and that’s the last farthing -which you’ll screw out of me—and a lot of money too, seeing that -there’s no reason why I should pay you anything at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just where you’re wrong, Mr. Rock,” she -answered: “not that I’m denying that thirty pounds is a lot of -money; but then, you see, I’ve got that to sell that you want to buy, and -badly. Also, as I told you, I take risks in selling it.” -</p> - -<p> -“What risks?” -</p> - -<p> -“The risks of being turned out of house and home, and being sold up, -that’s all. Old Levinger don’t want no one to know Joan’s -address; I can’t tell you why, but he don’t, and if he finds out -that I have let on, it will be a bad business for me. Now look here: I fancy -that there is another person as wouldn’t mind giving a trifle for this -address, and if you’re so mean that you won’t cash up, I shall take -a walk out yonder to-morrow morning,” and she nodded in the direction of -Rosham. -</p> - -<p> -Samuel groaned, for he knew that she was alluding to his rival. “I doubt -that he knows it already, curse him,” he said, striking his hand upon the -table, “Thirty-five—there, that’s the last.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re getting along, Mr. Rock, but it won’t do yet,” -sneered Mrs. Gillingwater. “See here now, I’ve got something in my -hand that I’ll show you just for friendship’s sake,” and -producing Mrs. Bird’s letter, she read portions of it aloud, pausing from -time to time to watch the effect upon her hearer. It was curious, for as he -listened his face reflected the extremes of love, hope, terror and despair. -</p> - -<p> -“God!” he said, wringing his hands, “to think that she may be -dead and gone from me for ever!” -</p> - -<p> -“If she were dead, Mr. Rock, it wouldn’t be much use my giving you -her address, would it? since, however fond you may be of her, I reckon that you -would scarcely care to follow her <i>there.</i> No, I’ll tell you this -much, she is living and getting well again, and I fancy that you’re after -a live woman, not a dead one.’ This was written a month ago and -more.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank heaven!” he muttered. “I couldn’t have borne to -lose her like that; I think it would have driven me mad. While she’s -alive there’s hope, but what hope is there in the grave?” Samuel -spoke thus somewhat absently, after the fashion of a man who communes with -himself, but all the while Mrs. Gillingwater felt that he was searching her -with his eyes. Then of a sudden he leant forward, and swiftly as a striking -snake he shot out his long arm across the table, and snatched the letter from -her grasp. -</p> - -<p> -“You think yourself mighty clever, Mr. Rock,” she said, with a -harsh laugh; “but you won’t get the address for nothing in that -way. If you take the trouble to look you’ll see that I’ve tore it -off. Ah! you’ve met your match for once; it is likely that I was going to -trust what’s worth fifty pounds in reach of your fingers, isn’t -it?” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at the letter and saw that she spoke truth. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t take it for that,” he said, gnawing his hand with -shame and vexation; “I took it to see if there was a letter at all, or if -you were making up lies.” And he threw it back to her. -</p> - -<p> -“No doubt you did, Mr. Rock,” she answered, jeering at him. -“Well, and now you’re satisfied, I hope; so how about them fifty -sovereigns?” -</p> - -<p> -“Forty,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Fifty. Never a one less.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel sprang up from his seat, and, coming round the table, stood over her. -</p> - -<p> -“Look here,” he said in a savage whisper, “you’re -pushing this game too far: if you’re a wise woman you’ll take the -forty and go, or—” -</p> - -<p> -“Or what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Or I’ll twist what I want to know out of that black heart of -yours, and not a farthing shall you get for it perhaps you’ve forgotten -that the door is locked and we are alone in the house. Yes, you might scream -till you brought the roof down, but nobody would hear you; and scream you shall -if I take hold of you.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Gillingwater glanced at his face, and read something so evil on it, and in -the lurid eyes, that she grew frightened. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” she said, as unconcernedly as possible, “I -won’t stand out for a tenner between friends: down with the cash, and you -shall have it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! ma’am, you’re afraid of me now I can feel it and -I’ve half a mind to beat you down; but I won’t, I’ll stand by -my word. Now you write that address upon this piece of paper and I’ll get -the coin.” And rising he left the room by the door near the fireplace, -which he took the precaution of locking behind him. -</p> - -<p> -“The murdering viper!” reflected Mrs. Gillingwater; “I -pinched his tail a little too much that time, and I sha’n’t be -sorry to find myself outside again, though there’s precious little chance -of that until he chooses, as he’s locked me in. Well, I must brazen it -out now.” And somewhere from the regions of her ample bosom she produced -the fragment that she had torn off Mrs. Bird’s letter, on which was -written the address and a date. -</p> - -<p> -Presently Samuel returned holding a small bag of money in his hand, from which -he counted out forty sovereigns. -</p> - -<p> -“There’s the cash, ma’am,” he said; “but before -you touch it be so good as to hand me that bit of writing: no, you -needn’t be afraid, I’ll give you the money as I take the -paper.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not afraid, Mr. Rock; when once I’ve struck a bargain I -stick to it like an honest woman, and so, I know, will you. Never you doubt -that the address is the right one; you can see that it is torn off the letter I -read to you. Joan is there, and through the worst of her illness, so the party -she’s lodging with wrote to me; and if you see her I hope you’ll -give her my love.” As she spoke she pushed the scrap of paper to him with -her left hand, while with her right she drew the shining heap of gold towards -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Honest!” he said: “I may be honest in my way, Mrs. -Gillingwater; but you are about as honest as other traitors who sell innocent -blood for pieces of money.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean by that, Mr. Rock?” she replied, looking up from -her task of securing the forty sovereigns in her pocket-handkerchief. -“I’ve sold no innocent blood; I’d scorn to do such a thing! -You don’t mean any harm to Joan, do you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, ma’am, I mean her no harm, unless it’s a harm to want to -make her my wife; but it would have been all one to you if I meant to murder -her and you knew it, so your sin is just as great, and verily the betrayers of -innocent blood shall have their reward,” and he pointed at her with his -long fingers. “I’ve got what I want,” he went on -“though I’ve had to pay a lot of money for it; but I tell you that -it won’t do you any good; you might as well throw it into the mere and -yourself after it, as expect to get any profit out of that forty pounds, the -price of innocent blood the price of innocent blood.” Then once more -Samuel pointed at her and grinned maliciously, till to her fancy his face -looked like that of the stone demon above him. -</p> - -<p> -By now Mrs. Gillingwater was so frightened that for a moment or two she -hesitated as to whether it would not be wiser to return the money and free -herself from the burden of a dreadful thought. In the end her avarice -prevailed, as might have been expected, and without another word she rose and -walked towards the front door, which Samuel unlocked and opened for her. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye,” he said, as she went down the passage. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve done me a good turn, ma’am, and now I’m sure -that I’ll marry Joan; but for all that a day shall come when you will -wish that your hand had been cut off before you touched those forty sovereigns: -you remember my words when you lie a-dying, Mrs. Gillingwater, with all your -deeds behind you and all the doom before.” -</p> - -<p> -Then the woman fled through the storm and the night, more terrified than ever -she had been in her life’s day, nor did the gold that she clasped to her -heart avail to comfort her. For Rock had spoken truth; it was the price of -innocent blood, and she knew it. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br/> -THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.</h2> - -<p> -Upon his arrival in town, Mr. Levinger drove to a private hotel in Jermyn -Street, where he was in the habit of staying on the rare occasions when he -visited London. He dressed and dined; then, having posted a letter to Emma -stating that he would call for her and Miss Graves on the following morning in -time to catch the eleven o’clock train, and escort them home, he ordered -a hansom and told the cabman to take him to 8, Kent Street. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s many a year since I have been in this place,” he -thought to himself with a sigh, as the cab turned out of the Edgware Road, -“and it doesn’t seem much changed. I wonder how she came to go to -another house. Well, I shall know the worst, or the best of it, -presently.” And again he sighed as the horse stopped with a jerk in front -of No. 8. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus13"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig13.jpg" width="449" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘You remember my words -when you lie a-dying.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Telling the man to wait, he rang the bell. The door was opened by Mrs. Bird -herself, who, seeing an elderly gentleman in a fur coat, dropped a polite -courtesy. -</p> - -<p> -“Is this Mrs. Bird’s house, pray?” he asked in his gentle -voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir; I am Mrs. Bird.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed: then perhaps you received a telegram from me this -morning,—Mr. Levinger?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir, it came safely, and I ordered some things on the strength of -it. Will you be so good as to step in, sir? I have heard poor Joan speak of -you, though I never could make out what you were to her from her father -down.” -</p> - -<p> -“In a certain sense, madam, I am her guardian. Will you allow me to help -you with that door? And now, how is she?” -</p> - -<p> -“About as bad as she can be, sir; and if you are her guardian, I only -wish that you had looked after her a little before, for I think that being so -lonesome has preyed upon her mind, poor dear. And now perhaps you’ll step -upstairs into her sitting-room, making as little noise as possible. The doctor -and the nurse are with her, and you may wish to see them; it’s not a -catching fever, so you can come up safely.” -</p> - -<p> -He bowed, and followed Mrs. Bird to the little room, where she offered him a -chair. Through the thin double doors that separated them from the bedchamber he -could hear the sound of whispering, and now and again of a voice, still strong -and full, that spoke at random. “Don’t cut my hair,” said the -voice: “why do you cut my hair? He used to praise it; he’d never -know me without my hair.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s her raving, poor love. She’ll go on in this kind of -way for hours.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger turned a shade paler. He was a sensitive man, and these voices of -the sick room pained him; moreover, he may have found a meaning in them. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will give me a few details, Mrs. Bird,” he said, -drawing his chair close to the window. “You might tell me first how Joan -Haste came to be your lodger.” -</p> - -<p> -So Mrs. Bird began, and told him all the story, from the day when she had seen -Joan sitting upon her box on the opposite doorstep till the present hour that -is, she told it to him with certain omissions. Mr. Levinger listened -attentively. -</p> - -<p> -“I was very wrong,” he said, when she had finished, “to allow -her to come to London in this fashion. I reproach myself much about it, but the -girl was headstrong and —there were reasons. It is most fortunate that -she should have found so kind a friend as you seem to have been to her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Bird severely, “I must say that I -think you were wrong. London is not a place to throw a young woman like Joan -into to sink or to swim, even though she may have given you some trouble; and -if anything happens to her I think that you will always have it on your -conscience.” And she put her head on one side and looked at him through -her spectacles. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger winced visibly, and did not seem to know what to answer. At that -moment the doctor came out of the sick room, leaving the door open; and, -looking through it, Mr. Levinger saw a picture that he could never forget. Joan -was lying upon an iron bedstead, and on a chair beside it, shimmering in the -light, lay the tumbled masses of her shorn hair. Her face was flushed, and her -large eyes shone with an unnatural brightness. One hand hung downwards almost -to the floor, and with the other she felt feebly at her head, saying in a -piteous voice, “Where is my hair? What have you done with my hair? He -will never know me like this, or if he does he will think me ugly. Oh! please -give me back my hair.” Then the nurse closed the door, and Mr. Levinger -was glad of it. -</p> - -<p> -“This is the gentleman, Doctor,” said Mrs. Bird, “who is -interested in——” -</p> - -<p> -The doctor bowed stiffly; then, seeing what manner of man Mr. Levinger was, -relaxed, and said, “I beg your pardon. I suppose that your interest in my -patient is of a parental character?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not exactly, sir, but I consider myself <i>in loco parentis.</i> Can you -give me any information, or perhaps I should say—any hope?” -</p> - -<p> -“Hope? Oh yes—lots of it,” answered the doctor, who was an -able middle-aged man of the brusque and kindly order, one who understood his -business, but took pleasure in disparaging both himself and it. “I always -hope until I see a patient in his coffin. Not that things are as bad as that in -this case. I trust that she will pull through—I fancy that she -<i>will</i> pull through; but all the same, as I understand that expense -is no longer an object, I am going to get in a second opinion to-morrow. You -see I am barely forty myself, and my experience is consequently limited,” -and he smiled satirically. “I have my views, but I dare say that they -stand in need of correction; at any rate, without further advice I don’t -mean to take the responsibility of the rather heroic treatment which I propose -to adopt. The case is a somewhat peculiar one. I can’t understand why the -girl should be in this way at all, except on the hypothesis that she is -suffering from some severe mental shock; and I purpose, therefore, to try and -doctor her mind as well as her body. But it is useless to bore laymen with -these matters. I can only say, sir, that I am deeply interested in the case, -and will do my utmost to pull her through. I would rather that she had been at -the hospital; but, on the whole, she is not badly off here, especially as I -have succeeded in getting the best nurse for her that I know anywhere. Good -night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good night, Doctor, and whatever the issue, pray accept my thanks in -advance, and remember that you need not spare money.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be afraid, sir—I sha’n’t. I’ll spend -a thousand pounds over her, if necessary; and save your thanks at present, -three weeks hence it may be another matter, or there may be only the bill to -pay. Well, I must be off. Good night. Perhaps, Mrs. Bird, you will send out for -the things the nurse wants,” and he went. -</p> - -<p> -“That seems a capable man,” said Mr. Levinger; “I like the -look of him. And now, madam, you will need some cash in hand. I have brought -twenty pounds with me, which I suppose will be enough to go on with, without -touching Joan’s money,” and he placed that sum upon the table. -</p> - -<p> -“By the way, Mrs. Bird,” he added, “perhaps you will be good -enough to send me a note or a telegram every day informing me of your -patient’s progress—here is my address— also to keep an -account of all sums expended, in which you can include an extra allowance of a -pound a week to yourself, to compensate you for the trouble and anxiety to -which this illness must put you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, sir,” she answered, courtesying—“I call -that very liberal; though, to tell you the truth, I am so fond of Joan that I -would not take a farthing if I could afford it. But, what between two -deaf-and-dumb people to look after and her on my mind, it is no use pretending -that I can get through as much dressmaking work as I ought; and so, as you seem -well able to pay, I will put my pride in my pocket and the money along with it. -Also I will keep you informed daily, as you ask.” -</p> - -<p> -“Two deaf-and-dumb people?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,”—and she told him about her husband and Sally. -</p> - -<p> -“Really,” he said, when she had finished, surveying the frail -little woman with admiration, “you seem to have more than your share of -this world’s burden, and I respect you, madam, for the way in which you -bear it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a bit, sir,” she answered cheerily; “while it pleases -God to give me my health, I wouldn’t change places with the Queen of -England and all her glory.” -</p> - -<p> -“I admire you still more, Mrs. Bird,” he answered, as he bowed -himself out politely; “I wish that everybody could face their trials so -cheerfully.” But within himself he said, “Poor Joan! no wonder she -was wretched, shut up in this dreadful little house with deaf-and-dumb folk for -companions. Well, I have done all I can for her now, but I wish that I had -begun earlier. Oh! if I could have the last twenty years over again, things -would be very different to-day.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird was delighted with Mr. Levinger. Never before, as she explained -presently with much gesticulation to Jim, had she met so charming, so handsome, -so thoughtful, and so liberal an elderly gentleman. -</p> - -<p> -“But,” gesticulated Jim back, “if he is all this, why -didn’t he look after Joan better before?”—a question that his -wife felt herself unable to answer, beyond saying that Joan and all connected -with her were “most mysterious, my dear, and quite beyond me.” -</p> - -<p> -Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she saw that whereas she had given -Mr. Levinger every information in her power, he had imparted none to her. To -this moment she did not know what was the exact relationship in which he stood -towards Joan. Though there were many dissimilarities between them, it had -struck her, observing him, that his eyes and voice were not unlike -Joan’s. Could he be her father? And, if so, how did it come about that he -had allowed her to wander to London and to live there unprotected? Like the -rest, it was a mystery, and one that after much cogitation Mrs. Bird was forced -to give up as insoluble, though on the whole she came to the conclusion that -her visitor was not a blood relation of Joan. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger duly carried out his programme, and on the morrow escorted his -daughter and Ellen back to Bradmouth. He did not, however, think fit to tell -them the true cause of his visit to London, which he accounted for by saying -that he had come up to bargain with a dealer in curiosities about some ancient -British ornaments that were on the market. Nor, oddly enough, did Ellen chance -to mention that she had seen Joan selling mantles at Messrs. Black and -Parker’s; the fact being that, as regards this young woman, there reigned -a conspiracy of silence. Neither at Rosham nor at Monk’s Lodge was her -name ever mentioned, and yet she was seldom out of the minds of the members of -either of those households. Ellen, when the preparations for her approaching -marriage allowed her time for thought, never ceased to congratulate herself -upon her presence of mind in preventing the recognition of Joan by Henry. It -was clear to her that her obstinate brother had begun to settle down and to see -matters in a truer light, especially as regarded Emma; but it was also clear -that had he once found the missing Joan there would have been new troubles. -Well, he had not found her, so that danger was gone by. And Ellen rejoiced -accordingly. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird kept her promise, writing and telegraphing regularly to Mr. Levinger -to inform him of Joan’s progress. Indeed, for some time the messenger -from the Bradmouth post-office arrived almost daily with a yellow envelope at -Monk’s Lodge. One of these telegrams Emma opened by chance, as her father -happened to be out and the boy said that it required an answer. It ran: -“Patient had serious relapse last night. Doctor proposes to call -in——” [here followed the name of a very eminent authority on -such cases] “do you sanction expense? Reply, Bird.” Emma was -naturally quite unable to reply, and so soon as he came in she handed the -telegram to Mr. Levinger, explaining why she had opened it. He read it, then -said, with as much severity as he ever showed towards his daughter: -</p> - -<p> -“I wish, my dear Emma, that in future you would be so kind as to leave my -letters and telegrams alone. As you have opened it, however, and your curiosity -is doubtless excited, I may as well tell you that this is a business cypher, -and has to do with nothing more romantic than the Stock Exchange.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am very sorry, father,” she answered coldly for, trusting as she -was by nature, she did not believe him, “I will be more careful in -future.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she left the room, feeling that another enigma had been added to the -growing stock of family mysteries. -</p> - -<p class="p2"> -</p> - -<p> -Slowly the days went by, till at length it became clear to those who tended her -that Joan would recover from her illness. -</p> - -<p> -The last and greatest crisis had come and gone, the fever had left her, and she -no longer wandered in her mind, but lay upon the bed a shadow of her former -self, so weak that she could scarcely speak above a whisper. All day long she -lay thus, staring at the dingy ceiling above her with her brown eyes, which, -always large, now looked positively unnatural in her wasted face a very -pathetic sight to see. At times the eyes would fill with tears, and at times -she would sigh a little, but she never smiled, except in acknowledgment of some -service of the sick room. Once she asked Mrs. Bird if any one had discovered -that she was ill, or come to see her, and on receiving a reply in the -affirmative, asked eagerly,— -</p> - -<p> -“Who? What was his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Levinger,” the little woman answered. -</p> - -<p> -“It is very kind of him,” Joan murmured, and turned her head upon -the pillow, where presently Mrs. Bird saw such a mark as might have been left -by the falling of a heavy raindrop. -</p> - -<p> -Then it was that Mrs. Bird’s doubts and difficulties began afresh. From -what she had heard while attending on Joan in her delirium, she was now -convinced that the poor girl’s story was true, and that the letter which -she had written was addressed not to any imaginary person, but to a living man -who had worked her bitter wrong. This view indeed was confirmed by the doctor, -who added, curiously enough, that had it not been for her condition he did not -believe that she would have lived. In these circumstances the question that -tormented Mrs. Bird was whether or no she would do right to post that letter. -At one time she thought of laying the matter before Mr. Levinger, but upon -consideration she refrained from so doing. He was the girl’s guardian, -and doubtless he knew nothing of her disgrace. Why, then, should she expose it, -unless such a step became absolutely necessary? Ultimately he would have to be -told, but there seemed no need to tell him until an appeal to the man’s -honour and pity had failed. After much thought Mrs. Bird adopted a third -course, and took the doctor into her confidence. He was a man of rough manners, -plain speech, and good heart, and her story did not in the least surprise him. -</p> - -<p> -“There’s nothing wonderful about this, Mrs. Bird,” he said. -“I have seen the same thing with variations dozens of times in my twenty -years of experience. It’s no use your starting off to call this man a -scoundrel and a brute. It’s fashionable, I know, but it does not follow -that it is accurate: you see it is just possible that the girl may have been to -blame herself, poor dear. However, she is in a mess, and the thing is to get -her out of it, at the expense of the man if necessary, for we are interested in -her and not in him. That letter of hers is a beautiful production in a queer -kind of way, and ought to have an effect on the individual, if he is not -already married, or a bad lot both of which things are probable. I tell you -what, I will make a few inquiries about him, and let you know my opinion -to-morrow. What did you say his name was? Henry Graves? Thanks; good-bye. No, -no opiate to-night, I think.” -</p> - -<p> -On the following day the doctor returned, and having visited Joan and reported -favourably of her progress, he descended to the front parlour, where Mrs. Bird -was waiting for him. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s getting on well,” he said—“a good deal -better than I expected, indeed. Well, I have looked up Sir Henry Graves, for -he’s a baronet. As it chanced, I came across a man at the hospital last -night who used to stay with his father down at Rosham. The old man, Sir -Reginald, died a few months ago; and Henry, the second son—for his elder -brother broke his neck in a steeplechase—succeeded him. He is, or was, a -captain in the Navy, rather a distinguished man in a small way; and not long -ago he met with an accident, broke his leg or something of that sort, and was -laid up at an inn in a place called Bradmouth. It seems that he is a good sort -of fellow, though rather taciturn. That’s all I could find out about -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Joan comes from Bradmouth, and she lived in an inn there,” -answered Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! did she? Well, then there you have the whole thing; nothing could be -more natural and proper, or rather improper.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps so, sir,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly; “though, -begging your pardon, I cannot see that this is a matter to joke about. What I -want to know now is shall I send the gentleman that letter?” -</p> - -<p> -The doctor rubbed his nose reflectively and answered, “If you do he will -probably put it at the back of the fire; but so far as I can judge, being of -course totally unacquainted with the details, it can’t hurt anybody much, -and it may have a good effect. <i>She</i> has forgotten that she ever wrote it, -and you may be sure that unless he acts on it he won’t show it about the -neighbourhood. Yes, on the whole I think that you may as well send it, though I -dare say that it will put him in a tight place.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is where I should like to see him,” she answered, pursing up -her lips. -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say. You’re down on the man, are you not, Mrs. Bird? And so -am I, speaking in a blessed ignorance of the facts. By all means let him be put -into a tight place, or ruined, for anything I care. He may be comparatively -innocent, but my sympathies are with the lady, whom I chance to know, and who -is very good looking. Mind you let me know what happens that is, if anything -does happen.” -</p> - -<p> -That afternoon Mrs. Bird wrote her letter, or rather she wrote several letters, -for never before did the composition of an epistle give her so much thought and -trouble. In the end it ran as follows:— -</p> - -<p> -“SIR,— -</p> - -<p> -“I am venturing to take what I dare say you will think a great liberty, -and a liberty it is, indeed, that only duty drives me to. For several months a -girl called Joan Haste has been staying in my house as a lodger. Some weeks ago -she was taken seriously ill with a brain fever, from which she has nearly died; -but it pleased God to spare her life, and now, though she is weak as water, the -doctor thinks that she will recover. On the night that she became ill she -returned home not at all herself, and made a confession to me, about which I -need say nothing. Afterwards she wrote what I enclose to you. You will see from -the wording of it that she was off her head when she did it, and now I am sure -that she remembers nothing of it. I found the letter and kept it; and partly -from what fell from her lips while she was delirious, partly because of other -circumstances, I became sure that you are the man to whom that letter is -addressed. If I have made any mistake you must forgive me, and I beg that you -will then return the enclosed and destroy my letter. If, sir, I have not made a -mistake, then I hope that you will see fit to act like an honest man towards -poor Joan, who, whatever her faults may be—and such as they are you are -the cause of them—is as good-hearted as she is sweet and beautiful. It is -not for me to judge you or reproach you; but if you can, I do pray you to act -right by this poor girl, who otherwise must be ruined, and may perhaps drift -into a life of sin and misery, the responsibility for which will be upon your -hands. -</p> - -<p> -“Sir, I have nothing more to say: the paper I enclose explains everything. -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“I am, sir, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Your humble servant,        -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“JANE BIRD. -</p> - -<p> -“P.S. Sir, I may say that there is no need for you to hurry to answer -this, since, even if you wished to do so, I do not think that it would be safe -for you to see Joan, or even to write anything that would excite her, for ten -days at least.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br/> -REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.</h2> - -<p> -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 <i>esclandre</i> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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, <i>vice</i> 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. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Levinger and Emma were the last to go. -</p> - -<p> -“You look tired, Graves,” said the former, as his trap came round. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he answered, “I never was more tired in my life. Thank -Heaven that it is done with!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it is a good business well over, and, even if you don’t -quite like the man, one that has many advantages.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad you like it, Sir Henry,” she answered, looking pleased. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -That night he dined <i>tête-à-tête</i> 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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -His mother nodded in assent, and they adjourned, Henry taking a decanter of -wine with him. -</p> - -<p> -“I think that it went off very well,” she said presently, when he -had made up the fire. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes, I suppose so. You don’t mind my smoking, do you, -mother?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry puffed at his pipe, staring into the fire, and made no answer. -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, mother, I have considered I have considered it a great deal.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“One question, Henry. Are you going to Monk’s Lodge again?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, on Friday week. I have accepted an invitation to stay there from -Friday till Tuesday, or perhaps longer.” -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -Then he re-read Joan’s wandering words very carefully, and while he did -so his eyes filled with tears. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR MADAM, -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Believe me to remain -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Very faithfully yours, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“HENRY GRAVES.” -</p> - -<p> -To Joan he wrote also as follows: -</p> - -<p> -“DEAREST JOAN, -</p> - -<p> -“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, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Believe me -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Most affectionately yours, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“HENRY GRAVES.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well: give him this to post at Bradmouth, and tell him to be -careful not to lose it, and not to be late.” -</p> - -<p> -The butler went, and presently Henry caught sight of his messenger cantering -down the drive. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, my dear boy, what’s the matter with you?” she said, -starting as he bent over her. “You look so disturbed.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Go on,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I am going to marry another woman, mother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Going to marry another woman?” she repeated, bewildered. -“Whom? Is it that girl?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, mother, it is she Joan Haste. You remember a conversation that we -had shortly after my father’s death?” -</p> - -<p> -She bowed her head in assent. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves took the letters and perused them carefully, reading them twice -from end to end. Then she handed them back to her son. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you understand now, mother?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Perfectly, Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“And do you still think that I am wrong in determining to marry Joan -Haste whom I love?” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br/> -THE GATE OF PARADISE.</h2> - -<p> -For some days Lady Graves was completely prostrated by this new and terrible -misfortune, which, following as it did hard upon the hope of happier things, -seemed to her utterly overwhelming. She dared not even trust herself to see her -son, but kept her room, sending a message to him to say that she was unwell and -did not wish to be disturbed. For his part Henry avoided the house as much as -possible. As it chanced, he had several invitations to shoot during this -particular week, one of them coupled with an engagement to dine and sleep; and -of all of these he availed himself, though they brought him little enjoyment. -On the third morning after he had posted his letter, there came a short answer -from Mrs. Bird, stating that Joan would be well enough to see him on the -following Thursday or Friday; but from Joan herself he received no reply. This -note reached him on a Friday, just as he was starting to keep his aforesaid -engagement to shoot and sleep. On Saturday he returned to Rosham to find that -his mother had gone to town, leaving a note of explanation to be given to him. -The note said:— -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR HENRY,— -</p> - -<p> -“I am going to London to stay for a few days with my old friend and your -godmother, Lady Norse. Circumstances that have recently arisen make it -necessary that I should consult with the lawyers, to see if it is possible for -me to recover any of the sums that from time to time have been expended upon -this estate out of my private fortune. I am not avaricious, but if I can obtain -some slight provision for my remaining years, of course I must do so; and I -desire that my claim should be made out legally, so as to entitle me to rank as -a creditor in the bankruptcy proceedings which are now, I suppose, inevitable. -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“Your affectionate mother, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“E. GRAVES.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry put the letter into his pocket with a sigh. Like everything else, it was -sad and humiliating; but he was not sorry to find that his mother had gone, for -he had no more wish to meet her just now than she had to meet him. Then he -began to wonder if he ought to take any steps to advise Mr. Levinger of his -intentions, so that the mortgagee might proceed to recover such portion of the -capital advanced as the assets would realise. On the whole he determined to let -the matter be for a while. He was sick to death of arguments, reproaches, and -affairs; it would be time enough to face these and other disagreeables when he -had seen Joan and was about to marry her, or had already done so. There was no -pressing need for hurry. By Mr. Levinger’s help arrangements had been -made under which the vacant farms were being carried on for the present, and he -had a little money in hand. He remembered, indeed, that he was engaged to stay -at Monk’s Lodge on the following Friday. Well, he could telegraph from -London making his apologies and saying that he was detained in town by -business, which would save the necessity of writing an explanatory letter. One -step he did take, however: he wrote to an old messmate of his who held an -under-secretaryship in the Government, explaining the condition of the estate -to which he had succeeded, and asking him to interest himself to obtain him a -consulship, no matter how remote, or any other suitable employment. Also he put -himself in communication with the Admiralty, to arrange for the commutation of -his pension, which of course was not liable for his father’s debts, so -that he might have some cash in hand wherewith to start in married life. Then -he composed himself to wait quietly at Rosham till the following Friday, when -he purposed to go to town. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves’s note to Henry was true in substance, but it was not the -whole truth. She was still an able and an energetic woman, and her mind had not -been idle during those days when she kept her room, refusing to see her son. On -the contrary, she considered the position in all its bearings, recalling every -word of her interviews with Henry, and of Joan’s letter to him, no -sentence of which had escaped her memory. After much thinking she came to a -conclusion namely, that while it would be absolutely useless to make any -further attempt to turn Henry from his purpose, it was by no means certain that -the girl herself could not be appealed to with success. She recollected that, -according to Henry’s story, Joan had all along declined to entertain the -idea of marrying him, and that even in the mad rhapsody which Mrs. Bird had -forwarded, she stated that she could never suffer such a thing, because it -would mean his ruin. Of course, as she was well aware, should these two once -meet it was probable, it was almost certain, that Joan Haste would be persuaded -to retract her self-denying ordinance, and to allow herself to be made -Henry’s wife and a respectable member of society. The woman who was so -circumstanced and did otherwise would be more than human, seeing that her own -honour and the honour of her child were at stake, and that consent meant social -advancement to her, and the lifelong gratification of a love which, however -guilty it might have been in its beginning, was evidently sincere. But if she -could be appealed to <i>before</i> they met, it might be different. At any rate -it seemed to Lady Graves that the experiment was worth trying. -</p> - -<p> -Should she be justified in making such an appeal? This girl had been wronged, -and she had rights: could she then be asked to forego those rights? Lady Graves -answered the question in the affirmative. She was not a hard and worldly woman, -like her daughter, nor was she careful of her own advantage in this matter, but -her dead husband’s wishes were sacred to her and she had her son’s -best interests at heart. Moreover, she was of opinion, with Ellen, that a man -has no right to undo his family, and bring the struggle of generations to an -inglorious end, in order that he may gratify a personal passion or even fulfil -a personal duty. It was better that this girl should be wronged, if indeed she -was wronged, and that Henry should suffer some remorse and shame, than that a -day should come when others would learn that the family had been ousted of its -place and heritage because he had chosen to pay a debt of honour at their -expense. -</p> - -<p> -The reasoning may have been faulty, and perhaps Lady Graves was not the person -to give judgment upon a case in which she was so deeply interested; but, such -as it was, it carried conviction to her mind, and she determined to act upon -it. There was but one way to do this, to see the girl face to face, for she -would trust nothing to letters. She had learned through Thomson the butler that -Henry was not going to town for some days, and she must be beforehand with him. -She had Joan’s address that is, she had seen it at the head of Mrs. -Bird’s letter, and she would take the chance of her being well enough to -receive her. It was a forlorn hope, and one that Lady Graves had no liking for; -still, for the sake of all that had been and of all that might be, she made up -her mind to lead it. -</p> - -<p> -Henry’s letter reached Kent Street in due course, and when she had read -it Mrs. Bird was a proud and happy woman. She also had led a forlorn hope, and -never in her wildest moments had she dreamed that the enemy would capitulate -thus readily. She could scarcely believe her eyes: the wicked baronet, the -penny-novel villain of her imaginings, had proved himself to be an amenable -creature, and as well-principled as any common man; indeed, she gathered, -although he did not say so in as many words, that actually he meant to marry -the victim of his vices. Mrs. Bird was dumfoundered; she read and re-read -Henry’s note, then she examined the enclosure addressed to Joan, holding -it to the light and trying to peep beneath the edges of the envelope, to see if -perchance she could not win some further word of comfort. So great was her -curiosity, indeed, that she looked with longing at the kettle boiling on the -hearth, wondering if she would not be justified in reducing the gum upon the -envelope to a condition that would enable her to peruse the writing within -before she handed it seemingly inviolate to Joan. But at this point conscience -came to her rescue and triumphed over her curiosity, devouring as it was. -</p> - -<p> -When first she read Henry’s letter she had determined that in the -interests of Joan’s health the enclosure must not be given to her for -some days, but by degrees she modified this decision. Joan was out of danger -now, and the doctor said that she might read anything; surely, therefore, it -would be safe for her to peruse this particular sheet of paper. Accordingly, -when the nurse came down to say that her patient was awake after her morning -sleep, and that if Mrs. Bird would sit with her, she proposed to take a walk in -the Park till dinner-time, the little woman hurried upstairs with the precious -document in her pocket. Joan, who was sitting on the sofa, received her with a -smile, and held up her face to be kissed. -</p> - -<p> -“How are you this morning, my dear?” she asked, putting her head on -one side and surveying her critically. -</p> - -<p> -“I feel stronger than I have for weeks,” answered Joan; -“indeed, I believe that I am quite well again now, thanks to you and all -your kindness.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think that you are strong enough to read a letter, -dear?—because I have one for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“A letter?” said Joan anxiously: “who has taken the trouble -to write to me? Mr. Levinger?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird shook her head and looked mysterious. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! don’t torment me,” cried Joan; “give it -me—give it me at once.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Mrs. Bird put her hand into her pocket and produced Henry’s -enclosure. -</p> - -<p> -Joan saw the writing, and her poor white hands trembled so that she could not -unfasten the envelope. “Open it for me,” she whispered. “Oh! -I cannot see: read it to me. Quick, quick!” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be in a hurry, my dear; it won’t fly away,” said -Mrs. Bird as she took the letter. Then she put on her spectacles, cleared her -throat, and began. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Dearest Joan—’Really, my love, do you not think that -you had better read this for yourself? It seems so -very—confidential.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! I can’t; I must hear it at once. Go on, pray.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus encouraged, Mrs. Bird went on, nothing loath, till she reached the last -word of the letter. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she said, laying it upon her knees, “now, that is -what I call behaving like a gentleman. At any rate, my dear, you have been -lucky in falling into the hands of such a man, for some would not have treated -you so well, having begun wicked they would have gone on wickeder. Why, good -gracious! what’s the matter with the girl? She’s fainted, I do -believe.” And she ran to get water, reproaching herself the while for her -folly in letting Joan have the letter while she was still so weak. By the time -that she returned with the water, the necessity for it had gone by. Joan had -recovered, and was seated staring into vacancy, with a rapt smile upon her face -that, so thought Mrs. Bird, made her look like an angel. -</p> - -<p> -“You silly girl!” she said: “you gave me quite a turn.” -</p> - -<p> -“Give me that letter,” answered Joan. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird picked it up from the floor, where it had fallen, and handed it to -her. Joan took it and pressed it to her breast as though it were a thing alive -much, indeed, as a mother may be seen to press her new-born infant when the -fear and agony are done with and love and joy remain. For a while she sat thus -in silence, holding the letter to her heart, then she spoke:—— -</p> - -<p> -“I do not suppose that I shall ever marry him, but I don’t care -now: whatever comes I have had my hour, and after this and the rest I can never -quite lose him—no, not through all eternity.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk nonsense, Joan,” said Mrs. Bird, who did not -understand what she meant. “Not marry him, indeed!— why -shouldn’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because something is sure to prevent it. Besides, it would be wrong of -me to do so. Letting other things alone, he must marry a rich woman, not a -penniless girl like me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! stuff and nonsense with your ‘rich woman’: the man -who’ll go for money when he can get love isn’t worth a row of pins, -say I; and this one isn’t of that sort, or he would never have written -such a letter.” -</p> - -<p> -“He can get both love and money,” answered Joan; “and it -isn’t for himself that he wants the money—it is to save his family. -He had an elder brother who brought them to ruin, and now he’s got to set -them up again by taking the girl who holds the mortgages, and who is in love -with him, as his wife—at least, I believe that’s the story, though -he never told it me himself.” -</p> - -<p> -“A pretty kettle of fish, I am sure. Now look here, Joan, don’t you -talk silly, but listen to me, who am older than you are and have seen more. It -isn’t for me to blame you, but, whatever was the truth of it, -you’ve done what isn’t right, and you know it. Well, it has pleased -God to be kind to you and to show you a way out of a mess that most girls never -get clear of. Yes, you can become an honest woman again, and have the man you -love as a husband, which is more than you deserve perhaps. What I have to say -is this: don’t you be a fool and cut your own throat. These money matters -are all very well, but you have got nothing to do with them. You get married, -Joan, and leave the rest to luck; it will come right in the end. If -there’s one thing that’s more of a vanity than any other in this -wide world, it is scheming and plotting about fortunes and estates and -suchlike, and in nine cases out of ten the woman who goes sacrificing herself -to put cash into her lover’s pocket or her own either for that matter -does him no good in the long run, but just breaks her heart for nothing, and -his too very likely. There, that’s my advice to you, Joan; and I tell you -that if I thought that you would go on as you have begun and make this man a -bad wife, I shouldn’t be the one to give it. But I don’t think -that, dear. No; I believe that you would be as good as gold to him, and that -he’d never regret marrying you, even though he is a baronet and you are -what you are.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! indeed I would,” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t say ‘indeed I would,’ dear; say ‘indeed I -shall,’ and mind you stick to it. And now I hear the nurse coming back, -and it is time for me to go and see about your dinner. Don’t you fuss and -make yourself ill again, or she won’t be able to go away to-morrow, you -know. I shall just write to this gentleman and say that he can come and see you -about next Friday; so mind, you’ve got to be well by then. -Good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -Weak as she was still from illness, when her first wild joy had passed a great -bewilderment took possession of Joan. -</p> - -<p> -As her body had been brought back to the fulness of life from the very pit of -death, so the magic of Henry’s letter changed the blackness of her -despair to a dawn of hope, by contrast so bright that it dazzled her mind. She -had no recollection of writing the letter to which Henry alluded; indeed, had -she been herself she would never have written it, and even now she did not know -what she had told him or what she had left untold. What she was pleased to -consider his goodness and generosity in offering to make her his wife touched -her most deeply, and she blessed him for them, but neither the secret pleading -of her love nor Mrs. Bird’s arguments convinced her that it would be -right to take advantage of them. The gate of what seemed to be an earthly -paradise was of a sudden thrown open to her feet: behind her lay solitude, -sorrow, sin and agonising shame, before her were peace, comfort, security, and -that good report which every civilised woman must desire; but ought she to -enter by that gate? A warning instinct answered “No,” and yet she -had not strength to shut it. Why should she, indeed? If she might judge the -future from the past, Fate would do her that disservice; such happiness could -not be for one so wicked. Yet till the blow fell she might please her fancy by -standing upon the threshold of her heaven, and peopling the beyond with unreal -glories which her imagination furnished without stay or stint. She was still -too weak to struggle against the glamour of these visions, for that they could -become realities Joan did not believe, rather did she submit herself to them, -and satisfy her soul with a false but penetrating delight, such as men grasp in -dreams. Of only one thing was she sure that Henry loved her and in that -knowledge, so deep was her folly, she found reward for all she had undergone, -or that could by any possibility be left for her to undergo; for had he not -loved her, as she believed, he would never have offered to marry her. He loved -her, and she would see him; then things must take their chance, meanwhile she -would rest and be content. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br/> -THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.</h2> - -<p> -While Lady Graves was standing at the Bradmouth station on that Saturday in -November, waiting for the London train, she saw a man whose face she knew and -who saluted her with much humility. He was dressed in a semi-clerical fashion, -in clothes made of smooth black cloth, and he wore a broad wide-awake, the only -spot of colour about him being a neck scarf of brilliant red, whereof the -strange incongruity caught and offended her eye. For a long time she puzzled -herself with endeavours to recollect who this individual might be. He did not -look like a farmer; and it was obvious that he could not belong to the -neighbouring clergy, since no parson in his senses would wear such a tie. -Finally Lady Graves concluded that he must be a dissenting minister, and -dismissed the matter from her mind. At Liverpool Street, however, she saw him -again, although he tried to avoid her, or so she thought; and then it flashed -across her that this person was Mr. Samuel Rock of Moor Farm, and she wondered -vaguely what his business in London could be. -</p> - -<p> -Had Lady Graves possessed the gift of clairvoyance she would have wondered -still more, for Mr. Rock’s business was curiously connected with her own, -seeing that he also had journeyed to town, for the first time in his life, in -order to obtain an interview with Joan Haste, whose address he had purchased at -so great a price on the previous day. As yet he had no very clear idea of what -he should say or do when he found himself in Joan’s presence. He knew -only that he was driven to seek that presence by a desire which he was -absolutely unable to control. He loved Joan, not as other men love, but with -all the strength and virulence of his distempered nature; and this love, or -passion, or incipient insanity, drew him to her with as irresistible a force as -a magnet draws the fragment of steel that is brought within its influence. Had -he known her to be at the uttermost ends of the earth, it would have drawn him -thither; and though he was timid and fearful of the vengeance of Heaven, there -was no danger that he would not have braved, and no crime which he would not -have committed, that he might win her to himself. -</p> - -<p> -Till he learned to love Joan Samuel Rock had been as free from all human -affections as it is possible for a man to be; there was no one creature for -whom he cared, and, though he was naturally passionate, his interests and his -strict religious training had kept him from giving way to the excesses that in -secret he brooded over and desired. During his early manhood all his energies -had been devoted to moneymaking, and in the joy of amassing wealth and of -overreaching his fellows in every kind of legitimate business he found -consolation for the absence of all that in the case of most men makes life -worth living. Then on one evil day he met Joan, grown from a child into a most -lovely woman; and that which he had hidden in his heart arose suddenly and -asserted itself, so that from this hour he became a slave bound to the -chariot-wheels of a passion over which he had lost command. The rebuffs that he -had received at her hands served only to make the object of his affections -dearer and more desirable in his eyes, while the gnawing ache of jealousy and -the daily torment of long-continued disappointment drove him by slow degrees to -the very edge of madness. She hated him, he knew, as he knew that she loved his -rival; but if only he could see her, things might yet go well with him, or if -they did not, at least he would have seen her. -</p> - -<p> -But of all this Lady Graves was ignorant, and, had she known it, anxious though -she was to win her end, it is probable that she would have shrunk from an -enterprise which, if successful, must expose Joan Haste to the persecution of -such a man as Samuel Rock, and might end in delivering her into his hands. -</p> - -<p> -On the following afternoon—it was Sunday—Lady Graves informed her -hostess that she was going to visit a friend, and, declining the offer of the -carriage, walked to the corner of the square, where she chartered a -four-wheeled cab, directing the driver to take her to Kent Street. As they -crawled up the Edgware Road she let down the window of the cab and idly watched -the stream of passers-by. Presently she started, for among the hundreds of -faces she caught sight of that of Mr. Samuel Rock. It was pale, and she noticed -that as he went the man was muttering to himself and glancing at the corner of -a street, as though he were seeking some turn with which he was not familiar. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder what that person is doing here,” she thought to herself; -“positively he seems to haunt me.” Then the cab went on, and -presently drew up in front of No. 8, Kent Street. -</p> - -<p> -“What a squalid-looking place!” Lady Graves reflected, while she -paid the man and rang the bell. -</p> - -<p> -As it chanced, Mrs. Bird was out and the door was answered by the little -serving girl, who, in reply to the question of whether Miss Haste was in, said -“Yes” without hesitation and led the way upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -“Some one to see you,” she said, opening the door in front of Lady -Graves and almost simultaneously shutting it behind her. -</p> - -<p> -Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to read a -book, rose instinctively at the words, and stared at her veiled and -stately-looking visitor. -</p> - -<p> -“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of -coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a chair. At -the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that the blow -which she dreaded was about to fall, and that Henry’s mother came as a -messenger of ill. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence. -</p> - -<p> -“I trust that you are better,” she said at length. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you, or retard -your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your permission, upon -a very delicate and important matter.” -</p> - -<p> -Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need -only allude to one namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you his wife, -as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right to expect,” -and she paused. -</p> - -<p> -“Please go on,” murmured Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“I am here,” she continued hesitatingly, “to submit some -questions to your consideration; but pray understand that my son knows nothing -of this visit, and that I have not come to reproach you in any way. We are all -human and liable to fall into temptation, though our temptations vary with age, -disposition and other circumstances: it is quite possible, for instance, that -in speaking to you thus I am at this moment yielding to a temptation which I -ought to resist. Perhaps I am right in supposing that it is your intention to -accept my son’s offer of marriage?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have not made up my mind, Lady Graves.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” she answered, with a faint smile, “you will doubtless -make it up when you see him, if you do see him. I think that I may take it for -granted that, unless what I have to say to you should change your views, you -will very shortly be married to Sir Henry Graves.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you do not wish that,” said Joan: “indeed, how can -you wish it, seeing what I am, and his reason for asking me to marry him?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I do not wish it, though not altogether for these reasons. You are a -very beautiful woman and a sweet one, and I have no doubt but that you could -soon learn to fill any position which he might be able to give you, with credit -to yourself and to him. As for the rest, he is as much to blame as you are, and -therefore owes you reparation, so I will say no more upon that point. My -reasons are simple and to a certain extent selfish, but I think that they will -appeal to you. I believe that you love Henry. Well, if you marry him you will -bring this man whom you love to the most irretrievable ruin. I do not know if -you have heard of it, but the place where he lives, and where his ancestors -have lived for three centuries before him, is deeply encumbered. Should he -marry a girl without means it must be sold, leaving us all, not only beggars, -but bankrupt. I will not insult you by supposing that the fact that you would -find yourself in the painful position of the penniless wife of a person of -nominal rank can influence you one way or another, but I do hope that the -thought of the position in which he would find himself may influence you. He -would be driven from his home, his name would be tarnished, and he would be -left burdened with a wife and family, and without a profession, to seek such a -living as chance might offer to him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know all this,” said Joan quietly; “but have you quite -considered my side of the question, Lady Graves? You seem to have heard the -facts: have you thought, then, in what state <i>I</i> shall be left if I refuse -the offer that Sir Henry has so generously made to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless,” answered Lady Graves confusedly—“forgive -me for speaking of it—adequate provision, the best possible, would be -made——” -</p> - -<p> -She stopped, for Joan held up her hand in warning, and said: “If you are -going to offer me money compensation, I may as well tell you at once, it is the -one thing that I shall not be able to forgive you. Also, where is the provision -to come from? Do you wish to endow me with Miss Levinger’s money? I have -not sunk to that, Lady Graves.” -</p> - -<p> -“I ask your pardon,” she answered; “it is so terribly hard to -deal with such a subject without giving offence. Believe me, I have considered -your side of the question, and my heart bleeds for you, for I am asking more of -you than any one has a right to ask of a woman placed in your position. Indeed, -I come to you as a suppliant, not for justice, but for pity; to implore you, in -the name of the love which you bear my son, to save him from himself yes, even -at the cost of your own ruin.” -</p> - -<p> -“You put things plainly, Lady Graves; but how if he loves me? In that -event will it be any real kindness to save him from himself? Naturally I do not -wish to sacrifice my life for nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will be a kindness, Miss Haste, if not to him, at any rate to his -family. To the chance that a man in after years might learn to dislike, or even -to hate the woman who has been forced upon him as a wife under such painful -circumstances, I will only allude; for, although it is a common experience -enough, it is possible, indeed I think that it is probable, that such a thing -would never arise in your case. If he loves you, in my opinion he should -sacrifice that love upon the altar of his duty; he has sinned, and it is right -that he should suffer for his sin, as you have already suffered. Although I am -his mother, Miss Haste, for Henry I have little sympathy in this matter; my -sympathy is for you and you alone!” -</p> - -<p> -“You spoke of his family, Lady Graves: a man is not his family. Surely -his duty is towards himself, and not towards the past and the future.” -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot agree with you. The duty of a man placed as Henry is, is -chiefly owing to the house which for some few years he represents—in -which, indeed, he has but a brief life interest—and to the name that has -descended to him. The step which he contemplates would bring both to -destruction; also it would bring me, his mother, who have given my all to -bolster up the fortunes of his family, to utter penury in my old age. But of -that I do not complain; I am well schooled in trouble, and it makes little -difference to me in what fashion I drag out my remaining years. I plead, Miss -Haste, not for myself and not for my son Henry, but for his forefathers and his -descendants, and the home that for three centuries has been theirs. Do you know -how his father, my beloved husband, died? He died broken-hearted, because in -his last moments he learned that his only surviving son purposed to sacrifice -all these on your account. Therefore although he is dead I plead for him also. -Putting Henry out of the account, this is the plain issue, Miss Haste: are you -to be deserted, or is Rosham to be sold and are the members of the family into -which I have married to be turned out upon the world bankrupt and -dishonoured?” -</p> - -<p> -“Putting myself aside, Lady Graves, is your son to suffer for -difficulties that he did not create? Did he spend the money which if it is not -repaid will make him a bankrupt? Indeed, will <i>he</i> be made a bankrupt at -all? Was he not earning his living in a profession which his family forced him -to abandon, in order that he might take these troubles upon his own shoulders, -and put an end to them by bartering himself in marriage to a rich lady for whom -he has no affection?” -</p> - -<p> -“These things are true; but still I say that he must suffer, and for the -reasons that I have given.” -</p> - -<p> -“You say that, Lady Graves, but what you mean is that he will <i>not</i> -suffer. I will put your thoughts into words: you think that your son has been -betrayed by me into a troublesome position, from which most men would escape -simply enough—namely, by deserting the woman. As it chances, he is so -foolish that, when he has heard of her trouble, he refuses to do this from a -mistaken sense of honour. So you come to appeal to that fallen and unfortunate -woman, although it must be an insult to you to be obliged even to speak to her, -and because you are kind-hearted, you say that your son must suffer. How must -he suffer according to your view? His punishment will be, firstly, that at the -cost of some passing pain he escapes from a disgraceful marriage with a -nameless girl—a half-lady—born of nobody knows whom and bred up in -a public-house, with such results that on the first opportunity she follows her -mother’s example; and secondly, that he must marry a sweet and beautiful -lady who will bring him love as well as fortune, and having shaken himself -clear from trouble of every sort, live happy and honoured in the position that -he has inherited. And if, as you wish, I inflict all this upon him by refusing -to marry him, what will be my reward? A life of shame and remorse for myself -and my unborn child, till at length I die of a broken heart, or -perhaps——” And she stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! how can I ask it of you?” broke in Lady Graves. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not know—that is a matter for your own conscience; but you -have asked it, understanding all that it means to me. Well, Lady Graves, I will -do as you wish, I will not accept your son’s offer. He never made me a -promise of marriage, and I never asked or expected any. Whatever I have done I -did for love of him, and it was my fault, not his—or as much my fault as -his—and I must pay the price. I love him so well that I sacrifice my -child and myself, that I put him out of my life—yes, and give him to the -arms of my rival”—and Joan made a movement with her hands as though -to push away some unseen presence. -</p> - -<p> -“You are a very noble woman,” said Lady Graves—“so -noble that my mind misgives me; and notwithstanding all that I have said, I am -inclined to ask you to forget that promise and let things take their chance. -Whatever may have been your faults, no man could do wrong to marry such a -wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no—I have promised, and there’s an end; and may God have -mercy on me, for He alone knows how I shall perform what now I undertake! -Forgive me, your ladyship, but I am very tired.” -</p> - -<p> -Then her visitor rose. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear girl,” she said, “my dear, dear girl, in asking all -this of you I have done only what I believed to be my duty; and should you, on -reflection, come to any different conclusion from that which you have just -expressed, I can only say that I for one shall not blame you, and that, -whatever the event, you will always have me for your friend.” And, moved -to it by a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed Joan upon the forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to -me. Do not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same -mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she -left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I -had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for the best. -Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house! What can he be looking -for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and manner remind me of a cat -watching a caged bird.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her hands to her -head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a scene out of a -book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an end sooner -than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it matter? And now what am I -to do?” She thought a while, then went to the table and began to write. -She wrote thus:— -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR SIR HENRY,— -</p> - -<p> -“I have received your letter, but could not answer it before because I -was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in it, but it is not to be -thought of that a gentleman in your position should marry a poor girl like me; -and, if you did, I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing -that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems, -from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I -remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since -people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be -glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see -anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me. -I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon -as I can get about. Thanking you again, -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“Believe me -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Your affectionate      -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“JOAN. -</p> - -<p> -“P.S. You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is -very <i>romantic.</i> I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were -to take you at your word. ‘Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a -shop-girl!” -</p> - -<p> -Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle, -with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art—indeed, just -the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be -expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished -to see no more. -</p> - -<p> -“There,” she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy, -“if that does not disgust him with me, I don’t know what will. Bah! -It makes me sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have -to write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep it up for -long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till you are -married, dear.” And she rested her head, that now was clustered over with -little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept bitterly, till she heard the -girl coming up with her tea, when she dried her eyes and sent her letter to the -post. -</p> - -<p> -Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br/> -THE GATE OF HELL.</h2> - -<p> -On the afternoon of the day following the interview between Lady Graves and -Joan, it occurred to Henry, who chanced to be in Bradmouth, that he might as -well call at the post-office to get any letters which had been despatched from -London on the Sunday. There was but one, and, recognising the handwriting on -the envelope, he read it eagerly as he sat upon his horse. -</p> - -<p> -Twice did he read it, then he put it in his pocket and rode homewards -wondering, for as yet he could scarcely believe that it had been written by -Joan Haste. There was nothing in the letter itself that he could find fault -with, yet the tone of it disgusted him. It was vulgar and flippant. Could the -same hand have written these words and those other words, incoherent and yet so -touching, that had stirred his nature to its depths? and if so, which of them -reflected the true mind of the writer? The first letter was mad, but beautiful; -the second sane, but to his sense shocking. If it was genuine, he must conclude -that the person who penned it, desired to have done with him: but was it -genuine? He could not account for the letter, and yet he could not believe in -it; for if Joan wrote it of her own free will, then indeed he had -misinterpreted her character and thrown his pearls, such as they were, before -the feet of swine. She had been ill, she might have fallen under other -influences; he would not accept his dismissal without further proof, at any -rate until he had seen her and was in a position to judge for himself. And yet -he must send an answer of some sort. In the end he wrote thus:— -</p> -<p> -“DEAR JOAN,— -</p> - -<p> -“I have received your note, and I tell you frankly that I cannot -understand it. You say that you do not wish to marry me, which, unless I have -altogether misunderstood the situation (as may be the case), seems -incomprehensible to me. I still purpose to come to town on Friday, when I hope -that you will be well enough to see me and to talk this matter over. -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“Affectionately yours, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“HENRY GRAVES.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan received this note in due course of post. -</p> - -<p> -“Just what I expected,” she thought: “how good he is! Most -people would have had nothing more to do with me after that horrid, common -letter. How am I to meet him if he comes? I cannot—simply I cannot. I -should tell him all the truth, and where would my promise be then! If I see him -I shall marry him—that is, if he wishes it. I must not see him, I must go -away; but where can I go? Oh! Heaven help me, for I cannot help myself!” -</p> - -<p> -The journey to London had not changed Mr. Samuel Rock’s habits, which it -will be remembered were of a furtive nature. When Lady Graves saw him on the -Sunday, he was employed in verifying the information as to Joan’s address -that he had obtained from Mrs. Gillingwater. Any other man would have settled -the matter by inquiring at No. 8 as to whether or not she lived there, but he -preferred to prowl up and down in the neighbourhood of the house till chance -assured him of the fact. -</p> - -<p> -As it happened, Fortune favoured him from the outset, for if Lady Graves saw -him, he also saw her as she left the house, and was not slow to draw -conclusions from her visit, though what its exact object might be he could not -imagine. One thing was clear, however: Mrs. Gillingwater had not lied, since to -suppose that by the merest coincidence Lady Graves was calling at this -particular house for some purpose unconnected with Joan Haste, was an idea too -improbable to be entertained. Still his suspicious mind was not altogether -satisfied: for aught he knew Joan had left the place, or possibly she might be -dead. In his desire to solve his doubts on these points before he committed -himself to any overt act, Samuel returned on the Monday morning to Kent Street -from the hotel where he had taken a room, and set himself to watch the windows -of No. 8; but without results, for the fog was so thick that he could see -nothing distinctly: In the afternoon, when the fog lifted, he was more -successful, for, just as the November evening was closing in, the gas was lit -in the front room on the first floor, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of -Joan herself drawing down a blind. The sight of her filled him with a strange -rapture, and he hesitated a while as to whether he should seek an interview -with her at once, or wait until the morrow. In the end he decided upon the -latter course, both because his courage failed him at the moment, and because -he wished to think over his plan of action. -</p> - -<p> -On the Tuesday morning he returned about ten o’clock, and with many -inward tremblings rang the bell of No. 8. The door was answered by Mrs. Bird, -whom he saluted with the utmost politeness, standing on the step with his hat -off. -</p> - -<p> -“Pray, ma’am, is Miss Haste within?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir, being so ill, she has not been out for many weeks.” -</p> - -<p> -“So I have heard, ma’am; and I think that you are the lady who has -nursed her so kindly.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have done my best, sir: but what might be your errand?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wish to see her, ma’am.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird looked at him doubtfully, and shook her head, “I don’t -think that she can see any one at present—unless, indeed, you are the -gentleman from Bradmouth whom she expects.” -</p> - -<p> -An inspiration flashed into Samuel’s mind. “I am the gentleman from -Bradmouth,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -Again Mrs. Bird scanned him curiously. To her knowledge she had never set eyes -upon a baronet, but somehow Samuel did not fulfil her idea of a person of that -class. He seemed too humble, and she felt that there was something wrong about -the red tie and the broad black hat. “Perhaps he is disguising -himself,” she thought: “baronets and earls often do that in -books”; then added aloud, “Are you Sir Henry Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -By now Samuel understood that to hesitate was to lose all chance of seeing -Joan. His aim was to obtain access to the house; once there, it would be -difficult to force him to leave until he had spoken to her. After all he could -only be found out, and if he waited for another opportunity, it was obvious -that his rival, who was expected at any moment, would be beforehand with him. -Therefore he lied boldly, answering,— -</p> - -<p> -“That is my name, ma’am. Sir Henry Graves of Rosham.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird asked him into the passage and shut the door. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t think you would be here till Friday, sir,” she -said, “but I dare say that you are a little impatient, and that your -mother told you that Joan is well enough to see you now”; for Mrs. Bird -had heard of Lady Graves’s visit, though Joan had not spoken to her of -its object. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, ma’am, you are right: I am impatient very impatient.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is as it should be, sir, seeing all the lost time you have to make -up for. Well, the past is the past, and you are acting like a gentleman now, -which can never be a sorrow to you, come what may.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so, ma’am: but where is Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“She is in that room at the top of the stairs, sir. Perhaps you would -like to go to her now. I know that she is up and dressed, for I have just left -her. I do not think that I will come with you, seeing that you might feel it -awkward, both of you, if a third party was present at such a meeting. You can -tell me how you got on when you come down.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, ma’am,” said Samuel again. And then he crept up -the stairs, his heart filled with fear, hope, and raging jealousy of the man he -was personating. Arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with a trembling -hand. Joan, who was reading Henry’s note for the tenth time, heard the -knock, and having hastily hidden the paper in her pocket, said “Come -in,” thinking that it was her friend the doctor, for she had caught the -sound of a man’s voice in the passage. In another moment the door had -opened and shut again, and she was on her feet staring at her visitor with -angry, frightened eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“How did you come here, Mr. Rock?” she said in a choked voice: -“how dare you come here?” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare to come here, Joan,” he answered, with some show of -dignity, “because I love you. Oh! I beg of you, do not drive me away -until you have heard me; and indeed, it would be useless, for I shall only wait -in the street till I can speak to you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You know that I do not wish to hear you,” she answered; “and -it is cowardly of you to hunt me down when I am weak and ill, as though I were -a wild beast.” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand, Joan, that you are not too ill to see Sir Henry Graves; -surely, then, you can listen to me for a few minutes; and as for my being -cowardly, I do not care if I am though why a man should be called a coward -because he comes to ask the woman he loves to marry him, I can’t -say.” -</p> - -<p> -“To marry you!” exclaimed Joan, turning pale and sinking back into -her chair; “I thought that we had settled all that long ago, Mr. Rock, -out by the Bradmouth meres.” -</p> - -<p> -“We spoke of it, Joan, but we did not settle it. We both grew angry, and -said and did things which had best be forgotten. You swore that you would never -marry me, and I swore that you should live to beg me to marry you, for you -drove me mad with your cruel words. We were wrong, both of us; so let’s -wipe all that out, for I believe I shall marry you, Joan, and I know that you -will never plead with me to do it, nor would I wish it so. Oh! hear me, hear -me. You don’t know what I have suffered since I lost you; but I tell you -that I have been filled with all the tortures of hell; I have thought of you by -day and dreamed of you by night, till I began to believe my brain would burst -and that I must go mad, as I shall do if I lose you altogether. At last I heard -that you had been ill and got your address, and now once more I come to pray -you to take pity on me and to promise to be my wife. If only you will do that, -I swear to you I will be the best husband that ever a woman had: yes, I will -make myself your slave, and you shall want for nothing which I can give you. I -do not ask your love, I do not even ask that you should treat me kindly. Deal -with me as you will, be bitter and scornful and trample me in the dirt, and I -will be content if only you will let me live where I can see you day by day. -This isn’t a new thing with me, Joan it has gone on for years; and now it -has come to this, that either I must get the promise of you or go mad. Then do -not drive me away, but have mercy as you hope for mercy. Pity me and -consent.” And with an inarticulate sound that was half a sob and half a -groan, he flung himself upon his knees and, clasping his hands, looked up at -her with a rapt face like that of a man lost in earnest prayer. -</p> - -<p> -Joan listened, and as she listened a new and terrible idea crept into her mind. -Here, if she chose to take it if she could bring herself to take it was an easy -path out of her difficulty: here was that which would effectually cure Henry of -any desire to ruin himself by marrying her, and would put her beyond the reach -of temptation. The thought made her faint and sick, but still she entertained -it, so desperate was the case between her love and what she conceived to be her -duty. If it could be done with certain safeguards and reservations why should -it not be done? This man was in a humour to consent to anything; it was but a -question of the sacrifice of her miserable self, whereby, so they said and so -she believed, she would save her lover. In a minute she had made up her mind: -at least she would sound the man and put the matter to proof. -</p> - -<p> -“Do not kneel to me,” she said, breaking the silence; “you do -not know what sort of woman it is to whom you are grovelling. Get up, and now -listen. I love another man; and if I love another man, what do you think that -my feelings are to you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think that you hate me, but I do not mind that,—in time you -would come to care for me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I doubt it, Mr. Rock; I cannot change my heart so easily. Do you know -what terms I stand on with this man?” -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean Sir Henry Graves, I have heard plenty of all that, and I am -ready to forgive you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are very generous, Mr. Rock, but perhaps I had better explain a -little. I think it probable that, unless I change my mind, within a week I -shall be married to Sir Henry Graves.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! my God!” he groaned; “I never thought that he would -marry you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, as it happens he will—that is, if I consent. And now do you -know why?” -</p> - -<p> -He shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“Then I will tell you, so that you may understand exactly about the woman -whom you wish to make your wife. Do not think that I am putting myself in your -power, for in the first place, if you use my words against me I shall deny -them, and in the second I shall be married to Sir Henry and able to defy you. -This is the reason, Mr. Rock:” and she bent forward and told him all in a -few words, speaking in a low, clear voice. -</p> - -<p> -Samuel’s face turned livid as he heard. -</p> - -<p> -“The villain!” he muttered. “Oh! I should like to kill him. -The villain—the villain!” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk in that kind of way, Mr. Rock, or, if you wish to do -so, leave me. Why should you call him a villain, seeing that he loves me as I -love him, and is ready to marry me to-morrow? Are you prepared to do as much -now? Stop before you answer: you have not heard all the terms upon which, even -if you should still wish it, I might <i>possibly</i> consent to become your -wife, or my reason for even considering the matter, First as to the reason; it -would be that I might protect Sir Henry Graves from the results of his own good -feeling, for it cannot be to his advantage to burden his life with me, and -unless I take some such step, or die, I shall probably marry him. Now as to the -condition upon which I might consent to marry anybody else, you, for instance, -Mr. Rock: it is that I should be left alone to live here or wherever I might -select for a year from the present date, unless of my own free will I chose to -shorten the time. Do you think that you, or any other man, Mr. Rock, could -consent to take a woman upon such terms?” -</p> - -<p> -“What would happen at the end of the year?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“At the end of the year,” she answered deliberately, “if I -still lived, I should be prepared to become the faithful wife of that man, -provided, of course, that he did not attempt to violate the agreement in any -particular. If he chose to do so, I should consider the bargain at an end, and -he would never see me again.” -</p> - -<p> -“You want to drive a hard trade, Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Rock a very hard trade. But then, you see, the circumstances -are peculiar.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s too much: I can’t see my way to it, Joan!” he -exclaimed passionately. -</p> - -<p> -“I am very glad to hear that, Mr. Rock,” she answered, with evident -relief; “and I think that you are quite right. Good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel picked up his hat, and rose as though to go. -</p> - -<p> -“Shall you marry him?” he said hoarsely. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not see that I am bound to answer that question, but it is -probable, for my own sake I hope so.” -</p> - -<p> -He took a step towards the door, then turned suddenly and dashed his hat down -upon the carpet. -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t let you go to him,” he said, with an oath; -“I’ll take you upon your own terms, if you’ll give me no -better ones.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Rock: but how am I to know that you will keep those -terms?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll swear it, but if I swear, when will you marry me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Whenever you like, Mr. Rock. There’s a Bible on the table: if you -are in earnest, take it and swear, for then I know you will be afraid to break -your oath.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel picked up the book, and swore thus at her dictation: “I swear that -for a year from the date of my marrying you, Joan Haste, I will not attempt to -see you, but will leave you to go your own way without interfering with you by -word or deed, upon the condition that you have nothing to do with Sir Henry -Graves” (this sentence was Samuel’s own), “and that at the -end of the year you come to me, to be my faithful wife.” And, kissing the -book, he threw it down upon the table, adding, “And may God blast me if I -break this oath! Do you believe me now, Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“On second thoughts I am not sure that I do,” she answered, with a -contemptuous smile, “for I think that the man who can take that vow would -also break it. But if you do break it, remember what I tell you, that you will -see no more of me. After all, this is a free country, Mr. Rock, and even though -I become your wife in name, you cannot force me to live with you. There is one -more thing: I will not be married to you in a church, I will be married before -a registrar, if at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose that you must have your own way about that too, Joan; though -it seems an unholy thing not to ask Heaven’s blessing on us.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is likely to be little enough blessing about the business,” -she answered; then added, touched by compunction: “You had best leave it -alone, Mr. Rock; it is wicked and wrong from beginning to end, and you know -that I don’t love you, nor ever shall, and the reasons why I consent to -take you. Be wise and have done with me, and find some other woman who has no -such history who will care for you and make you a good wife.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus14"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig14.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Samuel picked up the book, and swore… -at her dictation.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“No, Joan; you have promised to do that much when the time comes, and I -believe you. No other woman could make up to me for the loss of you, not if she -were an angel.” -</p> - -<p> -“So be it, then,” she answered; “but do not blame me if you -are unhappy afterwards, for I have warned you, and however much I may try to do -my duty, it can’t make up to a man for the want of love. And now, when is -it to be?” -</p> - -<p> -“You said whenever I liked, Joan, and I say the sooner we are married the -sooner the year of waiting will be over. If it can be done, to-morrow or the -next day, as I think for you have been living a long while in this parish I -will go and make arrangements and come to tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t do that, Mr. Rock, as I can’t talk any more to-day. -Send me a telegram. And now good-bye: I want to rest.” -</p> - -<p> -He waited for her to offer him her hand, but she did not do so. Then he turned -and went, walking so softly that until she heard the front door close Mrs. Bird -was unaware that he had left the room above. Throwing down her work she ran -upstairs, for her curiosity would not allow her to delay. Joan was seated on -the sofa staring out of the window, with wide-opened eyes and a face so set -that it might have been cut in stone. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, my dear,” said the little woman, “so you have seen Sir -Henry, and I hope that you have arranged everything satisfactorily?” -</p> - -<p> -Joan heard and smiled; even then it struck her as ludicrous that Mrs. Bird -could possibly mistake Samuel Rock for Sir Henry Graves. But she did not -attempt to undeceive her, since to do so would have involved long explanations, -on which at the moment she had neither the wish nor the strength to enter; -moreover, she was sure that Mrs. Bird would disapprove of this strange contract -and oppose it with all her force. Even then, however, she could not help -reflecting how oddly things had fallen out. It was as though some superior -power were smoothing away every difficulty, and, to fulfil secret motives of -its own, was pushing her into this hideous and shameful union. For instance, -though she had never considered it, had not Mrs. Bird fatuously taken it for -granted that her visitor must be Sir Henry and no other man, it was probable -that she would have found means to prevent him from seeing her, or, failing -that, she would have put a stop upon the project by communicating with Henry. -For a moment Joan was tempted to tell her the truth and let her do what she -would, in the hope that she might save her from herself. But she resisted the -desire, and answered simply,— -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; I shall probably be married to-morrow or the next day.” -</p> - -<p> -“To-morrow!” ejaculated Mrs. Bird, holding up her hands. -“Why, you haven’t even got a dress ready.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can do without that,” she replied, “especially as the -ceremony is to be before a registrar.” -</p> - -<p> -“Before a registrar, Joan! Why, if I did such a thing I should never feel -half married; besides, it’s wicked.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps,” said Joan, smiling again; “but it is the only -fashion in which it can be arranged, and it will serve our turn. By the way, -shall you mind if I come back to live here afterwards?” -</p> - -<p> -“What, with your husband? There would not be room for two of you; -besides, a baronet could never put up with a place like this.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, without him. We are going to keep separate for a year.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Bird, “what an extraordinary -arrangement!” -</p> - -<p> -“There are difficulties, Mrs. Bird, and it is the only one that we could -come to. I suppose that I can stay on?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! yes, if you like; but really I do not understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t explain just at present, dear,” said Joan gently. -“I am too tired; you will know all about it soon.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” thought Mrs. Bird, as she left the room, “somehow I -don’t like that baronet so much as I did. It is all so odd and secret. I -hope that he doesn’t mean to deceive Joan with a false marriage and then -to desert her. I have heard of people of rank doing such things. But if he -tries it on he will have to reckon with me.” -</p> - -<p> -That afternoon Joan received the following telegram: “All arranged. Will -call for you at two the day after to-morrow. Samuel.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br/> -THE OPENING OF THE GATE.</h2> - -<p> -It was a quarter to two on the Thursday and Joan, dressed in the black silk -gown that she used to wear when on duty at Messrs. Black & Parker’s, -awaited the arrival of her intended husband in the little sitting-room, where -presently Mrs. Bird joined her, attired in a lilac dress and a bonnet with -white flowers and long tulle strings. -</p> - -<p> -“What, my dear, are you going to be married in black? Pray don’t: -it is so unlucky.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the best dress that I have,” answered Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“There is the pretty grey one.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she replied hastily, “I will not wear that. Besides, -the black one is more suitable.” -</p> - -<p> -“Joan, Joan,” cried Mrs. Bird, “is everything right? You -don’t look as you ought to not a bit happy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite right, thank you,” she answered, with an unmoved -countenance. “I have been shut up for so long that the idea of going out -upsets me a little, that is all.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Mrs. Bird collapsed and sat silent, but Joan, moving to the window, looked -down the street. The sight was not an inspiriting one, for it was a wet and -miserable afternoon even for London in November, and the rain trickled -ceaselessly down the dirty window-panes. Presently through the mist Joan saw a -four-wheeled cab advancing towards the house. -</p> - -<p> -“Come,” she said, “here it is.” And she put on a heavy -cloak over her other wrappings. -</p> - -<p> -At the door she paused for a moment, as though her resolution failed her; then -passed downstairs with a steady step. Mr. Rock was already in the passage -inquiring for her from Maria. -</p> - -<p> -“Here I am,” she said; “let us go at once. I am afraid of -catching cold if I stand about.” -</p> - -<p> -Apparently Samuel was too much taken aback to make any answer, and in another -minute they were all three in the cab driving towards the nearest registry. -</p> - -<p> -“I managed it all right, Joan,” he said, bending forward and -raising his voice to make himself heard above the rattling of the crazy cab. -“I was only just in time, though, for I had to give forty-eight -hours’ clear notice at the registry, and to make all sorts of affidavits -about your age, and as to your having been resident in the parish for more than -fifteen days.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan received this information in silence, and nothing more was said until they -arrived at the office. -</p> - -<p> -From that moment till the end of the ceremony, so far as her immediate -surroundings were concerned, Joan’s mind was very much of a blank. She -remembered, indeed, standing before a pleasant-looking gentleman with gold -spectacles and a bald head, who asked her certain questions which she answered. -She remembered also that Samuel put a ring upon her finger, for she noticed how -his long white hands shook as he did so, and their hateful touch for a few -instants stirred her from her lethargy. Then there arose in her mind a vision -of herself standing on a golden summer afternoon by the ruins of an ancient -church, and of one who spoke to her, and whom she must never see again. The -vision passed, and she signed something. While her pen was yet upon the paper, -she heard Mrs. Bird exclaim, in a shrill, excited voice,— -</p> - -<p> -“I forbid it. There’s fraud here, as I believed all along. I -thought that he used the wrong name, and now he’s gone and signed -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean, madam?” asked the registrar. “Pray explain -yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean that he is deceiving this poor girl into a false marriage. His -name is Sir Henry Graves, Bart., and he has signed himself there Samuel -Rock.” -</p> - -<p> -“The good lady is under a mistake,” explained Samuel, clasping his -hands and writhing uncomfortably: “my name is Rock, and I am a farmer, -not a baronet.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I must say, sir,” answered the registrar, “that you -look as little like the one as the other. But this is a serious matter, so -perhaps your wife will clear it up. She ought to know who and what you are, if -anybody does.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is Mr. Samuel Rock, of the Moor Farm, Bradmouth,” Joan -answered, in an impassive voice. “My friend here is mistaken. Sir Henry -Graves is quite a different person.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Bird heard, and sank into a chair speechless, nor did she utter another -syllable until she found herself at home again. Then the business went on, and -presently the necessary certificates, of which Samuel was careful to obtain -certified copies, were filled in and signed, and the party left the office. -</p> - -<p> -“There’s something odd about that affair,” said the registrar -to his assistant as he entered the amount of the fee received in a ledger, -“and I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Rock make their -appearance in the Courts before they are much older. However, all the papers -are in order, so they can’t blame me. What a pretty woman she is! but she -looked very sad and ill.” -</p> - -<p> -In the waiting-room of the office Joan held out her hand to Samuel, and said, -“Good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mayn’t I see you home?” he asked piteously. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head and answered, “On this day year, if I am alive, you -may see as much of me as you like, but till then we are strangers,” and -she moved towards the door. -</p> - -<p> -He stretched out his arms as though to embrace her; but, followed by the -bewildered Mrs. Bird, she swept past him, and soon they were driving back to -Kent Street, leaving Samuel standing bare-headed upon the pavement in the rain, -and gazing after her. -</p> - -<p> -In the passage of No. 8, Sally was waiting to present Joan with a bouquet of -white flowers, that she had found no opportunity to give her as she went out. -Joan took the flowers and, bending down, kissed the dumb child; and that kiss -was the only touch of nature in all the nefarious and unnatural business of her -marriage. Mrs. Bird followed her upstairs, and so soon as the door was closed, -said,— -</p> - -<p> -“For pity’s sake, Joan, tell me what all this means. Am I mad, or -are you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am, Mrs. Bird,” she answered. “If you want to know, I have -married this man, who has been in love with me a long while, but whom I hate, -in order to prevent Sir Henry Graves from making me his wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“But why, Joan? but why?” Mrs. Bird gasped. -</p> - -<p> -“Because if I had married Sir Henry I should have ruined him, and also -because I promised Lady Graves that I would not do so. Had I once seen him I -should have broken my promise, so I have taken this means to put myself out of -temptation, having first told Mr. Rock the whole truth, and bargained that I -should not go to live with him for another year.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Mrs. Bird, wringing her -hands; “and what a reptile the man must be to marry you on such terms, -and knowing that you loathe the sight of him!” -</p> - -<p> -“Do not abuse him, Mrs. Bird, for on the whole I think that he is as much -wronged as anybody; at least he is my husband, whom I have taken with my eyes -open, as he has taken me.” -</p> - -<p> -“He may be your husband, but he is a liar for all that; for he told me -that he was Sir Henry Graves, and that is why I let him come up to see you, -although I thought, from the look of him, that he couldn’t be a baronet. -Well, Joan, you have done it now, and as you’ve sown so you will have to -reap. The wages of sin is death, that’s the truth of it. You’ve -gone wrong, and, like many another, you have got to suffer. I don’t -believe in your arguments that have made you marry this crawling creature. They -are a kind of lie, and, like all lies, they will bring misery. You have a good -heart, but you’ve never disciplined it, and a heart without discipline is -the most false of guides. It isn’t for me to reproach you, Joan, who am, -I dare say, ten times worse than you are, but I can’t hold with your -methods. However, you are married to this man now, so if you’re wise -you’ll try to make the best of him and forget the other.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” she answered, “I shall if I am wise, or if I can find -wisdom.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Mrs. Bird began to cry and went away. When she had gone, Joan sat down and -wrote this letter to catch the post:— -</p> - -<p> -“DEAR SIR, -</p> - -<p> -“I have received your kind letter, and write to tell you that it is of no -use your coming to London to see me to-morrow, as I was married this afternoon -to Mr. Samuel Rock; and so good-bye! With all good wishes, -</p> - -<p class="center"> -“Believe me, dear sir, -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“Ever yours,           -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“JOAN.”       -</p> - -<p> -Joan was married on a Thursday; and upon the following morning Henry, who had -slept but ill, rose early and went out before breakfast. As it chanced, the -weather was mild, and the Rosham fields and woods looked soft and beautiful in -the hazy November light. Henry walked to and fro about them, stopping here to -admire the view, and there to speak a few kindly words to some labourer going -to his daily toil, or to watch the pheasants drawing back to covert after -filling their crops upon the stubble. Thus he lingered till long past the hour -for breakfast, for he was sad at heart and loath to quit the lands that, as he -thought, he would see no more, since he had determined not to revisit Rosham -when once he had made Joan his wife. -</p> - -<p> -He felt that he was doing right in marrying her, but it was idle to deny that -she was costing him dear. For three centuries his forefathers had owned these -wide, familiar lands; there was no house upon them that they had not built; -with the exception of a few ancient pollards there was scarcely a tree that -they had not planted; and now he must send them to the hammer because he had -been unlucky enough to fall in love with the wrong woman. Well, such was his -fortune, and he must make the best of it. Still he may be pardoned if it wrung -his heart to think that, in all human probability, he would never again see -those fields and friendly faces, and that in his person the race of Graves were -looking their last upon the soil that for hundreds of years had fed them while -alive and covered them when dead. -</p> - -<p> -In a healthy man, however, even sentiment is not proof against hunger, so it -came about that at last Henry limped home to breakfast with a heavy heart, and, -having ordered the dog that trotted at his heels back to its kennel, he entered -the house by the side door and went to the dining-room. On his plate were -several letters. He opened the first, which he noticed had an official frank in -the left-hand corner. It was from his friend the under-secretary, informing him -that, as it chanced, there was a billet open in Africa, and that he had -obtained a promise from a colleague, in whose hands lay the patronage of the -appointment, that if he proved suitable in some particulars, he, Henry, should -have the offer of it. The letter added that, although the post was worth only -six hundred a year, it was in a good climate, and would certainly lead to -better things; and that the writer would be glad if he would come to town to -see about the matter as soon as might be convenient to him, since, when it -became known that the place was vacant, there were sure to be crowds of people -after it who had claims upon the Government. -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s a bit of good news at last, anyway,” thought Henry, -as he put down the letter: “whatever happens to us, Joan and I -won’t starve, and I dare say that we can be jolly enough out there. By -Jove! if it wasn’t for my mother and the thought that some of my -father’s debts must remain unpaid, I should almost be happy,” and -for a moment or two he gave himself over to a reverie in which the thought of -Joan and of her tender love and beauty played the largest part (for he tried to -forget the jarring tone of that second letter) Joan, whom, after so long an -absence, he should see again that day. -</p> - -<p> -Then, remembering that the rest of his correspondence was unread, he took up an -envelope and opened it without looking at the address. In five seconds it was -on the floor beside him, and he was murmuring, with pale lips, “I was -married this afternoon to Samuel Rock.” Impossible! it must be a hoax! -Stooping down, he found the letter and examined it carefully. Either it was in -Joan’s writing, or the forgery was perfect. Then he thought of the former -letter, of which the tenor had disgusted him; and it occurred to him that it -was an epistle which a woman contemplating some such treachery might very well -have written. Had he, then, been deceived all along in this girl’s -character? It would seem so. And yet—and yet! She had sworn that she -loved him, and that she hated the man Rock. What could have been her object in -doing this thing? One only that he could see,—money. Rock was a rich man, -and he was a penniless baronet. -</p> - -<p> -If this letter were genuine, it became clear that she thought him good enough -for a lover but not for a husband; that she had amused herself with him, and -now threw him over in favour of the solid advantages of a prosperous marriage -with a man in her own class of life. Well, he had heard of women playing such -tricks, and the hypothesis explained the attitude which Joan had all along -adopted upon the question of becoming his wife. He remembered that from the -first she disclaimed any wish to marry him. Oh! if this were so, what a blind -fool he had been, and how unnecessarily had he tormented himself with doubts -and searchings for the true path of duty! But as yet he could not believe that -it was true. There must be some mistake. At least he would go to London and -ascertain the facts before he passed judgment on the faith of such evidence. -Why had he not gone before, in defiance of the doctor and Mrs. Bird? -</p> - -<p> -Half an hour later he was driving to the station. As he drew near to Bradmouth -he perceived a man walking along the road, in whom he recognised Samuel Rock. -</p> - -<p> -“There’s an end of that lie,” he thought to himself, with a -sigh of relief; “for if she married him yesterday afternoon he would be -in London with her, since he could scarcely have returned here to spend his -honeymoon.” -</p> - -<p> -At any rate he would settle the question. Giving the reins to the coachman, he -jumped down from the cart, and, bidding him drive on a few yards, waited by the -roadside. -</p> - -<p> -Presently Samuel caught sight of him, and stopped as though he meant to turn -back. If so, he changed his mind almost instantly and walked forward at a quick -pace. -</p> - -<p> -“Good day, Mr. Rock,” said Henry: “I wish to have a word with -you. I have heard some strange news this morning, which you may be able to -explain.” -</p> - -<p> -“What news?” asked Samuel, looking at him insolently. -</p> - -<p> -“That you were married to Joan Haste yesterday.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, what about that, Sir Henry Graves?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing in particular, Mr. Rock, except that I do not believe it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you?” answered Samuel with a sneer. “Then -perhaps you will throw your eye over this.” And he produced from his -pocket a copy of the marriage certificate. -</p> - -<p> -Henry read it, and turned very white; then he handed it back without a word. -</p> - -<p> -“It is all in order, I think?” said Samuel, still sneering. -</p> - -<p> -“Apparently,” Henry answered. “May I ask if—Mrs. -Rock—is with you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, she isn’t. Do you think that I am fool enough to bring her -here at present, for you to be sneaking about after her? I know what your game -was, ’cause she told me all about it. You were going up to town to-day to -get hold of her, weren’t you. Well, you’re an hour behind the fair -this time. Joan may have been a bit flighty, but she’s a sensible woman -at bottom, and she knew better than to trust herself to a scamp without a -sixpence, like you, when she might have an honest man and a good home. I told -you I meant to marry her, and you see I have kept my word. And now look you -here, Sir Henry Graves: just you keep clear of her in future, for if I catch -you so much as speaking to her, it will be the worse both for yourself and -Joan, not that she cares a rotten herring about you, although she did fool you -so prettily.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus15"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig15.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘And now ... get out of my way -before I forget myself.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“You need not fear that I shall attempt to disturb your domestic -happiness, Mr. Rock. And now for Heaven’s sake get out of my way before I -forget myself.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel obeyed, still grinning and sneering with hate and jealousy; and Henry -walked on to where the dog-cart was waiting for him. Taking the reins, he -turned the horse’s head and drove back to Rosham. -</p> - -<p> -“Thomson,” he said to the butler, who came to open the door, -“I have changed my mind about going to town to-day; you can unpack my -things. Stop a minute, though: I remember I am due at Monk’s Lodge, so -you needn’t meddle with the big portmanteau. When does my mother come -back?” -</p> - -<p> -“To-morrow, her ladyship wrote me this morning, Sir Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! very well. Then I sha’n’t see her till Tuesday; but it -doesn’t matter. Send down to the keeper and tell him that I want to speak -to him, will you? I think that I will change my clothes and shoot some rabbits -after lunch. Stop, order the dog-cart to be ready to drive me to Monk’s -Lodge in time to dress for dinner.” -</p> - -<p> -To analyse Henry’s feelings during the remainder of that day would be -difficult, if not impossible; but those of shame and bitter anger were -uppermost in his mind shame that he had laid himself open to such words as Rock -used to him, and anger that his vanity and blind faith in a woman’s soft -speeches and feigned love should have led him into so ignominious a position. -Mingled with these emotions were his natural pangs of jealousy and disappointed -affection, though pride would not suffer him to give way to them. Again and -again he reviewed every detail of the strange and, to his sense, appalling -story; and at times, overpowering as was the evidence, his mind refused to -accept its obvious moral namely, that he had been tricked and made a tool of -yes, used as a foil to bring this man to the point of marriage. How was it -possible to reconcile Joan’s conduct in the past and that wild letter of -hers with her subsequent letters and action? Thus only: that as regards the -first she had been playing on his feelings and inexperience of the arts of -women; and that, as in sleep men who are no poets can sometimes compose verse -which is full of beauty, so in her delirium Joan had been able to set on paper -words and thoughts that were foreign to her nature and above its level. Or -perhaps that letter was a forgery written by Mrs. Bird, who was “so -romantic.” The circumstances under which it reached him were peculiar, -and Joan herself expressly repudiated all knowledge of it. Notwithstanding his -doubts, perplexities and suffering, as might have been expected, the matter in -the end resolved itself into two very simple issues: first, that, whatever may -have been her exact reasons, Joan Haste had broken with him once and for all by -marrying another man; and second, that, as a corollary to her act, many dangers -and difficulties which beset him had disappeared, and he was free, if he wished -it, to marry another woman. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was no fool, and when the first bitterness was past, and he could -consider the matter, if not without passion as yet, at least more calmly, he -saw, the girl being what she had proved herself to be, that all things were -working together for his good and the advantage of his family. Supposing, for -instance, that he had found her out after marriage instead of before it, and -supposing that the story which she told him in her first letter had been true, -instead of what it clearly was a lie? Surely in these and in many other ways -his escape had been what an impartial person might call fortunate. At the -least, of her own act she had put an end to an imbroglio that had many painful -aspects, and there remained no stain upon his honour, for which he was most -truly thankful. -</p> - -<p> -And now, having learnt his lesson in the hard school of experience, he would -write to his friend the under-secretary, saying he could not be in town till -Wednesday. Meanwhile he would pay his visit at Monk’s Lodge. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br/> -DISENCHANTMENT.</h2> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“I have heard a curious bit of news,” he said, “about Joan -Haste. It seems that she is married.” -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Levinger; but are you still anxious that I should propose to -your daughter? Forgive me if I speak plainly.” -</p> - -<p> -“That has always been my wish, and I see no particular reason to change -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall never press you to tell that which you desire to keep to -yourself, Mr. Levinger.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“That was a near thing, Emma,” he said presently: “for about -thirty seconds I almost thought——” and he stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, it is over now, father dear,” she answered. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but for how long? One day I shall be taken in this fashion and come -back no more.” -</p> - -<p> -“Pray don’t talk like that, father.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Over you, Graves,” said Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“There go four cartridges, anyway,” said Mr. Levinger. -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t fair to count them,” answered Henry, laughing; -“those birds were clean out of shot.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, out of <i>your</i> 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!” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s better, Graves; you caught him in the head.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“You must show me the road home, Miss Levinger,” said Henry, by way -of making conversation, for they were now alone. -</p> - -<p> -“The shortest path is along the cliff, if you think that we can get over -the fence,” she answered. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -For a while they walked in silence, which Emma broke, saying, “The sea is -very beautiful to-night, is it not?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is always beautiful to me,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -“I see that you have not got over leaving the Navy yet, Sir Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Levinger,” he said suddenly, “I have something to ask -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“To ask me, Sir Henry? What about?” -</p> - -<p> -“About about yourself. I wish to ask you if you will honour me by -promising to become my wife?” -</p> - -<p> -Emma heard, and, stopping suddenly in her walk, looked round as though to find -a refuge, but seeing none went on again. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is one thing, Sir Henry,” she answered in a low voice; -“also there are others.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“What!” said Emma, startled out of her self-control, “is Joan -Haste married?” -</p> - -<p> -“I see that you know more about me than I thought. She is -married—to Mr. Samuel Rock.” -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot understand it at all; it is almost incredible.” -</p> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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—” -</p> - -<p> -“How could I, knowing what I had to tell you?” he broke in. -</p> - -<p> -“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——” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope so, Henry,” she said, disengaging herself from his arms, -and they went together into the house. -</p> - -<p> -Within ten weeks of this date Henry and Emma were spending a long honeymoon -among the ruined temples of the Nile. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br/> -THE DESIRE OF DEATH—AND THE FEAR OF HIM.</h2> - -<p> -Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the first -excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she lapsed into a -condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every week brought her -rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband, most of which she threw -into the fire half-read. At length there came one that she perused eagerly -enough, for it announced the approaching marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss -Levinger tidings which were confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr. -Levinger himself, enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she -would take nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a -copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the dress and -appearance “of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom, Captain Sir -Henry Graves, Bart., R.N.” -</p> - -<p> -“At least I have not done all this for nothing,” said Joan, as she -threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon her bed -moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable despair. -</p> - -<p> -She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never have -found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did she regret -that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock had been careful to -inform her of his interview with Henry, putting his own gloss upon what passed -between them; and the knowledge that her lover must hate and despise her was -the sharpest arrow of the many which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest -she could bear, but than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable -was her state! —scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother, -but who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a man -she hated and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets, however -poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear of it could -avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right—as she had sown so she must -reap. -</p> - -<p> -One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London winter gave -way to spring, and the time of her trial drew near. In health she remained -fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so vigorous a constitution; but the -end of each week found her sadder and more broken in spirit than its beginning. -She had no friends, and went out but little—indeed, her only relaxations -were found in reading, with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry -had once told her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with -Jim and Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the -shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household. Mrs. -Bird’s eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom she -consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! my dear,” she said to Joan, “what is to happen to us all -if I go blind? I have a little money put away— about a hundred and fifty -pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and then I -suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know, my dear, they -separate husband and wife in those places.” And, quite broken down by -such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep. -</p> - -<p> -“At any rate there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at -present,” answered Joan gently, “since Sally helps, and I can do -the fine work that you cannot manage.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you in -out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me, and how I -should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to repine, for God has -always looked after us heretofore, and I do not believe that He Who feeds the -ravens will suffer us to starve, or to be separated. So I will try to be brave -and trust in Him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” answered Joan, “I wish that I could have your faith; -but I suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let me -begin at once. No, don’t thank me any more; it will be a comfort; -besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you.” -</p> - -<p> -Thenceforth Mrs. Bird’s orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever they -had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave her some -relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a new desire entered -into her mind that most terrible of all desires, the desire of Death! Of Death -she became enamoured, and her daily prayer to Heaven was that she might die, -she and her child together, since her imagination could picture no future in -another world more dreadful than that which awaited her in this. -</p> - -<p> -Only once during these months did she hear anything of Henry; and then it was -through the columns of a penny paper, where, under the heading of -“Society Jottings,” she read that “Sir Henry Graves, Bart., -R.N., and his beautiful young bride were staying at Shepheard’s Hotel in -Cairo, where the gallant Captain was very popular and Lady Graves was much -admired.” The paragraph added that they were going to travel in the Holy -Land, and expected to return to their seat at Rosham towards the end of May. -</p> - -<p> -It was shortly after she read this that Joan, who from constantly thinking -about death, had convinced herself that she would die, went through the -formality of making a will on a sixpenny form which she bought for that purpose. -</p> - -<p> -To Sir Henry Graves she left the books that he had given her, and a long -letter, which she was at much trouble to compose, and placed carefully in the -same envelope with the will. All the rest of her property, of any sort -whatsoever, whereof she might die possessed it amounted to about thirty pounds -and some clothes she devised to Mrs. Bird for the use of her unborn child, -should it live, and, failing that, to Mrs. Bird absolutely. -</p> - -<p> -At last the inevitable hour of her trouble came upon her, and left her pale and -weak, but holding a little daughter in her arms. From the first the child was -sickly, for the long illness of the mother had affected its constitution; and -within three weeks from the day of its birth it was laid to rest in a London -cemetery, leaving Joan to drink the cup of a new and a deeper agony than any -that it had been her lot to taste. -</p> - -<p> -Yet, when her first days of grief and prostration had gone by, almost could she -find it in her heart to rejoice that the child had been taken from her and -placed beyond the possibilities of such a life as she had led; for, otherwise, -how would things have gone with it when she, its mother, passed into the power -of Samuel Rock? Surely he would have hated and maltreated it, and, if fate had -left it without the protection of her love in the hands of such a guardian, its -existence might have been made a misery. Still, after the death of that infant -those about her never saw a smile upon Joan’s face, however closely they -might watch for it. Perhaps she was more beautiful now than she had ever been, -for the chestnut hair that clustered in short curls upon her shapely head, and -her great sorrowful eyes shining in the pallor of her sweet face, refined and -made strange her loveliness; moreover, if the grace of girlhood had left her, -it was replaced by another and a truer dignity the dignity of a woman who has -loved and suffered and lost. -</p> - -<p> -One morning, it was on the ninth of June, Joan received a letter from her -husband, who now wrote to her every two or three days. Before she opened it she -knew well from past experience what would be the tenor of its contents: an -appeal to her, more or less impassioned, to shorten the year of separation for -which she had stipulated, and come to live with him as his wife. She was not -mistaken, for the letter ended thus: -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Joan, have pity on me and come to me, for if you don’t I think -that I shall go crazed. I have kept my promise to you faithful so far, so if -you are made of flesh and blood, show mercy before you drive me to something -desperate. It’s all over now; the child’s dead, you tell me, and -the man’s married, so let’s turn a new leaf and begin afresh. After -all, Joan, you are my wife before God and man, and it is to me that your duty -lies, not to anybody else. Even if you haven’t any fondness for me, I ask -you in the name of that duty to listen to me, and I tell you that if you -don’t I believe that I shall go mad with the longing to see your face, -and the sin of it will be upon you. I’ve done up the house comfortable -for you, Joan; no money has been spared, and if you want anything more you -shall have it. Then don’t go on hiding yourself away from me, but come -and take the home that waits you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose he is right, and that it is my duty,” said Joan to -herself with a sigh, as she laid down the letter. “Love and hope and -happiness have gone from me, nothing is left except duty, so I had better hold -fast to it. I will write and say that I will go soon within a few days; though -what the Birds will do without me I do not know, unless he will let me give -them some of my allowance.” -</p> - -<p> -Having come to this determination, Joan wrote her letter and posted it, fearing -lest, should she delay, her virtuous resolution might fail her. As she returned -from the pillar box, a messenger, who was standing on the steps of No. 8, -handed her a telegram addressed to herself. Wondering what it might be, she -opened it, to read this message:— -</p> - -<p> -“Come down here at once. I am ill and must see you before it is too late. -The carriage will meet the five o’clock train at Monk’s Vale -station. Wire reply. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“LEVINGER,        -</p> - -<p class="right"> -“<i>Monk’s Lodge.</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder what he can want to see me for,” thought Joan; then, -asking the boy to wait in the passage, she went in to consult Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“You had best go, my dear,” she said; “I have always thought -that there was some mystery about this Mr. Levinger, and now I expect that it -is coming out. If you take a cab at once, you will just have time to catch the -twelve o’clock train at Liverpool Street.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan nodded, and writing one word upon the prepaid answer “Coming,” -gave it to the boy and ran upstairs to pack a few things in a bag. In ten -minutes a hansom was at the door and she was ready to start. First she bade -good-bye to the two invalids, who were much disturbed at this hurried -departure; and then to Mrs. Bird, who followed her into the passage kissing her -again and again. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you know, Joan,” she said, beginning to cry, “I feel as -if you were going away for good and I should never see you any more.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nonsense, dear,” she answered briefly, for a queer contraction in -her throat made a lengthened speech impossible, “I hope to be back in a -day or two if all is well.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Joan—if all is well, and there’s hope for everybody. -Well, good-bye, and God bless you wherever you go—God bless you here and -hereafter, for ever and ever!” -</p> - -<p> -Then Joan drove away, and as she went it came into her mind that it would be -best if she returned no more. She had promised to join her husband in a few -days. Why should she not do so at once, and thus avoid the pain of a formal -parting with the Birds, her true and indeed her only friends? -</p> - -<p> -By half-past four that afternoon the train pulled up at Bradmouth, where she -must change into the light railway with tramcar carriages that runs for fifteen -or twenty miles along the coast, Monk’s Vale being the second station -from the junction. -</p> - -<p> -The branch train did not start for ten minutes, and Joan employed the interval -in walking up and down the platform, looking at the church tower, the roofs of -the fishing village, the boats upon the beach, and the familiar view of land -and sea. Everything seemed quite unchanged; she alone was changed, and felt as -though a century of time had passed over her head since that morning when she -ran away to London. -</p> - -<p> -“Hullo, Joan Rock!” said a half-remembered voice at her elbow. -“I’m in luck, it seems: I saw you off, and here I am to welcome you -back. But you shouldn’t have married him, Joan; you should have waited -for me as I told you. I’m in business for myself now, four saddle donkeys -and a goat chaise, and doing grand. I shall die a rich man, you bet.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan turned round to see a youth with impudent blue eyes and hair of flaming -red, in whom she recognised Willie Hood, much elongated, but otherwise the same. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Willie, is that you?” she said, stretching out her hand, for -she was pleased to see a friendly face; “how are you, and how do you know -that I am married?” -</p> - -<p> -“Know? Why, if you sent the crier round with a bell to call it, folks -would hear, wouldn’t they? And that’s just about what Mr. Samuel -Rock has done, talking of ‘my wife, Joan Haste as was,’ here, there -and everywhere; and telling how as you were stopping in foreign parts awhile -for the benefit of your health, which seems a strange tale to me, and I know a -thing or two, I do. Not that it has done you much good, anyway, to judge from -the air of you, for you look like the ghost of what you used to be. I’ll -tell you what, Joan: for the sake of old times you shall have a ride every -morning on my best donkey, all for love, if Sammy won’t be jealous. -That’ll bring the colour back into your cheeks, you bet.” -</p> - -<p> -“How are my uncle and aunt?” asked Joan, hastening to change the -conversation. -</p> - -<p> -“How are they? Will you promise to bear up if I tell you? Well, then, -Mrs. G. is lodging for three months at the public expense in Ipswich jail, -which the beaks gave her for assault ‘with intent to do grievous bodily -harm’ —them was the words, for I went to hear the -case,—‘upon the person of her lawful husband, John -Gillingwater,’ and my! she did hammer him too—with a rolling pin! -His face was like a squashed pumpkin, with no eyes left for a sinner to swear -by. The guardians have taken pity on him too, and are nursing him well again, -all for nothing, in the Union. I saw him hoeing taters there the other day, and -he asked me if I couldn’t smuggle him a bottle of gin—yes, and -nearly cried when I told him that it wasn’t to be done unless I had the -cash in hand and a commission.” -</p> - -<p> -At this moment Willie’s flow of information was interrupted by the guard, -who told Joan that she must get into the train if she did not wish to be left. -</p> - -<p> -“Ta-ta, Mrs. Rock,” cried Willie after her: “see you again -soon; and remember that the donkey is always ready. Now,” he added to -himself, “I wonder why the dickens she is going that way instead of home -to her loving Sammy? He’s a nasty mean beast, he is, and it’s a rum -go her having married him at all, but it ain’t no affair of mine. All the -same, I mean to let my dickies run down by the meres to-night, for I’m -sure he can’t grudge an armful of rough grass to an old friend of his -wife’s as has been the first to welcome her home. By the way, why -ain’t the holy Samuel here, to welcome her home himself?” and -Master Willie scratched his red head and departed speculating, with the full -intention of pasturing his donkeys that night upon lands in the possession or -hire of the said Samuel. -</p> - -<p> -At Monk’s Vale station Joan found a dog-cart waiting for her. When she -had taken her seat she asked the groom if Mr. Levinger was ill. He replied that -he didn’t rightly know, but that his master had kept the house almost -ever since Miss Emma he meant Lady Graves had married, and that last night, -feeling queer, he had sent for a doctor. -</p> - -<p> -Then Joan asked if Lady Graves was at Monk’s Lodge, and was informed that -she and her husband were not expected home at Rosham from abroad till this -night or the next morning. -</p> - -<p> -By this time they had reached the house, which was not more than half a mile -distant from the station. The servant who opened the door took Joan to a -bedroom and said that tea was waiting for her. When she was ready she went -downstairs to the dining-room, where presently she received a message that Mr. -Levinger would be glad to see her, and was shown to his room on the first -floor. She found him seated in an armchair by a fire, although the weather was -warm for June; and noticed at once that he was much changed since she had last -seen him, his face being pale and thin and his form shrunken. His eyes, -however, retained their brightness and intelligence, and his manner its -vivacity. As she entered the room he attempted to rise to receive her, only to -sink back into his chair with a groan, where for a while he remained speechless. -</p> - -<p> -“It is very good of you to come to see me, Joan,” he said -presently. “Pray be seated.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sorry to hear that you have not been well, sir,” she answered. -</p> - -<p> -“No, Joan, I have not; there never was a man further from health or much -nearer to death than I am at this moment, and that is why I have sent for you, -since what I have to say cannot be put off any longer. But you do not look very -well yourself, Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -“I feel quite strong, thank you, sir. You know I had a bad illness, for -you very kindly came to see me, and it has taken me a while to recover.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hear that you are married, Joan, although you are not living with your -husband, Samuel Rock. It would, perhaps, have been well if you had consulted me -before taking such a step, but you have a right to manage your own affairs. I -trust that you are happy; though, if so, I do not understand why you keep -away.” And he looked at her anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“I am as happy as I ever shall be, sir, and I go to live with Mr. Rock -to-morrow: till now I have been detained in town by business.” -</p> - -<p> -“You know that my daughter is married to Sir Henry Graves,” he went -on after a pause, again searching her face with his eyes. “They return -home to-night or to-morrow; and not too soon if they wish to see me alive, -though they know nothing of that, for I have told them little of my state of -health.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” she answered imperturbably, though her hands shook as -she spoke. “But I suppose that you did not send for me to tell me that, -sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Joan, no. Is the door shut? I sent for you— O my God, that I -should have to say it! to throw myself upon your mercy, since I dare not die -and face the Judgment-seat till I have told you all the truth. Listen to -me—” and his voice fell to a piercing whisper—“Joan, -<i>you are my daughter!</i>” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br/> -THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH.</h2> - -<p> -“Your daughter!” she said, rising in her astonishment, “you -must be mad! If I were your daughter, could you have lied to me as you did, and -treated me as you have done?” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus16"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig16.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Your daughter!’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“I pray you to listen before you judge, and at present spare your -reproaches, for believe me, Joan, I am not fit to bear them. Remember that I -need have told you nothing of this; the secret might have been buried in my -grave—” -</p> - -<p> -“As it would have been, sir, had you not feared to die with such -falsehood on your soul.” -</p> - -<p> -He made an imploring gesture with his hand, and she ceased. -</p> - -<p> -“Joan,” he went on, “I will tell you the whole truth. You are -not only my child, you are also legitimate.” -</p> - -<p> -“And Miss Levinger—Lady Graves, I mean—is she legitimate -too?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Joan.” -</p> - -<p> -She heard, and bit her lip till the blood ran, but even so she could not keep -silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” she cried, “I wonder if you will ever understand what -you have done in hiding this from me. Do you know that you have ruined my -life?” -</p> - -<p> -“I pray that you may be mistaken, Joan. Heaven is my witness that I have -tried to act for the best. Listen: many years ago, when I was still a youngish -man, it was my fate to meet and to fall in love with your mother, Jane Lacon. -Like you, she was beautiful, but unlike you she was hot-tempered, violently -jealous, and, when she was angered, rough of speech. Such as she was, however, -she obtained a complete empire over my mind, for I was headstrong and -passionate; indeed, so entirely did I fall into her power that in the end I -consented to marry her. This, however, I did not dare to do here, for in those -days I was poor and struggling, and it would have ruined me. Separately, and -without a word being said to any one, we went to London, and there were -secretly married in an obscure parish in the East End. In proof of my words -here is a copy of the certificate,”—and, taking a paper from a -despatch-box that stood on the table beside him, he handed it to Joan, then -went on:— -</p> - -<p> -“As you may guess, a marriage thus entered into between two people so -dissimilar in tastes, habits and education did not prove successful. For a -month or so we were happy, then quarrels began. I established her in lodgings -in London, and, while ostensibly carrying on my business as a land agent here, -visited her from time to time. With this, however, she was not satisfied, for -she desired to be acknowledged openly as my wife and to return with me to -Bradmouth. I refused to comply indeed, I dared not do so whereupon she reviled -me with ever-increasing bitterness. Moreover she became furiously jealous, and -extravagant beyond the limit of my means. At length matters reached a climax, -for a chance sight that she caught of me driving in a carriage with another -woman, provoked so dreadful an outburst that in my rage and despair I told her -a falsehood. I told her, Joan, that she was not really my wife, and had no -claim upon me, seeing that I had married her under a false name. This in itself -was true, for my own name is not Levinger; but it is not true that the marriage -was thereby invalidated, since neither she nor those among whom I had lived for -several years knew me by any other. When your mother heard this she replied -only that such conduct was just what she should have expected from me; and that -night I returned to Bradmouth, having first given her a considerable sum of -money, for I did not think that I should see her again for some time. Two days -afterwards I received a letter from her,—here it is,” and he read -it:— -</p> - -<p> -“‘GEORGE, -</p> - -<p> -“‘Though I may be what you call me, a common woman and a jealous -scold, at least I have too much pride to go on living with a scoundrel who has -deceived me by a sham marriage. If I were as bad as you think, I might have the -law of you, but I won’t do that, especially as I dare say that we shall -be best apart. Now I am going straight away where you will never find me, so -you need not trouble to look, even if you care to. I haven’t told you yet -that I expect to have a child. If it comes to anything, I will let you know -about it; if not, you may be sure that it is dead, or that I am. Good-bye, -George: for a week or two we were happy, and though you hate me, I still love -you in my own way; but I will never live with you again, so don’t trouble -your head any more about me. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -‘Yours,          -</p> - -<p class="right"> -‘JANE——?      -</p> -<p> - “‘P.S. Not knowing what my name is, I can’t sign -it.’ -</p> - -<p class="p2"> -</p> - -<p> -“When I received this letter I went to London and tried to trace your -mother, but could hear nothing of her. Some eight or nine months passed by, and -one day a letter came addressed to me, written by a woman in New York—I -have it here if you wish to see it—enclosing what purports to be a -properly attested American certificate of the death of Jane Lacon, of Bradmouth -in England. The letter says that Jane Lacon, who passed herself off as a widow, -and was employed as a housekeeper in an hotel in New York, died in childbirth -with her infant in the house of the writer, who, by her request, forwarded the -certificate of death, together with her marriage ring and her love. -</p> - -<p> -“I grieved for your mother, Joan; but I made no further inquiries, as I -should have done, for I did not doubt the story, and in those days it was not -easy to follow up such a matter on the other side of the Atlantic. -</p> - -<p> -“A year went by and I married again, my second wife being Emma Johnson, -the daughter of old Johnson, who owned a fleet of fishing boats and a great -deal of other property, and lived at the Red House in Bradmouth. Some months -after our marriage he died, and we came to live at Monk’s Lodge, which we -inherited from him with the rest of his fortune. A while passed, and Emma was -born; and it was when her mother was still confined to her room that one -evening, as I was walking in front of the house after dinner, I saw a woman -coming towards me carrying a fifteen-months’ child in her arms. There was -something in this woman’s figure and gait that was familiar to me, and I -stood still to watch her pass. She did not pass, however; she came straight up -to me and said:— -</p> - -<p> -“‘How are you, George? You ought to know me again, though you -won’t know your baby.’ -</p> - -<p> -“It was your mother, and, Joan, <i>you</i> were that baby. -</p> - -<p> -“‘I thought that you were dead, Jane,’ I said, so soon as I -could speak. -</p> - -<p> -“‘That’s just what I meant you to think, George,’ she -answered, ‘for at that time I had a very good chance of marrying out -there in New York, and didn’t want you poking about after me, even though -you weren’t my lawful husband. Also I couldn’t bear to part with -the baby; though it’s yours sure enough, and I’ve been careful to -bring its birth papers with me to show you that it is not a fraud; and here -they are, made out in your name and mine, or at least in the name that you -pretended to marry me under.’ And she gave me this certificate, which, -Joan, I now pass on to you. -</p> - -<p> -“‘The fact of the matter is,’ she went on, ‘that when -it came to the point I found that I couldn’t marry the other man after -all, for in my heart I hated the sight of him and was always thinking of you. -So I threw him up and tried to get over it, for I was doing uncommonly well out -there, running a lodging-house of my own. But it wasn’t any use: I just -thought of you all day and dreamed of you all night, and the end of it was that -I sold up the concern and started home. And now if you will marry me -respectable so much the better, and if you won’t—well, I must put -up with it, and sha’n’t show you any more temper, for I’ve -tried to get along without you and I can’t, that’s the fact. You -seem to be pretty flourishing, anyway; somebody in the train told me that you -had come into a lot of money and bought Monk’s Lodge, so I walked here -straight, I was in such a hurry to see you. Why, what’s the matter with -you, George? You look like a ghost. Come, give me a kiss and take me into the -house. I’ll clear out by-and-by if you wish it.’ -</p> - -<p> -“These, Joan, were your mother’s exact words, as she stood there in -the moonlight near the roadway, holding you in her arms. I have not forgotten a -syllable of them. -</p> - -<p> -“When she finished I was forced to speak. ‘I can’t take you -in there,’ I said, because I am married and it is my wife’s -house.’ She turned ghastly white, and had I not caught her I think that -she would have fallen. -</p> - -<p> -“‘O My God!’ she said, ‘I never thought of this. Well, -George, you won’t cast me off for all that, will you? I was your wife -before she was, and this is your daughter.’ -</p> - -<p> -“Then, Joan, though it nearly choked me, I lied to her again, for what -else was I to do? ‘You never were my wife,’ I said, ‘and -I’ve got another daughter now. Also all this is your own fault, for had I -known that you were alive, I would not have married. You have yourself to -thank, Jane, and no one else. Why did you send me that false certificate?’ -</p> - -<p> -“‘I suppose so,’ she answered heavily. ‘Well, I’d -best be off; but you needn’t have been so ready to believe things. Will -you look after the child if anything happens to me, George? She’s a -pretty babe, and I’ve taught her to say Daddy to nothing.’ -</p> - -<p> -“I told your mother not to talk in that strain, and asked her where she -was going to spend the night, saying that I would see her again on the morrow. -She answered, at her sister’s, Mrs. Gillingwater, and held you up for me -to kiss. Then she walked away, and that was the last time that I saw her alive. -</p> - -<p> -“It seems that she went to the Crown and Mitre, and made herself known to -your aunt, telling her that she had been abroad to America, where she had come -to trouble, but that she had money, in proof of which she gave her notes for -fifty pounds to put into a safe place. Also she said that I was the agent for -people who knew about her in the States, and was paid to look after her child. -Then she ate some supper, and saying that she would like to take a walk and -look at the old place, as she might have to go up to London on the morrow, she -went out. Next morning she was found dead beneath the cliff, though how she -came there, there was nothing to show. -</p> - -<p> -“That, Joan, is the story of your mother’s life and death.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mean the story of my mother’s life and murder,” she -answered. “Had you not told her that lie she would never have committed -suicide.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are hard upon me, Joan. She was more to blame than I was. Moreover, -I do not believe that she killed herself. It was not like her to have done so. -At the place where she fell over the cliff there stood a paling, of which the -top rail, that was quite rotten, was found to have been broken. I think that my -poor wife, being very unhappy, walked along the cliff and leaned upon this rail -wondering what she should do, when suddenly it broke and she was killed, for I -am sure that she had no idea of making away with herself. -</p> - -<p> -“After her death Mrs. Gillingwater came to me and repeated the tale which -her sister had told her, as to my having been appointed agent to some person -unknown in America. Here was a way out of my trouble, and I took it, saying -that what she had heard was true. This was the greatest of my sins; but the -temptation was too strong for me, for had the truth come out I should have been -utterly destroyed, my wife would have been no wife, her child would have been a -bastard, I should have been liable to a prosecution for bigamy, and, worst of -all, my daughter’s heritage might possibly have passed from her to -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“To me?” said Joan. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, to you; for under my father-in-law’s will all his property is -strictly settled first upon his daughter, my late wife, with a life interest to -myself, and then upon my lawful issue. <i>You</i> are my only lawful issue, -Joan; and it would seem, therefore, that you are legally entitled to your -half-sister’s possessions, though of course, did you take them, it would -be an act of robbery, seeing that the man who bequeathed them certainly desired -to endow his own descendants and no one else, the difficulty arising from the -fact of my marriage with his daughter being an illegal one. I have taken the -opinions of four leading lawyers upon the case, giving false names to the -parties concerned. Of these, two have advised that you would be entitled to the -property, since the law is always strained against illegitimate issue, and two -that equity would intervene and declare that her grandfather’s -inheritance must come to Emma, as he doubtless intended, although there was an -accidental irregularity in the marriage of the mother. -</p> - -<p> -“I have told you all this, Joan, as I am telling you everything, because -I wish to keep nothing back; but I trust that your generosity and sense of -right will never allow you to raise the question, for this money belongs to -Emma and to her alone. For you I have done my best out of my savings, and in -some few days or weeks you will inherit about four thousand pounds, which will -give you a competence independent of your husband.” -</p> - -<p> -“You need not be afraid, sir,” answered Joan contemptuously; -“I would rather cut my fingers off than touch a farthing of the money to -which I have no right at all. I don’t even know that I will accept your -legacy.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that you will do so, Joan, for it will put you in a position of -complete independence, will provide for your children, and will enable you to -live apart from your husband, should you by any chance fail to get on with him. -And now I have told you the whole truth, and it only remains for me to most -humbly beg your forgiveness. I have done my best for you, Joan, according to my -lights; for, as I could not acknowledge you, I thought it would be well that -you should be brought up in your mother’s class—though here I did -not make sufficient allowance for the secret influences of race, seeing that, -not withstanding your education, you are in heart and appearance a lady. I -might, indeed, have taken you to live with me, as I often longed to do; but I -feared lest such an act should expose me to suspicion, suspicion should lead to -inquiry, and inquiry to my ruin and to that of my daughter Emma. Doubtless it -would have been better, as well as more honest, if I had faced the matter out; -but at the time I could not find the courage, and the opportunity went by. My -early life had not been altogether creditable, and I could not bear the thought -of once more becoming the object of scandal and of disgrace, or of imperilling -the fortune and position to which after so many struggles I had at length -attained. That, Joan, is my true story; and now again I say that I hope to hear -you forgive me before I die, and promise that you will not, unless it is -absolutely necessary, reveal these facts to your half-sister, Lady Graves, for -if you do I verily believe that it will break her heart. The dread lest she -should learn this history has haunted me for years, and caused me to strain -every nerve to secure her marriage with a man of position and honourable name, -so that, even should it be discovered that she had none, she might find a -refuge in her disgrace. Thank Heaven that I, who have failed in so many things, -have at least succeeded in this, so that, come what may when I am dead, she is -provided for and safe.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose, sir, that Sir Henry Graves knows all this?” -</p> - -<p> -“Knows it! Of course not. Had he known it I doubt if he would have -married her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly not. He might even have married somebody else,” Joan -answered. “It seems, then, that you palmed off Miss Emma upon him under a -false description.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did,” he said, with a groan. “It was wrong, like the rest; -but one evil leads to another.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir, one evil leads to another, as I shall show you presently. You -ask me to forgive you, and you talk about the breaking of Lady Graves’s -heart. Perhaps you do not know that mine is already broken through you, or to -what a fate you have given me over. I will tell you. Your daughter’s -husband, Sir Henry Graves, and I loved each other, and I have borne his child. -He wished to marry me, though, believing myself to be what you have taught me -to believe, I was against it from the first. When he learned my state he -insisted upon marrying me, like the honourable man that he is, and told his -mother of his intention. She came to me in London and pleaded with me, almost -on her knees, that I should ward off this disgrace from her family, and -preserve her son from taking a step which would ruin him. I was moved by her -entreaties, and I felt the truth of what she said; but I knew well that, should -he come to marry me, as within a few days he was to do, for our child’s -and our love’s sake, if not for my own, I could never find the strength -to deny him. -</p> - -<p> -“What was I to do? I was too ill to run away, and he would have hunted me -out. Therefore it came to this, that I must choose between suicide—which -was both wicked and impossible, for I could not murder another as well as -myself—and the still more dreadful step that at length I took. You know -the man Samuel Rock, my husband, and perhaps you know also that for a long -while he has persecuted me with his passion, although again and again I have -told him that he was hateful to me. While I was ill he obtained my address in -London—I believe that he bought it from my aunt, Mrs. Gillingwater, the -woman in whose charge you were satisfied to leave me—and two days after I -had seen Lady Graves, he came to visit me, gaining admission by passing himself -off as Sir Henry to my landlady, Mrs. Bird. -</p> - -<p> -“You can guess the rest. To put myself out of temptation, and to save the -man I loved from being disgraced and contaminated by me, I married the man I -hated—a man so base that, even when I had told him all, and bargained -that I should live apart from him for many months, he was yet content to take -me. I did more than this even: I wrote in such a fashion to Sir Henry as I knew -must shock and revolt him; and then I married, leaving him to believe that I -had thrown him over because the husband whom I had chosen was richer than -himself. Perhaps you cannot guess why I should thus have dishonoured both of -us, and subjected myself to the horrible shame of making myself vile in Sir -Henry’s eyes. This was the reason: had I not done so, had he once -suspected the true motives of my sacrifice, the plot would have failed. I -should have sold myself for nothing, for then he would never have married Emma -Levinger. And now, that my cup may be full, my child is dead, and to-morrow I -must give myself over to my husband according to the terms of my bond. This, -sir, is the fruit of all your falsehoods; and I say, Ask God to forgive you, -but not the poor girl—your own daughter—whom you have robbed of -honour and happiness, and handed over to misery and shame.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus Joan spoke to him, in a quiet, an almost mechanical voice indeed, but -standing on her feet above the dying man, and with eyes and gestures that -betrayed her absorbing indignation. When she had finished, her father, who was -crouched in the chair before her, let fall his hands, wherewith he had hidden -his face, and she saw that he was gasping for breath and that his lips were -blue. -</p> - -<p> -“‘The way of transgressors is hard,’ as we both have -learned,” he muttered, with a deathly smile, “and I deserve it all. -I am sorry for you, Joan, but I cannot help you. If it consoles you, you may -remember that, whereas your sorrows and shame are but temporal, mine, as I fear -will be eternal. And now, since you refuse to forgive me, farewell; for I can -talk no more, and must make ready, as best I can, to take my evil doings hence -before another, and, I trust, a more merciful Judge.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan turned to leave the room, but ere she reached the door the rage died out -of her heart and pity entered it. -</p> - -<p> -“I forgive you, father,” she said, “for it is Heaven’s -will that these things should have happened, and by my own sin I have brought -the worst of them upon me. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. But oh! I -pray that my time here may be short.” -</p> - -<p> -“God bless you for those words, Joan!” he murmured. -</p> - -<p> -Then she was gone. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br/> -A GHOST OF THE PAST.</h2> - -<p> -Lady Graves sat at breakfast in the dining-room at Rosham, where she had -arrived from London on the previous evening, to welcome home her son and her -daughter-in-law. Just as she was rising from the table the butler brought her a -telegram. -</p> - -<p> -“Your master and mistress will be here by half-past eleven, -Thomson,” she said. “This message is from Harwich, and they seem to -have had a very bad crossing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, my lady!” answered the old man, whose face, like the house -of Graves, shone with a renewed prosperity; “then I had better give -orders about the carriage meeting them. It’s a pity we hadn’t a -little more notice, for there’s many in the village as would have liked -to give Sir Henry and her ladyship a bit of a welcome.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Thomson; but perhaps they can manage something of that sort in a -day or two. Everything is ready, I suppose? I have not had time to go round -yet.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I can’t say that, my lady. I think that some of them there -workmen won’t have done till their dying day; and the smell of paint -upstairs is awful. But perhaps your ladyship would like to have a look?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I should, Thomson, if you will give the orders about the carriage -and to have some breakfast ready.” -</p> - -<p> -Thomson bowed and went, and, reappearing presently, led Lady Graves from room -to room, pointing out the repairs that had been done to each. Emma’s -money had fallen upon the nakedness of Rosham like spring rains upon a desert -land, with results that were eminently satisfactory to Lady Graves, who for -many years had been doomed to mourn over threadbare carpets and shabby walls. -At last they had inspected everything, down to the new glass in the windows of -the servants’ bedrooms. -</p> - -<p> -“I think, Thomson,” said Lady Graves, with a sigh of relief, -“that, taking everything into consideration, we have a great deal to be -thankful for.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just what I says upon my knees every night, my lady. When I -remember that if it hadn’t been for the new mistress and her money (bless -her sweet face!) all of us might have been sold up and in the workhouse by now, -or near it, I feel downright sick.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you can cheer up now, Thomson, for, although for his position your -master will not be a rich man, the bad times are done with.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, my lady, they are done with; and please God they won’t come -no more in my day. If your ladyship is going to walk outside I’ll call -March, as I know he’s very anxious to show you the new vinery.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, Thomson, but I think I will sit quiet and enjoy myself till -Sir Henry comes, and then we can all go and see the gardens together. Mr. and -Mrs. Milward are coming over this afternoon, are they not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I believe so, my lady; that is, Miss Ellen—I mean Mrs. -Milward—drove round with her husband yesterday to look at the new -furniture in the drawing-room, and said that they should invite themselves to -dinner to-night to welcome the bride. He’s grown wonderful pleasant of -late, Mr. Milward has, and speaks quite civil to the likes of us since Sir -Henry’s marriage; though March, he do say it’s because he wants our -votes for I suppose you’ve heard, my lady, that he’s putting up for -Parliament in this division— but then March never was no believer in the -human heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I have heard, and I am told that Miss Ellen will pull him through. -However, we need not think of that yet. By the way, Thomson, tell March to cut -a bowlful of sweet peas and have them put in your mistress’s room. I -remember that when she was here as a girl, nearly three years ago, she said -that they were her favourite flower.” -</p> - -<p> -When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door of the -hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds and the light -shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond, to read the morning -psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon, however, the book dropped -from her hand and she fell to musing on the past, and how strangely, after all -its troubles, the family that she loved, and with which her life was -interwoven, had been guided back into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than -a year ago there had been nothing before them but ruin and extinction, and now! -It was not for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were -for the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she must -follow them; but rather for her dead husband’s sake, and for the sake of -the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their descendants. -</p> - -<p> -Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her knees when -she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit to Joan Haste, -things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since heard that this poor -girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she had seen in the train when -she went to London; for Henry had told her as much and spoken very bitterly of -her conduct. The story seemed a little curious, and she could not altogether -understand it, but she supposed that her son was right, and that on -consideration the young woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a -wise marriage with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a -poor gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue was -most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their gratitude. -Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little doze, from which she was -awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and went to the front door to find -Henry, looking very well and bronzed, helping his wife out of the carriage. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, mother, is that you?” he said, with a pleasant laugh. -“This is first-rate: I didn’t expect from your letter that you -would be down before to-morrow,” and he kissed her. “Look, here is -my invalid; I have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did -not imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don’t know how she -survived it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way, that -I may say how do you do to your mother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Emma,” said Lady Graves, “I must say that, -notwithstanding your bad crossing, you look very well and happy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, Lady Graves,” she answered, colouring slightly; -“I am both well and happy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Welcome home, dear!” said Henry; and putting his arm round his -wife, he gave her a kiss, which she returned. “By the way,” he -added, “I wonder if there is any news of your father.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand,” answered -Lady Graves. “But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing; -here it is.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It said: -</p> - -<p> -“Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look -to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over on the -following morning? -</p> - -<p> -“Yours affectionately, -</p> - -<p> -“G. L.” -</p> - -<p> -“He seems pretty well,” said Henry. “But I’ll drive to -Bradmouth and take the two o’clock train to Monk’s Vale, coming -back to-night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ellen and her husband are going to be here to dinner,” said Lady -Graves. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps you and Emma will look after them. I dare say -that I shall be home before they go. No, don’t bother about meeting me. -Probably I shall return by the last train and walk from Bradmouth. I must go, -as you remember I wrote to your father from abroad saying that I would come and -see him to-day, and he will have the letter this morning.” -</p> - -<p> -After her interview with Mr. Levinger, for the first time in her life Joan -slept beneath her father’s roof—or rather she lay down to sleep, -since, notwithstanding her weariness, the scene through which she had passed, -together with the aching of her heart for all that she had lost, and its -rebellion against the fate which was in store for her on the morrow, made it -impossible that she should rest. Once towards morning she did doze off indeed, -and dreamed. -</p> - -<p> -She dreamt that she stood alone upon a point of rock, out of all sight or hope -of shore, while round her raged a sea of troubles. From every side they poured -in upon her to overwhelm her, and beneath the black sky above howled a dreary -wind, which was full of voices crying to each other of her sins and sorrows -across the abysm of space. Wave after wave that sea rolled on, and its waters -were thick with human faces, or rather with one face twisted and distorted into -many shapes, as though reflected from a thousand faulty mirrors—now long, -now broad, and now short; now so immense that it filled the ocean and -overflowed the edge of the horizon, and now tiny as a pin’s point, yet -visible and dreadful. Gibbering, laughing, groaning, and shouting aloud, still -the face was one face—that of Samuel Rock, her husband. Nearer it surged -and nearer, till at length it flowed across her feet, halving itself against -them; then the one half shouted with laughter and the other screamed in agony, -and, joining themselves together, they rose on the waters of that sea, which of -a sudden had grown red, and, smiting her upon the breast, drove her down and -down and down into the depths of an infinite peace, whence the voice of a child -was calling her. -</p> - -<p> -Then she awoke, and rejoiced to see the light of day streaming into the room; -for she was frightened at her nightmare, though the sense of peace with which -it closed left her strangely comforted. Death must be like that, she thought. -</p> - -<p> -At breakfast Joan inquired of the servant how Mr. Levinger was; and, being of a -communicative disposition, the girl told her that he had gone to bed late last -night, after sitting up to burn and arrange papers, and said that he should -stop there until the doctor had been. She added that a letter had arrived from -Sir Henry announcing his intention of coming to see her master after lunch. -Joan informed the woman that she would wait at Monk’s Lodge to hear Dr. -Childs’s report, but that Mr. Levinger need not be troubled about her, -since, having only a handbag with her, she could find her own way back to -Bradmouth, either on foot or by train. Then she went to her room and sat down -to think. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was coming here, and she was glad of it; for, dreadful as such an -interview would be, already she had made up her mind that she must see him -alone and for the last time. Everything else she could bear, but she could no -longer bear that he should think her vile and faithless. To-day she must go to -her husband, but first Henry should learn why she went. He was safely married -now, and no harm could come of it, she argued. Also, if she did not take this -opportunity, how could she know when she might find another? An instinct warned -her that her career in Bradmouth as the wife of Mr. Rock would be a short one; -and at least she was sure that, when once she was in his power, he would be -careful that she should have no chance of speaking with the man whom he knew to -have been her lover. Yes, it might be unheroic and inconsistent, but she could -keep silence no longer; see him she must and would, were it only to tell him -that his child had lived, and was dead. -</p> - -<p> -Moreover, there was another matter. She must warn him to guard against the -secret which she had learned on the previous night being brought directly or -indirectly to the knowledge of his wife. Towards Emma her feelings, if they -could be defined at all, were kindly; and Joan guessed that, should -Henry’s wife discover how she had been palmed off upon an unsuspecting -husband, it would shatter her happiness. For her own part, Joan had quickly -made up her mind to let all this sad history of falsehood and dishonour sink -back into the darkness of the past. It mattered to her little now whether she -was legitimate or not, and it was useless to attempt to clear the reputation of -a forgotten woman, who had been dead for twenty years, at the expense of -blasting that of her own father. Also, she knew that if Samuel got hold of this -story, he would never rest from his endeavours to wring from its rightful owner -the fortune that might pass to herself by a quibble of the law. No, she had the -proofs of her identity; she would destroy them, and if any others were to be -found among her father’s papers after his death Henry must do likewise. -</p> - -<p> -When Dr. Childs had gone, about one o’clock, Joan saw the servant, who -told her the doctor said that Mr. Levinger remained in much the same condition, -and that he yet might live for another month or two. On the other hand, he -might die at any moment, and, although he did not anticipate such immediate -danger, he had ordered him to stay in bed, and had advised him to send for a -clergyman if he wished to see one; also to write to his daughter, Lady Graves, -asking her to come on the morrow and to stay with him for the present. Joan -thanked the maid, and leaving a message for Mr. Levinger to the effect that she -would come to see him again if he wished it, she started on her way, carrying -her bag in her hand. -</p> - -<p> -There were only two roads by which Henry could approach Monk’s Lodge: the -cliff road; and that which ran, through woodlands for the most part, to the -Yale station, half a mile away. Joan knew that about three hundred yards from -the Lodge at the end of the shrubberies, there was a summer-house commanding a -view of the cliff and sea, and standing within twenty paces of the station -road. Here she placed herself, so as to be able to intercept Henry by whichever -route he should come; for she wished their meeting to be secret, and, for -obvious reasons, she did not dare to await him in the immediate neighbourhood -of the house. -</p> - -<p> -She came to the summer-house, a rustic building surrounded at a little distance -by trees, and much overgrown with masses of ivy and other creeping plants. Here -Joan sat herself down, and picking up a mouldering novel left there long ago by -Emma, she held it in her hand as though she were reading, while over the top of -it she watched the two roads anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -Nearly an hour passed, and as yet no one had gone by whom even at that distance -she could possibly mistake for Henry; when suddenly her heart bounded within -her, for a hundred yards or more away, and just at the turn of the station -road, a view of which she commanded through a gap in the trees and fence, she -caught sight of the figure of a man who walked with a limp. Hastening from the -summer-house, she pushed her way through the under-growth and the hedge beyond, -taking her stand at a bend in the path. Here she waited, listening to the sound -of approaching footsteps and of a man’s voice, Henry’s voice, -humming a tune that at the time was popular in the streets of London. A few -seconds passed, which to her seemed like an age, and he was round the corner -advancing towards her, swinging his stick as he came. So intent was he upon his -thoughts, or on the tune that he was humming, that he never saw her until they -were face to face. Then, catching sight of a lady in a grey dress, he stepped -to one side, lifting his hand to his hat,—looked up at her, and stopped -dead. -</p> - -<p> -“Henry,” she said in a low voice. -</p> - -<p> -“What! are you here, Joan,” he asked, “and in that dress? For -a moment you frightened me like a ghost—a ghost of the past.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am a ghost of the past,” she answered. “Yes, that is all I -am—a ghost. Come in here, Henry; I wish to speak to you.” -</p> - -<p> -He followed her without a word, and presently they were standing together in -the summer-house. -</p> - -<p> -Henry opened his lips as though to speak; but apparently thought better of it, -for he said nothing, and it was Joan who broke that painful silence. -</p> - -<p> -“I have waited for you here,” she began confusedly, “because -I have things that I must tell you in private.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Rock,” he answered; “but do you not think, under -all the circumstances, that it would be better if you told them to me in -public? You know this kind of meeting might be misunderstood.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do not speak to me like that, I beg,” she said, clasping her hands -and looking at him imploringly; then added, “and do not call me by that -name: I cannot bear it from you, at any rate as yet.” -</p> - -<p> -“I understand that it is your name, and I have no title to use any -other.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, it is my name,” she answered passionately; “but do you -know why?” -</p> - -<p> -“I know nothing except what your letters and your husband have told me, -and really I do not think that I have any right to inquire further.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, but I have a right to tell you. You think that I threw you over, do -you not, and married Mr. Rock for my own reasons?” -</p> - -<p> -“I must confess that I do; you would scarcely have married him for -anybody else’s reasons.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus17"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig17.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘I have waited for you here … -because I have things that I must tell you in private.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“So you believe. Now listen to me: I married Samuel Rock in order that -you might marry Emma Levinger. I meant to marry you, Henry, but your mother -came to me and implored me not to do so, so I took this means of putting myself -out of the reach of temptation.” -</p> - -<p> -“My mother came to you, and you did <i>that!</i> Why, you must be -mad!” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps; but so it is, and the plot has answered very well, especially -as our child is dead.” -</p> - -<p> -“Our child!” he said, turning deathly pale: “was there any -child?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Henry; and she was very like you. Her name was Joan. I thought that -you would wish her to be called Joan. I buried her about a month ago.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment he hid his face in his hands, then said, “Perhaps, Joan, you -will explain, for I am bewildered.” -</p> - -<p> -So she told him all. -</p> - -<p> -“Fate and our own folly have dealt very hardly with us, Joan,” he -said in a quiet voice when she had finished; “and now I do not see what -there is to be done. We are both of us married, and there is nothing between us -except our past and the dead child. By Heaven! you are a noble woman, but also -you are a foolish one. Why could you not consult me instead of listening to my -mother, or to any one else who chose to plead with you in my -interests—and their own?” -</p> - -<p> -“If I had consulted you, Henry, by now I should have been your -wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, and was that so terrible a prospect to you? As you know, I asked -nothing better; and it chanced that I was able to obtain a promise of -employment abroad which would have supported both of us in comfort. -Or—answer me truly, Joan—did you, on the whole, as he told me, -think that you would do better to marry Mr. Rock?” -</p> - -<p> -“If Mr. Rock said that,” she answered, looking at him steadily, -“he said what he knew to be false, since before I married him I told him -all the facts and bargained that I should live apart from him for a while. Oh! -Henry, how can you doubt me? I tell you that I hate this man whom I have -married for your sake, that the sight of him is dreadful to me, and that I had -sooner live in prison than with him. And yet to-day I go to him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not doubt you, Joan,” he answered, in a voice that betrayed -the extremity of his distress; “but the thing is so appalling that it -paralyses me, and I know neither what to do nor to say. Do you want help to get -away from him?” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head sadly, and answered, “I can escape from him in one way -only, Henry—by death, for my bargain was that when the time of grace was -ended I would come to be his faithful wife. After all he is my husband, and my -duty is towards him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so,—curse him for a cringing hound. Oh, Joan! the -thought of it drives me mad, and I am helpless. I cannot in honour even say the -words that lie upon my tongue.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know,” she answered; “say nothing, only tell me that you -believe me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I believe you; but my belief will not save you from Samuel -Rock, or me from my remorse.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps not, dear,” she answered quietly, “but since there -is no escape we must accept the inevitable; doubtless things will settle -themselves sooner or later. And now there is another matter of which I want to -speak to you. You know your father-in-law is very ill, dying indeed, and -yesterday he telegraphed for me to come to see him from London. What do you -think that he had to tell me?” -</p> - -<p> -Henry shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“This: that I am his legitimate daughter; for it seems that in marrying -your wife’s mother he committed bigamy, although he did not mean to do -so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken, -Joan, or we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect -clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told her on the -previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates of her mother’s -marriage and of her own birth. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old -rogue has betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious -that I should marry his daughter. Did <i>she</i> know anything of this, -Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is in -order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to you. Look, -there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the two -certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered them to the -winds. -</p> - -<p> -“What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they -are only copies.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered, -with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the name -of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the registration of -my birth.” -</p> - -<p> -“I will get those out of <i>him,</i> he said grimly, nodding his head -towards the house. -</p> - -<p> -“If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the -sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can -well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret of her -birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was ever -man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is just, for it is -Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name, -attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.” -</p> - -<p> -“By whom?” -</p> - -<p> -“By my husband, to whose house I must now be going.” -</p> - -<p> -For a few moments there was silence, then Joan spoke again:— -</p> - -<p> -“I forgot, Henry: I have something to give you that you may like to -keep,” and she took a tiny packet from her breast. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” he said, shrinking back a little. -</p> - -<p> -“Only—a lock of the—baby’s hair.” And she kissed -it and gave it to him. -</p> - -<p> -He placed the paper in his purse calmly enough. Then he broke down. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! my God,” he said, with a groan, “forgive me, but this is -more than I can bear.” -</p> - -<p> -Another second, and they were sobbing in each other’s arms, seeing -nothing of a man, with a face made devilish by hate and jealousy, who craned -his head forward to watch them from the shelter of a thick bush some few yards -away. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br/> -HUSBAND AND WIFE.</h2> - -<p> -When Joan parted from Henry she walked quickly to Monk’s Vale station to -catch the train. Arriving just in time, she bought a third-class ticket to -Bradmouth, and got into an empty carriage. Already they were starting, when the -door opened, and a man entered the compartment. At first she did not look at -him, so intent was she upon her own thoughts, till some curious influence -caused her to raise her eyes, and she saw that the man was her husband, Samuel -Rock. -</p> - -<p> -She gazed at him astonished, although it was not wonderful that she should -chance to meet a person within a few miles of his own home; but she said -nothing. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Joan?” Samuel began, and as he spoke, she noticed -that his eyes were bloodshot and wild, and his face and hands twitched: -“I thought I couldn’t be mistook when I saw you on the -platform.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you been following me, then?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, in a way I have. You see it came about thus: this morning I find -that young villain, Willie Hood, driving his donkeys off my foreshore pastures, -and we had words, I threatening to pull him, and he giving me his sauce. -</p> - -<p> -“Presently he says, ‘You’d be better employed looking after -your wife than grudging my dickies a bellyful of sea thistles; for, as we all -know, you are a very affectionate husband, and would like to see her down here -after she’s been travelling so long for the benefit of her health.’ -Then, of course, I ask him what he may chance to mean; for though I have your -letter in my pocket saying that you were coming home shortly, I didn’t -expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-day, Joan; and he tells me that he -met you last night bound for Monk’s Vale. So you see to Monk’s Vale -I come, and there I find you, though what you may happen to be doing, naturally -I can’t say.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have been to see Mr. Levinger,” she answered; “he is very -ill, and telegraphed for me yesterday.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did he now! Of course that explains everything; though why he should -want to see you it isn’t for me to guess. And now where might you be -going, Joan? Is it ‘home, sweet home’ for you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I propose to go to Moor Farm, if you find it convenient.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed! Well, then, that’s all right, and you’ll be -heartily welcome. The place has been done up tidy for you, Joan, by the same -man that has been working at Rosham to make ready for the bride. She’s -come home to-day too, and it ain’t often in these parts that we have two -brides home-coming together. It makes one wonder which of the husbands is the -happier man. Well, here we are at Bradmouth, so if you’ll come along to -the Crown and Mitre I’ll get my cart and we’ll drive together. -There are new folks there now. Your aunt’s in jail, and your uncle is in -the workhouse; and both well suited, say I, though p‘raps you will think -them a loss.” -</p> - -<p> -To all this talk, and much more like it, Joan made little or no answer. She was -not in a condition to observe people or things closely, nevertheless it struck -her that there was something very strange about Samuel’s manner. It -occurred to her even that he must have been drinking, so wild were his looks -and so palpable his efforts to keep his words and gestures under some sort of -control. -</p> - -<p> -Presently they were seated in the cart and had started for Moor Farm. The horse -was a young and powerful animal, but Samuel drove it quietly enough till they -were clear of the village. Then he commenced to shout at it and to lash it with -his whip, till the terrified beast broke into a gallop and they were tearing -along the road at a racing pace. -</p> - -<p> -“We can’t get home too fast, can we, darling?” he yelled into -her ear, “and the nag knows it. Come on, Sir Henry,—come on! You -know that a pretty woman likes to go the pace, don’t you?” and -again he brought down his heavy whip across the horse’s flanks. -</p> - -<p> -Joan clung to the rail of the cart, clenched her teeth and said nothing. -Luckily the last half-mile of the road ran up a steep incline, and, -notwithstanding Rock’s blows and urgings, the horse, being grass-fed, -became blown, and was forced to moderate its pace. Opposite the door of the -house Rock pulled it up so suddenly that Joan was almost thrown on to her head; -but, recovering her balance, she descended from the cart; which her husband -gave into the charge of a labourer. -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s your missus come home at last, John,” he said, with -an idiotic chuckle. “Look at her: she’s a sight for sore eyes, -isn’t she?” -</p> - -<p> -“Glad to see her, I’m sure,” answered the man. “But if -you drive that there horse so you’ll break his wind, that’s all, or -he’ll break your neck, master.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! John, but you see your missus likes to go fast. We’ve been too -slow up at Moor Farm, but all that’s going to be changed now.” -</p> - -<p> -As he spoke two great dogs rushed round the corner of the house baying, and one -of them, seeing that Joan was a stranger, leapt at her and tore the sleeve of -her dress. She cried out in fear, and the man, John, running from the head of -the horse, beat the dogs back. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! you would, Towser, would you?” said Rock. “You wait a -moment, and I’ll teach you that no one has a right to touch a lady except -her husband,” and he ran into the house. -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus18"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig18.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘Come on, Sir Henry—come on!’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Don’t go, pray,” said Joan to the man; “I am -frightened,” —and she shrank to his side for protection, for the -dogs were still walking round her growling, their hair standing up upon their -backs. -</p> - -<p> -By way of answer John tapped his forehead significantly and whispered, -“You look out for yourself, missus; he’s going as his grandfather -did. He’s allus been queer, but I never did see him like this -before.” -</p> - -<p> -Just then Rock reappeared from the house, carrying his double-barrelled gun in -his hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Towser, old boy! come here, Towser!” he said, addressing the dog -in a horrible voice of pretended affection, that, however, did not deceive it, -for it stood still, eyeing him suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -“Surely,” Joan gasped, “you are not going——” -</p> - -<p> -The words were scarcely out of her mouth when there was a report, and the -unfortunate Towser rolled over on to his side dying, with a charge of No. 4 -shot in his breast. The horse, frightened by the noise, started off, John -hanging to the reins. -</p> - -<p> -“There, Towser, good dog,” said Rock, with a brutal laugh, -“that’s how I treat them that try to interfere with my wife. Now -come in, darling, and see your pretty home.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan, who had hidden her eyes that she might not witness the dying struggles of -the wretched dog, let fall her hand, and looked round wildly for help. Seeing -none, she took a few steps forward with the idea of flying from this fiend. -</p> - -<p> -“Where are you going, Joan?” he asked suspiciously. “Surely -you are never thinking of running away, are you? Because I tell you, you -won’t do that; so don’t you try it, my dear. If I’m to be a -widower again, it shall be a real one next time.” And he lifted the gun -towards her and grinned. -</p> - -<p> -Then, the man John having vanished with the cart, Joan saw that her only chance -was to appear unconcerned and watch for an opportunity to escape later. -</p> - -<p> -“Run away!” she said, “what are you thinking of? I only -wanted to see if the horse was safe,” and she turned and walked through -the deserted garden to the front door of the house, which she entered. -</p> - -<p> -Rock followed her, locking the door behind her as he had done when Mrs. -Gillingwater came to visit him, and with much ceremonious politeness ushered -her into the sitting-room. This chamber had been re-decorated with a flaring -paper, that only served to make it even more incongruous and unfit to be lived -in by any sane person than before; and noting its gloom, which by contrast with -the brilliant June sunshine without was almost startling, and the devilish -faces of carved stone that grinned down upon her from the walls, Joan crossed -its threshold with a shiver of fear. -</p> - -<p> -“Here we are at last!” said Samuel. “Welcome to your home, -Joan Rock!” And he made a movement as though to embrace her, which she -avoided by walking straight past him to the farther side of the table. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll be wanting something to eat, Joan,” he went on. -“There’s plenty in the house if you don’t mind cooking it. -You see I haven’t got any servants here at present,” he added -apologetically, “as you weren’t expected so soon; and the old woman -who comes in to do for me is away sick.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly I will cook the food,” Joan answered. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s right, dear—I was afraid that you might be too grand -but perhaps you would like to wash your hands first while I light the fire in -the kitchen stove. Come here,” and he led the way through the door near -the fireplace to the foot of an oaken stair. “There,” he said, -“that’s our room, on the right. It’s no use trying any of the -others, because they’re all locked up. I shall be just here in the -kitchen, so you will see me when you come down.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan went upstairs to the room, which was large and well furnished, though, -like that downstairs, badly lighted by one window only, and secured with iron -bars, as though the place had been used as a prison at some former time. -Clearly it was Samuel’s own room, for his clothes and hats were hung upon -some pegs near the door, and other of his possessions were arranged in -cupboards and on the shelves. -</p> - -<p> -Almost mechanically she washed her hands and tidied her hair with a brush from -her handbag. Then she sat down and tried to think, to find only that her mind -had become incapable, so numbed was it by all that she had undergone, and with -the terrors mental and bodily of her present position. Nor indeed was much time -allowed her for thought, since presently she heard the hateful voice of her -husband calling to her that the fire was ready. At first she made no answer, -whereon Samuel spoke again from the foot of the stairs, saying,— -</p> - -<p> -“If you won’t come down, dear, I must come up, as I can’t -bear to lose sight of you for so long at a time.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Joan descended to the kitchen, where the fire burnt brightly and a -beef-steak was placed upon the table ready for cooking. She set to work to fry -the meat and to boil the kettle and the potatoes; while Samuel, seated in a -chair by the table, followed her every movement with his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, this is what I call real pleasant and homely,” he said, -“and I’ve been looking forward to it for many a month as I sat by -myself at night. Not that I want you to be a drudge, Joan—don’t you -think it. I’ve got lots of money, and you shall spend it: yes, you shall -have your carriage and pair if you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are very kind,” she murmured, “but I don’t wish to -live above my station. Perhaps you will lay the table and bring me the teapot, -as I think that the steak is nearly done.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose to obey with alacrity, but before he left the room Joan saw with a -fresh tremor that he was careful to lock the kitchen door and to put the key -into his pocket. Evidently he suspected her of a desire to escape. -</p> - -<p> -In a few more minutes the meal was ready, and they were seated -<i>tête-à-tête</i> in the parlour. -</p> - -<p> -When he had helped her Joan asked him if she should pour out the tea. -</p> - -<p> -“No, never mind that wash,” he said; “I’ve got -something that I have been keeping against this day.” And going to a -cupboard he produced glasses and two bottles, one of champagne and the other of -brandy. Opening the first, he filled two tumblers with the wine, giving her one -of them. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, dear, you shall drink a toast,” he said. “Repeat it -after me. ‘Your health, dearest husband, and long may we live -together.’” -</p> - -<p> -Having no option but to fall into his humour, or run the risk of worse things, -Joan murmured the words, although they almost choked her, and drank the -wine—for which she was very thankful, for by now it was past seven -o’clock, and she had touched nothing since the morning. Then she made -shift to swallow some food, washing it down with sips of champagne. If she ate -little, however, her husband ate less, though she noticed with alarm that he -did not spare the bottle. -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t often that I drink wine, Joan,” he said, “for -I hold it sinful waste not but what there’ll always be wine for you if -you want it. But this is a night to make merry on, seeing that a man -isn’t married every day,” and he finished the last of the -champagne. “Oh! Joan,” he added, “it’s like a dream to -think that you’ve come to me at last. You don’t know how I’ve -longed for you all these months; and now you are mine, mine, my own beautiful -Joan for those whom God has joined together no man can put asunder, however -much they may try. I kept my oath to you faithful, didn’t I, Joan? and -now it’s your turn to keep yours to me. You remember what you swore that -you would be a true and good wife to me, and that you wouldn’t see -nothing of that villain who deceived you. I suppose that you haven’t seen -him during all these months, Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean Sir Henry Graves,” she answered, “I met him -to-day as I walked to Monk’s Vale station.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you now?” he said, with a curious writhing of the lips: -“that’s strange, isn’t it, that you should happen to go to -Monk’s Lodge without saying nothing to your husband about it, and that -there you should happen to meet him within a few hours of his getting back to -England? I suppose you didn’t speak to him, did you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I spoke a few words.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! a few words. Well, that was wrong of you, Joan, for it’s -against your oath; but I dare say that they were to tell him just to keep clear -in future?” -</p> - -<p> -Joan nodded, for she dared not trust herself to speak. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, then, that’s all right, and he’s done with. And now, -Joan, as we’ve finished supper, you come here like a good wife, and put -your arms round my neck and kiss me, and tell me that you love me, and that you -hate that man, and are glad that the brat is dead.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan sat silent, making no answer. For a few moments he waited as though -expecting her to move, then he rose and came towards her with outstretched arms. -</p> - -<p> -Seeing his intention, she sprang from her chair and slipped to the other side -of the table. -</p> - -<p> -“Come,” he said, “don’t run from me, for our courting -days are over, and it’s silly in a wife. Are you going to say what I -asked you, Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she answered in a quiet voice, for her instincts overcame her -fears; “I have promised to live with you, though you know why I married -you, and I’ll do it till it kills me, even if you are mad; but I’ll -not tell you a lie, for I never promised to love you, and I hate you now more -than ever I did.” -</p> - -<p> -Samuel turned deadly white, then poured out a glass of neat brandy and drank it -before he answered. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s straight, anyway, Joan. But it’s queer that while you -won’t lie to me of one thing you ain’t above doing it about -another. P’raps you didn’t know it, but I was there to-day when you -had your ‘few words’ with your lover. He never saw me, but I -followed him from Bradmouth step for step, though sometimes I had to hide -behind trees and hedges to do it. You see I thought he would lead me to you; -and so he did, for I saw you kissing and hugging —yes, you who belong to -me—I saw you holding that man in your arms. Mad, do you say I am? Yes, I -went mad then, though mayhap if you’d done what I asked you just now I -might have got over it, for I felt my brain coming right; but now it is going -again, going, going! And, Joan, since you hate me so bad, there is only one -thing left to do, and that is——” And with a wild laugh he -dashed towards the mantelpiece to reach down the gun which hung above it. -</p> - -<p> -Then Joan’s nerve broke down, and she fled. From the house itself there -was no escape, for every door was locked; so, followed by the madman, she ran -panting with terror upstairs to the room where she had washed her hands, and, -shutting the door, shot the strong iron bolt not too soon, for next instant her -husband was dashing his weight against it. Very shortly he gave up the attempt, -for he could make no impression upon oak and iron; and she heard him lock the -door on the outside, raving the while. Then he tramped downstairs, and for a -time there was silence. Presently she became aware of a scraping noise at the -lattice; and, creeping along under shelter of the wall, she peeped round the -corner of the window place. Already the light was low, but she could see the -outlines of a white face glowering into the room through the iron bars without. -Next instant there was a crash, and fragments of broken glass fell tinkling to -the carpet. Then a voice spoke, saying, “Listen to me, Joan: I am here, -on a ladder. I won’t hurt you, I swear it; I was mad just now, but I am -sane again. Open the door, and let us make it up.” -</p> - -<p> -Joan crouched upon the floor and made no answer. -</p> - -<p> -Now there came the sounds of a man wrenching at the bars, which apparently -withstood all the strength that he could exert. For twenty minutes or more this -went on, after which there was silence for a while, and gradually it grew dark -in the room. At length through the broken pane she heard a laugh, and -Samuel’s voice saying: -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus19"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig19.jpg" width="600" height="450" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘A white face glowering into the room.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Listen to me, my pretty: you won’t come out, and you won’t -let me in, but I’ll be square with you for all that. You -sha’n’t have any lover to kiss to-morrow, because I’m going -to make cold meat of him. It isn’t you I want to kill; I ain’t such -a fool, for what’s the use of you to me dead? I should only sit by your -bones till I died myself. I’ve gone through too much to win you to want -to be rid of you so soon. You’d be all right if it wasn’t for the -other man, and once he’s gone you’ll tell me that you love me fast -enough; so now, Joan, I’m going to kill him. If he sticks to what I heard -him tell his servant this morning, he should be walking back to Rosham in about -an hour’s time, by one of the paths that run past Ramborough Abbey wall. -Well, I shall be waiting for him there, at the Cross-Roads, so that I -can’t miss him whichever way he comes, and this time we will settle our -accounts. Good-bye, Joan: I hope you won’t be lonely till I get home. I -suppose that you’d like me to bring you a lock of his hair for a -keepsake, wouldn’t you? or will you have that back again which you gave -him this day the dead brat’s, you know? You sit in there and say your -prayers, dear, that it may please Heaven to make a good wife of you; for one -thing’s certain, you can’t get out,” and he began to descend -the ladder. -</p> - -<p> -Joan waited awhile and then peered through the window. She believed little of -Samuel’s story as to his design of murdering Henry, setting it down as an -idle tale that he had invented to alarm her. Therefore she directed her -thoughts to the possibility of escape. -</p> - -<p> -While she was thus engaged she saw a sight which terrified her indeed: the -figure of her husband vanishing into the shadows of the twilight, holding in -his hand the double-barrelled gun with which he had shot the dog and threatened -her. Could it, then, be true? He was walking straight for Ramborough, and -swiftly walking like a man who has some purpose to fulfil. She called to him -wildly, but no answer came; though once he turned, looking towards the house, -threw up his arm and laughed. -</p> - -<p> -Then he disappeared over the brow of the slope. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br/> -FULL MEASURE, PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER.</h2> - -<p> -Joan staggered back from the window, gasping in her terror. Her husband was mad -with jealousy and hate and every other passion. She could see now that he had -always been more or less mad, and that his frantic love for herself was but a -form of insanity, which during the long months of their separation had deepened -and widened until it obtained a complete mastery over his mind. Then by an evil -fortune he had witnessed the piteous and passionate scene between Henry and -herself, or some part of it, and at the sight the last barriers of his reason -broke down, and he became nothing but an evil beast filled with the lust of -revenge and secret murder. Now he had gone to shoot down his rival in cold -blood; and this was the end of her scheming and self-sacrifice that she had -given herself to a lunatic and her lover to a bloody death! -</p> - -<p> -So awful was the thought that for a while Joan felt as though her own brain -must yield beneath it. Then of a sudden the desperate nature of the emergency -came home to her, and her mind cleared. Henry was still unharmed, and perhaps -he might be saved. Oh! if only she could escape from this prison, surely it -would be possible for her to save him, in this way or in that. But how? If she -could find any one about she might send to warn him and to obtain help; but -this she knew was not likely, for nobody lived at Moor Farm except its master, -and by now the labourers would have gone to their homes in the valley, a mile -away. Well, once out of the house she might run to meet him herself? No, for -then possibly she would be too late. Besides, there were at least three ways by -which Henry could walk from Bradmouth by the cliff road, by the fen path, or -straight across the heath; and all these separate routes converged at a spot -beneath the wall of the old Abbey known as the Cross-Roads. That was why Samuel -had chosen this place for his deed of blood: as he had told her, he knew that -if he came at all his victim must pass within a few paces of a certain portion -of the ruined churchyard fence. -</p> - -<p> -What, then, could be done? Joan flung herself upon the bed and thought for a -while, and as she lay thus a dreadful inspiration came into her mind. -</p> - -<p> -If she could get free it would be easy for her to personate Henry. There upon -the pegs hung a man’s coat and a hat, not unlike those which he was -wearing that day. They were much of a height, her hair was short, and she could -copy the limp in his gait. Who then would know them apart, in the uncertain -glimmer of the night? Surely not the maddened creature crouching behind some -bush that he might satisfy his hate in blood. But so, if things went well, and -if she did not chance to meet Henry in time to save him, as she hoped to do, -she herself must die within an hour, or at the best run the risk of death! What -of it? At least he would escape, for, whether or not her husband discovered his -error, after all was over, she was sure that one murder would satiate his -vengeance. Also would it not be better to die than to live the life that lay -before her? Would it not even be sweet to die, if thereby she could preserve -the man she loved more than herself a thousand times? She had made many a -sacrifice for him; and this, the last, would be the lightest of them, for then -he would learn how true she was to him, and always think of her with -tenderness, and long to greet her beyond the nothingness of death. Besides, it -might not come to this. Providence might interpose to rescue her and him. She -might see him in time coming by the cliff road, or she might find her husband -and turn him from his purpose. -</p> - -<p> -Oh! her mind was mazed with terror for Henry, and torn by perplexities as to -how she best might save his life. Well, there was no more leisure to search out -a better plan; if she would act, it must be at once. Springing from the bed, -she ran to the window, and throwing it wide, screamed for help. Her cries -echoed through the silent air, but the only answer to them was the baying of -the dog. There were matches on the mantelpiece, she had seen them; and, groping -in the dark, she found the box and lit the candles. Then she tried the door; it -was locked on the outside, and she could not stir it. Next she examined the -window place, against which the ladder that Rock had set there was still -standing. It was secured by three iron bars let into the brickwork at the top -and screwed to the oaken sill at the bottom. -</p> - -<p> -Scrutinising these bars closely, she saw that, although her husband had not -been able to wrench them away, he had loosened the centre one, for in the -course of many years the rust of the iron mixing with the tannin in the oak had -widened the screw holes, so that the water, settling in them, had rotted that -portion of the sill. Could she but force out this bar she would be able to -squeeze her body through the gap and to set her feet upon the ladder. -</p> - -<p> -There was a fireplace in the room, and, resting on the dogs in front of it, lay -a heavy old-fashioned poker. Seizing it, she ran to the window and struck the -bottom of the centre bar again and again with all her strength. The screws -began to give. Now they were half-way out of the decaying woodwork, but she -could force them no farther with blows. For a moment Joan seemed to be baffled, -then she took refuge in a new expedient. Thrusting the poker outside of the bar -to the right, and the end of it inside that which she was seeking to dislodge, -she obtained a powerful leverage and pulled in jerks. At the third jerk her -hand came suddenly in contact with the sharp angle of the brickwork, that -rasped the skin from the back of it; the screws gave way, and the bar, slipping -from the hole in which its top end was set, fell clattering down the ladder. -</p> - -<p> -Now the road was open, and it remained only for her to dress herself to the -part. Half crying with the pain of her hurt and bleeding hand, quickly Joan put -on the hat and overcoat, remembering even then that they were the same which -Rock had worn when he came to see her in London, and, going to the window, she -struggled through the two remaining bars on to the ladder. Reaching the ground, -she ran through the garden to the heathland, for she feared lest the surviving -dog should espy and attack her. But no dog appeared: perhaps the corpse of its -brother that still lay by the gate kept it away. -</p> - -<p> -Now she was upon the heathland and heading straight for the ruins of -Ramborough, which lay at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile from the -house. The night was fine and the air soft, but floating clouds now and again -obscured the face of the half-moon, that lay low in the sky, causing great -shadows to strike suddenly across the moor. Her way ran past the meres, where -the wind whispered drearily amongst the growing reeds and the nesting wild-fowl -called to each other across the water. There was a great loneliness about the -place; no living creature was to be seen; and, at the moment, this feeling of -solitude weighed more heavily upon her numbed heart than the sense of the death -that she was courting. The world was still with her, and its moods and -accidents affected her as they had always done; but the possibilities of that -other unrisen world upon whose brink she stood, and the fear of it, moved her -but little, and she scarcely thought of what or where she might or might not be -within an hour. Those terrors were to come. -</p> - -<p> -She was past the meres, and standing on a ridge of ground that lies between -them and the cliff. Before her, when the moon shone out, she could see the -glimmer of the ocean, the white ribbon of the road, and the ruins of Ramborough -showing distinctly against the delicate beauty of the twilight summer sky. On -she went, scanning the heath and the cliff with eager eyes, in the hope that -she might discover the man she sought. It was in vain; the place was empty and -desolate, a home of solitude. -</p> - -<p> -At length she stood upon the border of the cliff road, and the Abbey was in a -line with her some two hundred yards to the right. Here she paused awhile, -staring into the shadows and listening earnestly. But there was nothing to be -seen except the varying outlines of the clouds, and nothing to be heard save -the murmur of the sea, the stirring of the wind among the grasses, and now and -again the cry of some gull seeking its food by night. -</p> - -<p> -Now it was, as she stood thus, that a great fear of death took her, and it -seemed as though all her past life went before her eyes in pictures, full, -every one of them, of exact and bewildering detail. For the most part these -pictures were not pleasant, yet it chilled her to remember that the series -might so soon be ended. At the least they were human and comprehensible, -whereas what lay beyond might be inhuman and above her understanding. Also it -came home to her that she was not fit to die: until her child was taken from -her, she had never turned much to religion, and of late she had thought more of -her own cruel misfortunes and of her lost lover than of her spiritual -responsibilities, or the future welfare of her soul. -</p> - -<p> -She was minded to fly; she had escaped from her prison, and no law could force -her to live with a madman. Why should she not go back to Monk’s Lodge, or -to London, to seek a new existence for herself, leaving these troubles behind -her? After all, she was young and beautiful, and it was sweet to live; and now -that she was near to it the death which once she had so passionately desired -seemed a grim, unfriendly thing. -</p> - -<p> -But then there was Henry. He was lost to her, indeed, and the husband of -another woman; yet, if she deserted him now, what would become of him? His -career was before him a long and happy career and it was pitiable to think that -within some few minutes he might be lying in the grass murdered for her sake by -a wretched lunatic. And yet, if she offered herself up for him, what must be -the end of it? It would be that after a period of shock and disturbance his -life would fall back into its natural courses, and, surrounded by the love of -wife and children, he would forget her, or, at the best, remember her at times -with a vague, affectionate regret. No man could spend his days in mourning -continually over a passionate and inconvenient woman, who had brought him much -sorrow and anxiety, even though in the end she chanced to have given him the -best proof possible of her affection, by laying down her life for his. -</p> - -<p> -Well, so let it be. Afraid or not afraid, she would offer what she had, and the -gift must be valued according to its worth in the eyes of him to whom it was -given. Existence was a tangle which she had been quite unable to loose, and -now, although her dread was deep, she was willing that Death should cut its -knot; for here she had no hope, and, unless it pleased fate that it should be -otherwise, to Death she would consign herself. -</p> - -<p> -All these thoughts, and many others, passed through her mind in that brief -minute, while, tossed between love and terror, Joan stood to search the -landscape and recover her breath. Then, with one last glance over the moorland, -she stepped on to the road and began to walk slowly towards the Abbey. Fifty -yards away the three paths met, but the ground lay so that to reach the -Cross-Roads, their junction, and to see even a little distance along the other -two of them, she must pass the corner of the broken churchyard wall. Dared she -do it, knowing that perchance there her death awaited her? Coward that she was, -while she lingered Henry might be murdered! Even now, perhaps this very -instant, he was passing to his doom by one of the routes which she could not -see. -</p> - -<p> -She paused a moment, looking up the main road in the hope that she might catch -sight of Henry advancing down it. But she could perceive no one; an utter -loneliness brooded on the place. Moreover, the moon at this moment was obscured -by a passing cloud. For aught she knew, the deed was already done only then she -would have heard the shot or perhaps Henry had driven to Rosham, or had gone by -the beach, or the fit of homicidal mania had passed from her husband’s -mind. Should she go on, or wait there, or run away? No, she must reach the -Cross-Roads: she would not run; she would play the hand out. -</p> - -<p> -Of a sudden a strange excitement or exaltation of mind took possession of her; -her nerves tingled, and the blood drummed in her ears. She felt like some -desperate gambler staking his wealth and reputation on a throw, and tasted of -the gambler’s joy. For a moment, under the influence of this new mood, -the uncertainty of her fate became delightful to her, and she smiled to think -that few have played such a game as this, of which the issues were the -salvation of her lover and the hazard of her mortal breath. -</p> - -<p> -Now she began to act her part, walking forward with a limp like Henry’s, -till she was opposite to and some five yards away from the angle of the -churchyard wall. Here a swift change came over her; the false excitement passed -away, and again she grew mortally afraid. She could not do it! The Cross-Roads -were now not twenty paces from her, and once there she might see him and save -him. But never could she walk past that wall, knowing that behind it a murderer -might be lurking, that every stone and bush and tuft of grass might hide him -who would send her to a violent and cruel death. It was very well to make these -heroic resolutions at a distance, but when the spot and moment of their -execution were at hand ah! then the thing was different! She prayed God that -Henry had escaped, or might escape, but she could not take this way to preserve -him. Her mind was willing, but the poor flesh recoiled from it. She would call -aloud to her husband, and reveal herself to him if he were there. No, for then -he would guess her mission, render her helpless in this way or that what chance -had she against a madman? and afterwards do the deed. So it came to this: she -must go back and wait, upon the chance of meeting Henry on the cliff road, for -forward she dared not go. -</p> - -<p> -Already she had turned to fly, when her ear caught a sound in the intense -silence such a sound as might have been made by some beast of prey dragging -itself stealthily towards its victim. Instantly Joan became paralysed; the -extremity of terror deprived her of all use of her limbs or voice, and so she -stood with her back towards the wall. Now there was a new sound, as of -something rising quickly through deep grass or brushwood, and then she heard -the dull noise of the hammer of a gun falling upon an uncapped nipple. In a -flash she interpreted its meaning: her husband had forgotten to reload that -barrel with which he shot the dog! There was still a chance of life for her, -and in this hope Joan’s vital powers returned. Uttering a great cry, she -swung round upon her heel so swiftly that the hat fell from her head, and the -moonlight passing from the curtain of a cloud, shone upon her ashy face. As she -turned, her eyes fell upon another face, the face of a devil of Samuel Rock. He -was standing behind the wall, that reached to his breast, and the gun in his -hand was levelled at her. A tongue of flame shot out, and, in the glare of it, -it seemed to her that his countenance of hellish hate had changed its aspect to -one of agony. Then Joan became aware of a dull shock at her breast, and down -she sank senseless on the roadway. -</p> - -<p> -Joan was right. Perceiving her from the Cross-Roads knoll, his place of -outlook, whence, although himself invisible, he commanded a view of the three -paths, Rock, deceived by her disguise and assumed lameness, into the belief -that his wife was Henry advancing by the cliff road, had crept towards her -under shelter of the wall to kill her as she stood. But in that last moment he -learned his error too late! Yes, before the deed was done he tasted the agony -of knowing that he was wreaking murder upon the woman he desired, and not upon -the man she loved. Too late! Already his finger had contracted on the trigger, -and the swift springs were at their work. He tried to throw up the gun, but as -the muzzle stirred, the charge left it to bury itself in the bosom of his wife. -</p> - -<p> -Casting down the gun, he sprang over the wall and ran to her. She was lying on -her back, dead as he thought, with opened eyes and arms thrown wide. Once he -looked, then with yells of horror the madman bounded from her side and rushed -away, he knew not whither. -</p> - -<p> -When Henry parted with Joan in the Monk’s Lodge summer-house that -morning, anger and bitter resentment were uppermost in his mind, directed first -against his father-in-law, and next against his family, more particularly his -mother. He had been trapped and deluded, and now, alas! it was too late to -right the wrong. Indeed, so far as his wife was concerned, he could not even -speak of it. Joan spoke truly when she said that Emma must never hear of these -iniquities, or learn that both the name she had borne and the husband whom she -loved had been filched from another woman. Poor girl! at least she was -innocent; it must be his duty to protect her from the consequences of the guilt -of others, and even from a knowledge of it. -</p> - -<p> -But Levinger, her father, was not innocent, and towards him he was under no -such obligation. Therefore, sick or well, he would pour out his wrath upon him, -and to his face would call him the knave and liar that he was. -</p> - -<p> -But it was not fated that in this world Mr. Levinger should ever listen to the -reproaches of his son-in-law. When Henry reached the house he was informed that -the sick man had fallen into a restless sleep, from which he must not be -disturbed. Till nine o’clock that sleep endured, while Henry waited with -such patience as he could command; then suddenly there was a cry and a stir, -and the news was brought to him that, without the slightest warning or -premonition of immediate danger, Mr. Levinger had passed from sleep into death. -</p> - -<p> -Sobered and calmed by the shock of such tidings, Henry gave those orders which -were necessary, and then started for home, where he must break the fact of her -father’s death to Emma. He had arranged to return to Bradmouth by the -last train; but it was already gone, so he drove thither in the dog-cart that -went to advise Dr. Childs and others of what had happened, and thence set out -to walk to Rosham half an hour or so later than he had intended. He might have -hired a cart and driven, but being the bearer of this heavy news, naturally -enough he had no wish to hurry; moreover he was glad of the space of quiet that -a lonely walk by night afforded him, for he had much to think of and to grieve -over. It was, he felt, a good thing that the old man should have died before he -spoke with him; for though certainly he would have done it, there was little -use in reproaching him with falsehoods and treachery the results of which could -not now be remedied. -</p> - -<p> -Poor Joan! Hers was indeed a hard lot harder even than his own! It was a year -this day, he remembered, since first he had met her yonder by the ruins of -Ramborough Abbey. Who could know all that she had suffered during this eventful -year, or measure what was left for her to suffer in the time to come? Alas! he -could see no escape for her; she had entered on an unnatural marriage, but -still it was a marriage, and she must abide by her bargain, from which nothing -could free her except the death of her husband or of herself. And this she had -done for his sake, to safeguard him: ah! there was the bitterest part of it. -</p> - -<p> -While Henry walked on, chewing the cud of these unhappy reflections, suddenly -from the direction of Ramborough Abbey, that was a quarter of a mile or more -away, there floated to his ear the sound of a single cry far off, indeed, but -strangely piercing, followed almost instantly by the report of a gun loaded -with black powder. He halted and listened, trying to persuade himself that the -cry was that of some curlew which a poacher had shot out of season; only to -abandon the theory so soon as he conceived it, for something in his heart told -him that this scream was uttered by mortal lips by the lips of a woman in -despair or agony. A few seconds passed, and he heard other sounds, those of -short, sharp yells uttered in quick succession, but of so inhuman a note that -he was unable to decide if they proceeded from a man or from some wounded -animal. -</p> - -<p> -He started forward at a run to solve the mystery, and as he went the yells grew -louder and came nearer. Presently he halted, for there, from over the crest of -a little rise in the road, and not fifteen paces away, appeared the figure of a -man running with extraordinary swiftness. His hat had fallen from him, his long -hair seemed to stand up upon his head, his eyes stared wide in terror and were -ablaze with the fire of madness, his face was contorted and ashy white, and -from his open mouth issued hideous and unearthly sounds. So shocking was his -aspect in the moonlight that Henry sprang to one side and bethought him of the -tale of the Ramborough goblin. Now the man was level with him, and as he went -by he turned his head to look at him, and Henry knew the face for that of -Samuel Rock. -</p> - -<p> -“Dead!” shrieked the madman, wringing his hands— “dead, -<i>dead!</i>” and he was gone. -</p> - -<p> -Henry gasped, for his heart grew cold with fear. Joan had left him to join her -husband; and now, what had happened? That cry, the gunshot, and the sight that -he had seen, all seemed to tell of suicide or murder. No, no, he would not -believe it! On he went again, till presently he saw a lad running towards him -who called to him to stop. -</p> - -<p> -“Who are you?” he gasped, “and what is the matter here?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m Willie Hood, and that’s just what I should like to know, -Sir Henry,” was the answer, “more especial as not five minutes -since I thought that I saw you walking up to the Abbey yonder.” -</p> - -<p> -“You saw <i>me</i> walking there! Rubbish! I have just come from -Bradmouth. Did you see that man, Rock, run by?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I see’d him fast enough. I should say by the looks of him -that he has been doing murder and gone mad. Half an hour ago, before you came -along, or begging your pardon, some one as limped like you, he had a gun in his -hand, but that’s gone now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, young man,” said Henry, as they went forward, -“what are you doing here, that you come to see all these things?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I was driving my donkeys to feed on -Rock’s land, and when I saw him coming along with a gun I hid in the -bracken; for we had words about my taking his feed this very morning, and he -swore then that if he caught me at it again he’d shoot me and the dickies -too; so I lay pretty close till I saw the other man go by and heard the shriek -and the shot.” -</p> -<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> -<a name = "illus20"></a> -<br /> -<img src="images/fig20.jpg" width="600" height="432" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> -<p class="caption">‘It is Joan Haste.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Come along, for Heaven’s sake!” said Henry: “that -devil must have killed some one.” -</p> - -<p> -Now they were near to the Abbey wall, and Willie, catching his companion by the -arm, pointed to a dark shape which lay in the white dust of the roadway, and in -a terrified whisper said, “Look there! what’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -Henry dashed forward and knelt down beside the shape, peering at its face. Then -of a sudden he groaned aloud and said, “It is Joan Haste, and he has shot -her!” -</p> - -<p> -“Look at her breast!” whispered Willie, peeping over his shoulder. -“I told her how it would be. It was I who found you both a year ago just -here and looking like that, and now you see we have all come together again. I -told her it was a bad beginning, and would come to a bad end.” -</p> - -<p> -“Be silent, and help me to lift her,” said Henry in a hollow voice; -“perhaps she still lives.” -</p> - -<p> -Then together they raised her, and at that moment Joan opened her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen, you!” Henry said: “she is alive. Now run as you -never ran before, to Dr. Childs at Bradmouth, to the police, and anybody else -you can think of. Tell them what has happened, and bid them come here as fast -as horses can bring them. Do you understand?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then go.” -</p> - -<p> -Willie sprang forward like an arrow, and presently the sound of his footsteps -beating on the road grew faint and faded away. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Joan, Joan, my darling,” Henry whispered as he leant over her, -pressing her cold hands. “Cannot you speak to me, Joan?” -</p> - -<p> -At the sound of his voice the great empty eyes began to grow intelligent, and -the pale lips to move, faintly at first, then more strongly. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, Henry?” she said in a whisper: “I cannot -see.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. How did you come thus?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was going to murder you. I—I passed myself off for you—at -least, I tried to—but grew afraid, and was running away when -he—shot me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! my God! my God!” groaned Henry: “to think that such a -thing should have been allowed to be!” -</p> - -<p> -“It is best,” she answered, with a faint smile; “and I do not -suffer—much.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he knelt down beside her and held her in his arms, as once on a bygone day -she had held him. The thought seemed to strike her, for she said:— -</p> - -<p> -“A year ago to-night; do you remember? Oh! Henry, if I have sinned, it -has been paid back to me to the uttermost. Surely there can be nothing more to -suffer. And I am happy because—I think that you will love me better dead -than ever you did alive. ‘The way of transgressors —the way -of——’”and she ceased, exhausted. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall love you now, and then, and always—that I swear before -God,” he answered. “Forgive me, Joan, that I should ever have -doubted you even for a moment. I was deceived, and did not understand -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Again she smiled, and said, “Then I have done well to die, for in death I -find my victories—the only ones. But you must love the child -also—our child—Henry, since we shall wait for you together in the -place—of peace.” -</p> - -<p> -A while went by, and she spoke again, but not of herself or him:— -</p> - -<p> -“I have left Mrs. Bird in London—some money. When Mr. Levinger is -dead—there will be a good deal; see that—she gets it, for they were -kind to me. And, Henry, try to shield my husband—for I have sinned -against him—in hating him so much. Also tell your wife nothing—or -you will make her wretched—as I have been.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he answered, “and your father is dead; he died some -hours ago.” -</p> - -<p> -After this Joan closed her eyes, and, bleeding inwardly from her pierced lungs, -grew so cold and pulseless that Henry thought she must be gone. But it was not -so, for when half an hour or more had passed she spoke, with a great effort, -and in so low a whisper that he could scarcely hear her words, though his ear -was at her mouth. -</p> - -<p> -“Pray God to show me mercy, Henry—pray now and always. Oh, one hour -of love—and life and soul to pay!” she gasped, word by word. Then -the change came upon her face, and she added in a stronger voice, “Kiss -me: I am dying!” -</p> - -<p> -So he pressed his lips on hers; and presently, in the midst of the great -silence, Joan Haste’s last sobbing breath beat upon them in a sigh, and -the agony was over. -</p> - -<p> -Two hours later Henry arrived at Rosham, to find his mother and Mr. and Mrs. -Milward waiting to receive him. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear Henry, where have you been?” said Lady Graves. “It -is twelve o’clock, and we were beginning to fear that something had gone -wrong at Monk’s Lodge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Or that you had met with another accident, dear,” put in Ellen. -“But I haven’t given you a kiss yet, to welcome you home. Why, how -pale you look! and what is the matter with your coat?” -</p> - -<p> -“Where is Emma?” he asked, waving her back. -</p> - -<p> -“She was so dreadfully tired, dear,” said Lady Graves, “that -I insisted upon her going to bed. But has anything happened, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, a great deal. Mr. Levinger is dead: he died in his sleep this -evening.” -</p> - -<p> -Lady Graves sank back shocked; and Ellen exclaimed, “How dreadfully sad! -However, his health was very bad, poor man, so it is something of a release. -Also, though you won’t care to think of such things now, there will be -advantages for Emma——” -</p> - -<p> -“Be silent, Ellen. I have something more to tell you. Joan Haste, or -rather Joan Rock, is dead also.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dead!” they both exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dead, or, to be more accurate, murdered.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who murdered her?” asked Milward. -</p> - -<p> -“Her husband. I was walking back from Bradmouth, and found her dying in -the road. But there is no need to tell you the story now—you will hear -plenty of it; and I have something else to say. Do you mind leaving the room -for a moment, Mr. Milward? I wish to speak to my mother and my sister.” -</p> - -<p> -“Edward is my husband, Henry, and a member of the family.” -</p> - -<p> -“No doubt, Ellen, but I do not desire that he should hear what I have to -say. If you feel strongly about the matter I will go into the library with my -mother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! pray don’t trouble about me,” answered Edward; “I -am accustomed to this sort of thing here, and I shall only be too glad to smoke -a cigar in the hall, if Sir Henry does not object”; and he left the room, -an example which Ellen did not follow. -</p> - -<p> -“Now that we are quite alone, Henry, perhaps you will condescend to -unbosom yourself,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, Ellen. I have told you that this unhappy woman has been -murdered. She died in my arms”—and he glanced at his -coat—“now I will tell you why and how. She was shot down by her -husband, who mistook her for me, ‘whom he meant to murder. She discovered -his plan and personated me, dying in my stead. I do not wish to reproach either -of you; the thing is too fearful for reproaches, and that account you can -settle with your own consciences, as I must settle mine. But you worked so, -both of you, that, loving me as she did, and feeling that she would have no -strength to put me away otherwise, she gave herself in marriage to a man she -hated, to the madman who to-night has slaughtered her in his blind jealousy, -meaning to slaughter me. Do you know who this woman was, mother? She was Mr. -Levinger’s legitimate daughter: it is Emma who is illegitimate; but she -died begging me to keep the secret from my wife, and if you are wise you will -respect her wish, as I shall. I have nothing more to say. Things have gone -amiss between us, whoever is to blame; and now her life is lost, and mine is -ruined.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Lady Graves. “God -knows that, whatever I have done, I acted for what I believed to be the -best.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, mother,” said Ellen boldly, “and not only for what you -believed to be the best, but for what is the best. This unfortunate girl is -dead, it seems, not through any deed of ours, but by the decrees of Providence. -Henry says that his life is ruined; but do not grieve, mother,—he is not -himself, and he will think very differently in six months’ time. Also he -is responsible for this tragedy and no one else, since it springs from his own -sin. ‘<i>Les désirs accomplis,</i>’—you know the -saying. Well, he has accomplished his desire; he sowed the seed, and he must -reap the fruit and harvest it as best he may. -</p> - -<p> -“And now, with your permission, Henry, I will order the carriage. I -suppose that there will be policemen and reporters here presently, and you can -understand that just at this moment, with the elections coming on, Edward and I -do not wish to be mixed up in a most painful scandal.” -</p> - -<p> -FINIS. -</p> - -<p> -PRINTED FROM AMERICAN PLATES -</p> - -<p> -BY -</p> - -<p> -SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE, LONDON -</p> - -<p> -July, 1895. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOAN HASTE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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