Joan Haste. Генри Райдер Хаггард
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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.
“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 birdnesting. 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 very 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