“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.”