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.