“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.