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.”