JOAN HASTE - H. RIDER HAGGARD (inspirational novels txt) 📗

sent wreaths, saying in conclusion:

"Mr. Levinger of course was there, but Emma did not come. She sent a lovely wreath of eucharist lilies and stephanotis."

At this moment the old butler came in, his face stained with grief--for he had dearly loved Sir Reginald, who was his foster-brother--and announced that Dr. Childs was waiting to see Sir Henry.

"Show him up," said Henry, devoutly thankful for the interruption.

"How do you do, Captain--I mean Sir Henry Graves?" said the doctor, in his quiet voice, when Lady Graves and Ellen had left the room. "I attended your poor father's funeral, and then went on to see a patient, thinking that I would give you a look on my way back. However, don't let us talk of these things, but show me your leg if you will. Yes, I thought so; you have given it a nasty jar; you should never have tried to walk up those steps without help. Well, you will have to stop quiet for a month or so, that is all; and I think that it will be a good thing for you in more ways than one, for you seem very much shaken, my dear fellow, and no wonder, with all this trouble after a dangerous illness."

Henry thanked him; and then followed a little general conversation, in which Dr. Childs was careful not to let him know that he was aware of the scene that had occurred at his father's death, though as a matter of fact the wildest rumours were floating up and down the country side, based upon hints that had fallen from Lady Graves in her first grief, and on what had been overheard by listeners at the door. Presently he rose to go, saying that he would call again on the morrow.

"By the way," he added, "I have got to see another patient to-night--your late nurse, Joan Haste."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Henry, flushing suddenly red, a symptom of interest or distress that did not escape the doctor's practised eye.

"So the talk is true," he thought to himself. "Well, I guessed as much; indeed, I expected it all along: the girl has been in love with him for weeks. A pity, a sad pity!"

"Oh! nothing at all serious," he answered; "a chill and a touch of fever. It has been smouldering in her system for some time, I think. It seems she got soaked about ten days ago, and stood in her wet things. She is shaking it off now, however."

"Indeed; I am glad to hear that," Henry answered, in a tone of relief which he could not quite conceal. "Will you remember me to Miss Haste when you see her, and tell her that----"

"Yes?" said the doctor, his hand on the door.

"That I am glad she has recovered, and--that--I was sorry not to be able to say good-bye to her," he added hurriedly.

"Certainly," answered Dr. Childs, and went.

Henry saw no more of his mother or his sister that evening, which was a sorrowful one for him. He grieved alone in his room, comforted only by the butler Thomson, who came to visit him, and told him tales of his father's boyhood and youth; and they grieved elsewhere, each according to her own nature. On the morrow the doctor called early and reported favourably of Henry's condition. He told him that Joan was doing even better than he had expected, that she sent him her duty and thanked him kindly for his message, and with this Henry was fain to be content. Indeed, what other message could she have sent him, unless she had written? and something told him that she would not write. Any words that could be put on paper would express both too much and too little.

Henry was not the only person at Rosham whose rest was troubled this night, seeing that Ellen also did not sleep well. She had loved her father in her own way and sorrowed for him, but she loved her family better than any individual member of it, and mourned still more bitterly for its sad fate. Also she had her own particular troubles to overcome, for she was well aware that Edward imagined her to possess the portion of eight thousand pounds which had been allotted to her under the will, and it was necessary that he should be undeceived and enlightened on various other points in connection with the Rosham affairs, which could no longer be concealed from him. On the morrow he rode over from Upcott, and very soon gave Ellen a chance of explanation, by congratulating her upon the prospective receipt of the eight thousand. Like a bold woman she took her opportunity at once, though she did not care about this task and had some fears for the issue.

"Don't congratulate me, Edward," she said, "for I must tell you I have discovered that this eight thousand pounds is very much in the clouds."

Edward whistled. "Meaning----?" he asked.

"Meaning, my dear, that after you left the lawyer explained our financial position. To put it shortly, the entail has been cut, the estate has been mortgaged for more than its value, and there is not a farthing for anybody."

"Indeed!" answered Edward: "that's jolly good news. Might I ask what is going to happen then?"

"It all depends upon Henry. If he is not a fool, and marries Miss Levinger, everything will come right, except my eight thousand pounds of course, for she holds the mortgages, or her father does for her. If he /is/ a fool--which I have reason to believe is the case--and declines to marry Miss Levinger, then I suppose that the estate will be made bankrupt and that my mother will be left to starve."

At this announcement Edward uttered an indignant grunt.

"Look here, Ellen," he said; "it is all very fine, but you have been playing it pretty low down upon me. I never heard a word of this mess, although, of course, I knew that you were embarrassed, like most people nowadays. What I did not know--to say nothing of your not having a penny--was that I am to have the honour of marrying into a family of bankrupts; and, to tell you the truth, I am half inclined to reconsider my position, for I don't wish to be mixed up with this sort of thing."

"About that you must do as you like, Edward," she answered, with dignity; "but let me tell you that this state of affairs is not my fault. In the first place, it is the fault of those who are dead and gone, and still more is it the fault of my brother Henry, whose wickedness and folly threaten to plunge us all into ruin."

"What do you mean by his 'wickedness and folly'?"

"I mean that matter of which I spoke to you before--the matter of this wretched girl, Joan Haste. It seems that he has become involved in some miserable intrigue with her, after the disgusting fashion of you men, and on this account he refuses to marry Emma Levinger. Yes, although my father prayed him to do so with his dying breath, he still refuses, when he knows that it would be his own salvation and that of his family also."

"He must be mad," said Edward--"stark, staring mad: it's no such great wonder about the girl, but that he should decline to marry Miss Levinger is sheer insanity; for, although I don't think much of her, and the connection is a bad one, it is clear that she has got the dollars. What does he mean to do, then? Marry the other one?"

"Very possibly, for all I know to the contrary. It would be quite in keeping with his conduct."

"Oh, hang it, Ellen!--that I could not stand. It is not to be expected of any man that he should come into a family of which the head will be a bankrupt, who insists upon marrying a barmaid."

"Again I say that you must please yourself, Edward; but if you feel so strongly about Henry's conduct--and I admit that it is quite natural that you should do so--perhaps you had better speak to him yourself."

"All right: I will," he answered. "Although I don't like meddling with other people's love affairs, for I have quite enough to do to manage my own, I will give him my mind pretty straight. He's a nasty customer to tackle; but if he doesn't know before he's an hour older that there are other people to be considered in the world besides himself, it sha'n't be my fault, that's all."

"I am sure it is very brave of you, dear," said Ellen, with veiled sarcasm. "But, if I may venture to advise, I would suggest what my poor father used to call the /suaviter in modo/ in preference to the /fortiter in re/."

"Oh, bother your Latin!" said Edward. "Please speak English."

"I mean that were I you I should go fair and softly; for, as you remarked just now in your own classic tongue, Henry is a 'nasty customer to tackle.' Well, I happen to know that he is up and alone just now, so you cannot have a better opportunity." Then she rang the bell, which was almost immediately answered by the butler, and added, "Will you be so good, Thomson, as to show Mr. Milward to Sir Henry's room?"

Edward hesitated, for, like another hero, he felt his courage oozing out of his finger-tips. Looking up, he saw Ellen watching him with a little smile, and remembered that to draw back now would mean that for many a long day to come he must be the target of the bitter arrows of her irony. So he set his teeth and went as to a forlorn hope.

In another minute he was in the presence of the man whom he came to annihilate. Henry was seated in a chair, against which his crutches were resting, looking out of the window, with an open book upon his knee, and it cannot be said that he appeared pleased on hearing the name of his visitor. Indeed, he was about to tell Thomson that he was engaged, when Edward blundered in behind him, leaving him no option but to shake hands and ask his visitor to sit down. Then ensued this conversation.

"How do you do, Graves? I have come to see you on business."

"As well as I can expect, thank you."

A pause.

"Beautiful weather, isn't it?"

"It seems fine; but as you have been out, you will know more about it than I do."

Another pause.

"The pheasants ought to do well this year; they have had a wonderful fine time for hatching."

"Indeed. I think you said that you wished to speak to me about some business."

"You are not rearing any this season, are you?"

"No: I am sorry to say that I have other chicks to hatch at present. But about the business?"

"All right, Graves; I am coming to that. The pheasants lead up to it. /Fortiter in modo/, as Ellen says."

"Does she? Well, it is not a bad motto for her, though it's wrong. Well, if we have done with the pheasants----"

There was yet another pause, and then Edward said suddenly, and with effort:

"You are not rearing any pheasants, Graves, because you can't afford to; in fact, I have just found out that you are bankrupt, and the whole thing is a swindle, and that Ellen won't have a farthing of her eight thousand pounds. She has sent me up here to talk to you about it."

"Has she? That is /fortiter in modo/ and no mistake. Well, talk on, Mr. Milward. But, before you begin, let me remind you that I asked you to stop and hear what passed after the reading of the will yesterday, and you would not."

"Oh, bother the will! It is a fraud, like everything else in this place. I tell you, Graves----"

"One moment. Pray lower your voice, keep your temper, and remember that you are speaking to a gentleman."

"Speaking to a gentleman? A nice sort of gentleman!