Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

of the

allegorical mystery of the spring, nor did Edward Milward set out his

views as to the necessity of religion. On the contrary, he was so

silent that Ellen began to be afraid they would meet the others before

he found the courage to do that which, from the nervousness of his

manner, she was now assured he meant to do.

 

At length it came, and with a rush.

 

“Ellen,” said Edward in a husky voice.

 

“I beg your pardon,” replied that young lady with dignity.

 

“Miss Graves, I mean. I wish to speak to you.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Milward.”

 

“I want—to ask—you to marry me.”

 

Ellen heard the fateful words, and a glow of satisfaction warmed her

breast. She had won the game, and even then she found time to reflect

with complacency upon the insight into character which had taught her

from the beginning to treat her admirer with affected coldness and

assumed superiority.

 

“This is very sudden and unexpected,” she said, gazing over his head

with her steady blue eyes.

 

Her tone frightened Edward, and he stammered—

 

“Do you really think so? You are so clever that I should have thought

that you must have seen it coming for a long while. I know I have only

just been able to prevent myself from proposing on two or three

occasions—no, that’s a mistake, I don’t mean that. Oh! there! Ellen,

will you have me? I know that you are a great deal too good for me in

a way—ever so much cleverer, and all that sort of thing; but I am

truly fond of you, I am really. I am well off, and I know that you

would be a credit to me and help me on in the world, for I want to go

into Parliament some time, and—there, I think that is all I have got

to say.”

 

Ellen considered this speech rapidly. Its manner was somewhat to seek,

but its substance was most satisfactory and left nothing to be

desired. Accordingly she concluded that the time had come when she

might with safety unbend a little.

 

“Really, Mr. Milward,” she said in a softer voice, and looking for a

second into his eyes, “this is very flattering to me, and I am much

touched. I can assure you I had no idea that my friend had become

a”—and Ellen hesitated and even blushed as she murmured the

word—“lover. I think that perhaps it would be best if I considered

your offer for a while, in order that I may make perfectly sure of the

state of my own feelings before I allow myself to say words which

would be absolutely irrevocable, since, were I once to pledge

myself–-” and she ceased, overcome.

 

“Oh! pray don’t take time to consider,” said Edward. “I know what that

means: you will think better of it, and tell me to-morrow that you can

only be a sister to me, or something of the sort.”

 

Ellen looked at him a while, then said, “Do you really understand what

you ask of me, and mean all you say?”

 

“Why, of course I do, Ellen: I am not an idiot. What do you suppose I

should mean, if it is not that I want you to marry me?”

 

“Then, Edward,” she whispered, “I will say yes, now and for always. I

will be your wife.”

 

“Well, that’s all right,” answered Edward, wiping his brow with his

pocket-handkerchief. “Why couldn’t you tell me so at first, dear? It

would have spared me a great deal of agitation.”

 

Then it occurred to him that further demonstrations were usual on

these occasions, and, dropping the handkerchief, he made a somewhat

clumsy effort to embrace her. But Ellen was not yet prepared to be

kissed by Mr. Milward. She felt that these amatory proceedings would

require a good deal of leading up to, so far as she was concerned.

 

“No, no,” she murmured—“not now and here: I am upset.” And,

withdrawing her cheek, she gave him her hand to kiss.

 

It struck Edward that this was a somewhat poor substitute, more

especially as she was wearing dogskin gloves, whereon he must press

his ardent lips. However, he made the best of it, and even repeated

the salute, when a sound caused him to look up.

 

Now, the scene of this passionate encounter was in a lane that ran

from the main road to the coast; moreover, it was badly chosen, for

within three paces of it the lane turned sharply to the right. Down

this path, still wrapped in silence, came Henry and Emma, and as

Edward was in the act of kissing Ellen’s hand they turned the corner.

Emma was the first to perceive them.

 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a start.

 

Then Henry saw. “What the deuce–-!” he said.

 

Ellen took in the situation at a glance. It was discomposing, even to

a person of her considerable nerve; but she felt that on the whole

nothing could have happened more opportunely. Recovering themselves,

Henry and Emma were beginning to advance again, as though they had

seen nothing, when Ellen whispered hurriedly to her fiancé:

 

“You must explain to my brother at once.”

 

“All right,” said Edward. “I say, Graves, I dare say you were

surprised when you saw me kissing Ellen’s hand, weren’t you?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Milward, I was surprised.”

 

“Well, you won’t be any more when I tell you that we are engaged to be

married.”

 

“Forgive me,” said Henry, somewhat icily: “I am still surprised.” And

in his heart he added, “How could Ellen do it!—how could she do it!”

 

Guessing what was passing in his mind, his sister looked at him

warningly, and at that moment Emma began to murmur some confused

congratulations. Then they set out homewards. Presently Ellen, who was

a person of decision, and thought that she had better make the

position clear without delay, managed to attach herself to her

brother, leaving the other two to walk ahead out of hearing, much to

their mutual disgust.

 

“You have not congratulated me, Henry,” she said, in a steady voice.

 

“Congratulated you, Ellen! Good Lord! how can I congratulate you?”

 

“And why not, pray? There is nothing against Mr. Milward that I have

ever heard of. His character is irreproachable, and his past has never

been tarnished by any excesses, which is more than can be said of many

men. He is well born, and he has considerable means.”

 

“Very considerable, I understand,” interrupted Henry.

 

“And, lastly, he has a most sincere regard for me, as I have for him,

and it was dear Reginald’s greatest wish that this should come about.

Now may I ask you why I am not to be congratulated?”

 

“Well, if you want to know, because I think him insufferable. I cannot

make out how a lady like yourself can marry such a man just for–-”

and he stopped in time.

 

By this time Ellen was seriously angry, and it must be admitted not

altogether without cause.

 

“Really, my dear Henry,” she said, in her most bitter tones, “I am by

no means sure that the epithet which you are so good as to apply to

Mr. Milward would not be more suitable to yourself. You always were

impossible, Henry—you see I imitate your frankness—and certainly

your manners and temper have not improved at sea. Please let us come

to an understanding once and for all: I mean to marry Mr. Milward, and

if by chance any action or words of yours should cause that marriage

to fall through, I will never forgive you. On reflection you must

admit that this is purely my own affair. Moreover, you are aware of

the circumstances of our family, which by this prudent and proper

alliance I at any rate propose to do my best to improve.”

 

Henry looked at his stately and handsome sister and the cold anger

that was written on her face, and thought to himself, “On the whole I

am sorry for Milward, who, whatever his failings may be, is probably

an honest man in his way.” But to Ellen he said:

 

“I apologise. In nautical language, I come up all I have said. You are

quite right: I am a bear—I have often thought so myself—and my

temper, which was never of the best, has been made much worse by all

that I have seen and learned since I returned home, and because I am

forced by duty to leave my profession. You must make allowances for

me, and put up with it, and I for my part will do my best to cultivate

a better frame of mind. And now, Ellen, I offer you my warm

congratulations on your engagement. You are of an age to judge for

yourself, and doubtless, as you say, you know your own business. I

hope that you may be happy, and of course I need hardly add, even if

my prejudice makes him uncongenial to me, that I shall do my best to

be friendly with Mr. Milward, and to say nothing that can cause him to

think he is not welcome in our family.”

 

Ellen heard and smiled: once more she had triumphed. Yet, while the

smile was on her face, a sadness crept into her heart, which, if it

was hard and worldly, was not really bad; feeling, as she did, that

this bitterly polite speech of her brother’s had shut an iron door

between them which could never be reopened. The door was shut, and

behind her were the affectionate memories of childhood and many a

loving delusion of her youth. Before her lay wealth and pride of

place, and every luxury, but not a grain of love—unless indeed she

should be so happy as to find the affection whereof death and the

other circumstances of her life and character had deprived her, in the

hearts of children yet to be. From her intended husband, be it noted,

when custom had outward his passion and admiration for her, she did

not expect love even in this hour of her engagement, and if it were

forthcoming she knew that from him it would not satisfy her. Well, she

knew also if she had done with “love” and other illusions, that she

had chosen the better part according to her philosophy.