Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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our account current.”
“By all means deduct the account current,” said Henry; “for, you see,
you may not get another chance of paying yourselves. Well, the
carriage is waiting for you. Good afternoon.”
The lawyer gathered up his papers, shook hands all round, bowed and
went.
“Well,” he thought to himself as he drove towards the station, “I am
glad to be clear of this business: somehow it was more depressing than
most funerals. I suppose that there’s an end of a connection that has
lasted a hundred years, though there will be some pickings when the
estate is foreclosed on. I am glad it didn’t happen in Sir Reginald’s
time, for I had a liking for the old man and his grand last-century
manners. The new baronet seems a roughish fellow, with a sharp edge to
his tongue; but I dare say he has a deal to worry him, and he looks
very ill. What fools they were to cut the entail! They can’t blame us
about it, anyway, for we remonstrated with them strongly enough. Sir
Reginald was under the thumb of that dead son of his—that’s the fact,
and he was a scamp, or something like it. Now they are beggared,
absolutely beggared: they won’t even be able to pay their debts. It’s
not one man’s funeral that I have been assisting at—it is that of a
whole ancient family, without benefit of clergy or hope of
resurrection. The girl is going to marry a rich man: she knows which
side her bread is buttered, and has a good head on her
shoulders—that’s one comfort. Well, they are bankrupt and done with,
and it is no good distressing myself over what can’t be helped. Here’s
the station. I wonder if I need tip the coachman. I remember he drove
me when I came down to the elder boy’s christening; we were both young
then. Not necessary, I think: I sha’n’t be likely to see him again.”
FORTITER IN RE.
When the lawyer had gone, for a while there was silence in Henry’s
room. Everybody seemed to wish to speak, and yet no one could find any
words to say. Of course Henry was aware that the subject which had
been discussed at the last dreadful scene of his father’s life would
be renewed on the first opportunity, but he was nervously anxious that
it should not be now, when he did not feel able to cope with the
bitter arguments which he was sure Ellen was preparing for him, and
still less with the pleadings of his mother, should she condescend to
plead. After all it was he who spoke the first.
“Perhaps, Ellen,” he said, “you will tell me who were present at our
father’s funeral.”
“Everybody,” she answered; adding, with meaning, “You see, the truth
about us has not yet come out. We are still supposed to be people of
honour and position.”
Her mother turned and made a gesture with her hand, as though to
express disapproval of the tone in which she spoke; and, taking the
hint, Ellen went on in a dry, clear voice, like that of one who reads
an inventory, to give the names of the neighbours who attended the
burial, and of more distant friends who had 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
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