JOAN HASTE, H. RIDER HAGGARD [free ereaders TXT] 📗

"Good morning, Henry," said Ellen. "Good gracious, my dear! what are you doing?"

"Good morning, Ellen," he answered. "I am enjoying myself listening to Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very nicely indeed."

Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and stood book in hand.

"I had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense, especially so early in the morning," she said, glancing round, "when I see that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the poetry. I only came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going to lunch with the Levingers. Have you any message for them?"

"Nothing particular," he said precisely, and with a slight hardening of the face, "except my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her note and the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me."

"Very well, then; I will go on, as I don't want to keep the mare standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon." And she went without waiting for an answer.

"I wished to ask her how my father was," said Henry, "but she never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, Joan."

"No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don't think that I will read any more poetry."

"Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years since I have seen a line of 'Lancelot and Elaine.'" And he looked at her, waiting for an answer.

"Because," blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, "because Miss Graves doesn't wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is right, and--it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say that the room wasn't dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it yourself after aunt left."

"My dear girl, don't distress yourself," Henry answered, with more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. "I really am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise on the /Times/."

Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards Monk's Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour.

Monk's Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however, stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not allow of their growth.

Descending from the dogcart, Ellen was shown through the house into the garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still.

"How good of you to come, Ellen!" she said, springing up--"and so early too."

"I can't take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my dear," Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; "it is pleasant to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things, my life at home is one long worry just now."

"It ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married," said Emma interrogatively.

"Even engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover one day," she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. "Edward is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at times: he is too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible, for you know I am an independent person and do not like to have some one always running after me like a nurse with a child."

"Perhaps he will give up that when you are married," said Emma doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable friend--for at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she /was/ rather formidable--as the constant object and recipient of /petits soins/ and sweet murmured nothings.

"Possibly he will," answered Ellen decisively. "By the way, I just called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with the note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his kindest regards, and to say that he was much troubled by your thought of him."

"They were lilies, not roses," answered Emma, looking down.

"I meant lilies--did I say roses?" said Ellen innocently. "And, talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear."

"I am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal worried lately."

"Worried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?"

"Nobody. It is--my own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt worried in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know."

Ellen shook her head. "I am not clever, like you," she said, smiling, "and I don't understand parables. If you want my advice you must come down to my level and speak plainly."

Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into the golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel path, that was bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as though to admire some particular flower.

"She looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of hers," thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; "and really it would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot out there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has something to say, and will come back presently."

She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path, Emma turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar tree.

"I will speak plainly," she said, "though I could not make up my mind to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellen--so bitterly ashamed that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be seen again."

"And why, my dear?" asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. "What dreadful crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?"

"No crime, but a folly, which they say is worse--an unpardonable folly. You know what I mean--those words that I said when your brother was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them."

"Yes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my dearest wish that things should come about between Henry and you as I am sure that they will come about, now that I know your mind towards him."

"If they please you, the memory of them tortures me," Emma answered, passionately clenching her slim white hands. "Oh! how could I be so shameless as to declare my--my love for a man who has never spoken a single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it is I cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense uttered in a moment of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the dreadful truth, that broke from me, and which I had no power to withhold. I do love him; I have loved him from the day when I first saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love him; and that is why I am disgraced."

"Really, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has happened."

"No, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept it secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could guide my life; but now that I have blurted it, it is dishonoured, and I am dishonoured with it. That I was myself half dead with the agony of suspense is no excuse; I say that I am dishonoured."

To the listening Emma all these sentiments, natural as they might be to a girl of Emma's exalted temperament and spotless purity of mind, were as speeches made in the Hebrew tongue--indeed, within herself she did not hesitate to characterise her friend as "a high-flown little idiot." But, as she could not quite see what would be the best line to take in answering her, she satisfied herself with shaking her head as though in dissent, and looking sympathetic.

"What torments me most," went on Emma, who by now was thoroughly worked up--"I can say it to you, for you are a woman and will understand--is the thought that those shameless words might possibly come to your brother's ears. Three people heard them--Lady Graves, yourself and my father. Of course I know that neither you nor your mother would betray me, for, as I say, you are women and will feel for me; but, oh! I cannot be sure of my father. I know what he desires; and if he thought that he could advance his object, I am not certain that I could trust him--no, although he has promised to be silent: though, indeed, to tell your brother would be the surest way to defeat himself; for, did he learn the truth, such a man would despise me for ever."

"My dear girl," said Ellen boldly, for she felt that the situation required courage, "do calm yourself. Of course no one would dream of betraying to Henry what you insist upon calling an indiscretion, but what I thought a very beautiful avowal made under touching circumstances." Then she paused, and added reflectively, "I only see one danger."

"What danger?" asked Emma.

"Well, it has to do with that girl--Joan somebody--who brought about all this trouble, and who is nursing Henry, very much against my wish. I happen to have found out that she was listening at the door when Dr. Childs came into the room that night, just before you fainted, and it is impossible to say how long she had been there, and equally impossible to answer for her discretion."

"Joan Haste--that lovely woman! Of course she heard, and of course she will tell him. I was afraid of her the moment that I saw her, and now I begin to see why, though I believe that this is only the beginning of the evils which she will bring upon me. I am sure of it: I feel it in my heart."

"I think that you are alarming yourself quite unnecessarily, Emma. It is possible that this girl may repeat anything that she chances to overhear, and it is probable that she will do her best to strike up a flirtation with Henry, if he is foolish enough to allow it; for persons of this kind always avail themselves of such an opportunity--generally with a view to future compensation. But Henry is a cautious individual, who has never been known to commit himself in that fashion, and I don't see why he should begin now; though I do think it would be a good thing if that young lady could be sent about her business. At the worst, however, there would only be some temporary entanglement, such as happens every day, and means nothing serious."

"Nothing serious? I am sure it would be serious enough if that girl had to do with it: she is not a flirt--she looks too strong and earnest