Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗

or of his

company, he could not tell which, and held his peace.

 

“That will be very pleasant,” said Emma, “if it does not bore Captain

Graves.”

 

“Not at all; the sea never bores me,” replied Henry. “I will be ready

at three o’clock if that suits you.”

 

“I must say that you are polite, Henry,” put in his sister in a

sarcastic voice. “If I were Miss Levinger I would walk by myself and

leave you to contemplate the ocean in solitude.”

 

“I am sure I did not mean to be otherwise, Ellen,” he replied. “There

is nothing wrong in saying that one likes the sea.”

 

At this moment Lady Graves intervened with some tact, and the subject

dropped.

 

About three o’clock Henry found Emma waiting for him in the hall, and

they started on their walk.

 

Passing through the park they came to the high road, and for some way

went on side by side in silence. The afternoon was cloudy, but not

cold; there had been rain during the previous night, and all about

them were the evidences of spring, or rather of the coming of summer.

Birds sang upon every bush, most of the trees were clothed in their

first green, the ashes, late this year, were bursting their black

buds, the bracken was pushing up its curled fronds in the sandy banks

of the roadway, already the fallen blackthorn bloom lay in patches

like light snow beneath the hedgerows, while here and there

pink-tipped hawthorns were breaking into bloom. As she walked the

promise and happy spirit of the spring seemed to enter into Emma’s

blood, for her pale cheeks took a tinge of colour like that which

blushed upon the May-buds, and her eyes grew joyful.

 

“Is it not beautiful?” she said suddenly to her companion.

 

“Well, it would be if there were some sunshine,” he replied, in a

somewhat matter-of-fact way.

 

“Oh, the sunshine will come. You must not expect everything in this

climate, you know. I am quite content with the spring.”

 

“Yes,” he answered; “it is very pleasant after the long winter.”

 

She hesitated a little, and then said, “To me it is more than

pleasant. I cannot quite tell you what it is, and if I did you would

not understand me.”

 

“Won’t you try?” he replied, growing interested.

 

“Well, to me it is a prophecy and a promise; and I think that,

although perhaps they do not understand it, that is why almost all old

people love the spring. It speaks to them of life, life arising more

beautiful out of death; and, perhaps unconsciously, they see in it the

type of their own spiritual fortune and learn from it resignation to

their fate.”

 

“Yes, we heard that in the lesson this morning,” said Henry. “‘Thou

fool! that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die.’”

 

“Oh, I know that the thought is an old one,” she answered, with some

confusion, “and I put what I mean very badly, but somehow these

ancient truths always seem new to us when we find them out for

ourselves. We hit upon an idea that has been the common property of

men for thousands of years, and think that we have made a great

discovery. I suppose the fact of it is that there are no new ideas,

and you see each of us must work out his own salvation. I do not mean

in a spiritual sense only. Nobody else’s thoughts or feelings can help

us; they may be as old as the world, but when we feel them or think

them, for us they are fresh as the spring. A mother does not love her

child less because millions of mothers have loved theirs before.”

 

Henry did not attempt to continue the argument. This young lady’s

ideas, if not new, were pretty; but he was not fond of committing

himself to discussion and opinions on such metaphysical subjects,

though, like other intelligent men, he had given them a share of his

attention.

 

“You are very religious, Miss Levinger, are you not?” he said.

 

“Religious? What made you think so? No; I wish I were. I have certain

beliefs, and I try to be—that is all.”

 

“It was watching your face in church that gave me the idea, or rather

assured me of the fact,” he answered.

 

She coloured, and then said: “Why do you ask? You believe in our

religion, do you not?”

 

“Yes, I believe in it. I think that you will find few men of my

profession who do not—perhaps because their continual contact with

the forces and dangers of nature brings about dependence upon an

unseen protecting Power. Also my experience is that religion in one

form or another is necessary to all human beings. I never knew a man

to be quite happy who was devoid of it in some shape.”

 

“Religion does not always bring happiness, or even peace,” said Emma.

“My experience is very small—indeed, I have none outside books and

the village—but I have seen it in the case of my own father. I do not

suppose it possible that a man could be more religious than he has

been ever since I can remember much about him; but certainly he is not

happy, nor can he reconcile himself to the idea of death, which to me,

except for its physical side, does not seem such a terrible matter.”

 

“I should say that your father is a very nervous man,” Henry answered;

“and the conditions of your life and of his may have been quite

different. Everybody feels these things according to his temperament.”

 

“Yes, he is nervous,” she said; then added suddenly, as though she

wished to change the subject, “Look! there is the sea. How beautiful

it is! Were you not sorry to leave it, Captain Graves?”

 

By now they had turned off the main road, and, following a lane which

was used to cart sand and shingle from the beach, had reached a chalky

slope known as the Cliff. Below them was a stretch of sand, across

which raced the incoming tide, and beyond lay the great ocean, blue

in the far distance, but marked towards the shore with parallel lines

of white-crested billows.

 

Hitherto the afternoon had been dull, but as Emma spoke the sunlight

broke through the clouds, cutting a path of glory athwart the sea.

 

“Sorry to leave it!” he said, staring at the familiar face of the

waters, and speaking almost passionately: “it has pretty well broken

my heart—that is all. I loved my profession, it was everything to me:

there I was somebody, and had a prospect before me; now I am nobody,

and have none, except–-” And he stopped.

 

“And why did you leave?” she asked.

 

“For the same reason that we all do disagreeable things: because it

was my duty. My brother died, and my family desired my presence, so I

was obliged to retire from the Service, and there is an end of it.”

 

“I guessed as much,” said Emma softly, “and I am very sorry for you.

Well, we cannot go any farther, so we had better turn.”

 

Henry nodded an assent, and they walked homewards silently, either

because their conversation was exhausted, or because they were lost in

their own thoughts.

 

It may be remembered that Mr. Milward had announced his intention of

attending Rosham church that afternoon. As Ellen knew that he was not

in the habit of honouring any place of worship with his presence, this

determination of her admirer gave her cause for thought.

 

For a year or more Mr. Milward’s attentions towards herself had been

marked, but as yet he had said nothing of a decisive nature. Could it

be that upon this occasion he intended to cross the line which divides

attention from courtship? She believed that he did so intend, for,

otherwise, why did he take the trouble to come several miles to

church, and why had he suggested to her that they might go out walking

together afterwards, as he had done privately on the previous evening?

At any rate, if such were his mind, Ellen determined that he should

have every opportunity of declaring it; and it was chiefly for this

reason that she had arranged Emma’s expedition with her brother, since

it would then be easy for her to propose that Mr. Milward should

escort herself in search of them.

 

Ellen did not deceive herself. She knew Mr. Milward’s faults, his

vulgarity and assumption made her wince, and on the whole perhaps she

disliked him. But on the other hand his admiration flattered her

vanity, for many were the women who had tried to excite it and failed;

his wealth appealed to her love of luxury and place, and she was well

aware that, once in the position of his wife, she could guide his

weaker will in whatever direction she desired. Moreover his faults

were all on the surface, he had no secret vices, and she trusted to

her own tact if not to counterbalance, at least to divert attention

from his errors of manner.

 

In due course Ellen and Lady Graves went to church, but to the private

mortification of the former Mr. Milward did not appear. At length,

much to her relief, towards the middle of the second lesson a

disturbance in the nave behind her assured her of his presence. She

would not look round, indeed, but her knowledge of him told her that

nobody else arriving so painfully late would have ventured to

interrupt the congregation in this unnecessary fashion. Meanwhile Mr.

Milward had entered the pew behind her, occupying the same place that

Henry had sat in that morning, whence by many means, such as the

dropping of books and the shifting of hassocks, he endeavoured to

attract her attention; but in vain, for Ellen remained inflexible and

would not so much as turn her head. His efforts, however, did not

altogether fail of their effect, inasmuch as she could see that they

drove her mother almost to distraction, for Lady Graves liked to

perform her devotions in quiet.

 

“My dear,” she whispered to her daughter at the termination of the

service, “I really wish that when he comes to church Mr. Milward could

be persuaded not to disturb other people by his movements, and

generally to adopt a less patronising attitude towards the

Almighty,”—a sarcasm that in after days Ellen was careful to repeat

to him.

 

At the doorway they met, and Ellen greeted him with affected surprise:

 

“I thought that you had given up the idea of coming, Mr. Milward.”

 

“Oh no; I was a little late, that was all. Did you not hear me come

in?”

 

“No,” said Ellen sweetly.

 

“If Ellen did not hear you I am sure that everybody else did, Mr.

Milward,” remarked Lady Graves with some severity, and then with a

sigh she glided away to visit her son’s grave. By this time they were

at the church gate, and Ellen turned up the path that ran across the

park to the Hall.

 

“How about our walk?” said Milward.

 

“Our walk? Oh! I had forgotten. Do you wish to walk?”

 

“Yes; that is what I came for.”

 

“Indeed! I thought you had come to church. Well, my brother and Miss

Levinger have gone to the Cliff, and if you like we can meet

them—that is, unless you think that it is going to rain.”

 

“Oh no, it won’t rain,” he answered.

 

In a few minutes they had left the park and were following the same

road that Henry and Emma had taken. But Ellen did not talk