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

to him. He

found them in the little bar-parlour, and Emma Levinger with them,

looking even paler than her wont.

 

“Oh! doctor, how is my poor son?” said Lady Graves, in a shaken voice.

“Mrs. Gillingwater says that I may not see him until I have asked you.

I was in bed this morning and not very well when your note came, but

Ellen had gone over to Upcott, and of course Sir Reginald could not

drive so far, so I got up and came at once.” And she paused, glancing

at him anxiously.

 

“I think that you would have done better to stop where you were, Lady

Graves, for you are not looking very grand,” answered Dr. Childs. “I

thought, of course, that your daughter would come. Well, it is a bad

double fracture, and, unluckily, Captain Graves was left exposed for

some hours after the accident; but at present he seems to be going on

as well as possible. That is all I can say.”

 

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Levinger.

 

“Joan Haste can tell you better than I can,” the doctor answered. “She

is up, for I saw her standing in the passage. I will call her.”

 

At the mention of Joan’s name Mr. Levinger’s face underwent a singular

contraction, that, quick as it was, did not escape the doctor’s

observant eye. Indeed, he made a deprecatory movement with his hand,

as though he were about to negative the idea of her being brought

before them; then hearing Lady Graves’s murmured “by all means,” he

seemed to change his mind suddenly and said nothing. Dr. Childs opened

the door and called Joan, and presently she stood before them.

 

Her face was very pale, her under lip was a little cut, and her right

hand rested in a sling on the bosom of her simple brown dress; but her

very pallor and the anxiety in her dark eyes made her beauty the more

remarkable, by touching it with an added refinement. Joan bowed to Mr.

Levinger, who acknowledged her salute with a nod, and curtseyed to

Lady Graves; then she opened her lips to speak, when her eyes met

those of Emma Levinger, and she remained silent.

 

The two women had seen each other before; in childhood they had even

spoken together, though rarely; but since they were grown up they had

never come thus face to face, and now it seemed that each of them

found a curious fascination in the other. It was of Emma Levinger,

Joan remembered, that Captain Graves had spoken on the previous night,

when his mind began to wander after the accident; and though she

scarcely knew why, this gave her a fresh interest in Joan’s eyes. Why

had his thoughts flown to her so soon as his mental balance was

destroyed? she wondered. Was he in love with her, or engaged to be

married to her? It was possible, for she had heard that he was on his

way to stay at Monk’s Lodge, where they never saw any company.

 

Joan has almost made up her mind, with considerable perspicuity, that

there was something of the sort in the air, when she remembered, with

a sudden flush of pleasure, that Captain Graves had spoken of herself

also yonder in the churchyard, and in singularly flattering terms,

which seemed to negative the idea that the fact of a person speaking

of another person, when under the influence of delirium, necessarily

implied the existence of affection, or even of intimacy, between them.

Still, thought Joan, it would not be wonderful if he did love Miss

Levinger. Surely that sweet and spiritual face and those solemn grey

eyes were such as any man might love.

 

But if Joan was impressed with Emma, Emma was equally impressed with

Joan, for in that instant of the meeting of their gaze, the thought

came to her that she had never before seen so physically perfect a

specimen of womanhood. Although Emma could theorise against the

material, and describe beauty as an accident, and therefore a thing to

be despised, she was too honest not to confess to herself her

admiration for such an example of it as Joan afforded. This was the

girl whose bravery, so she was told, had saved Captain Graves from

almost certain death; and, looking at her, Emma felt a pang of envy as

she compared her health and shape with her own delicacy and slight

proportions. Indeed, there was something more than envy in her

mind—something that, if it was not jealousy, at least partook of it.

Of late Emma’s thoughts had centred themselves a great deal round

Captain Graves, and she was envious of this lovely village girl with

whom, in some unknown way, he had become acquainted, and whose good

fortune it had been to be able to protect him from the worst effects

of his dreadful accident.

 

At that moment a warning voice seemed to speak in Emma’s heart,

telling her that this woman would not readily let go the man whom fate

had brought to her, that she would cling to him indeed as closely as

though he were her life. It had nothing to do with her, at any rate as

yet; still Emma grew terribly afraid as the thought went home, afraid

with a strange, impalpable fear she knew not of what. At least she

trembled, and her eyes swam, and she wished in her heart that she had

never seen Joan Haste, that they might live henceforth at different

ends of the world, that she might never see her again.

 

All this flashed through the minds of the two girls in one short

second; the next Emma’s terror, for it may fitly be so called, had

come and gone, and Lady Graves was speaking.

 

“Good day, Joan Haste,” she said kindly: “I understand that you were

with my son at the time of this shocking accident. Will you tell us

how it came about?”

 

“Oh, my Lady,” answered Joan with agitation, “it was all my fault—at

least, in a way it was, though I am sure I never meant that he should

be so foolish as to try and climb the tower.” And in a simple

straightforward fashion she went on to relate what had occurred,

saying as little as possible, however, about her own share in the

adventure.

 

“Thank you,” said Lady Graves when Joan had finished. “You seem to

have behaved very bravely, and I fear that you are a good deal hurt. I

hope you will soon be well again. And now, Dr. Childs, do you think

that I might see Henry for a little?”

 

“Well, perhaps for a minute or two, if you will keep as quiet as

possible,” he answered, and led the way to the sick room.

 

By this time the effects of the sleeping draughts had passed off, and

when his mother entered Henry was wide awake and talking to Mrs.

Gillingwater. He knew her step at once, and addressed her in a cheery

voice, trying to conceal the pain which racked him.

 

“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You find me in a queer way, but

better off than ever I expected to be again when I was hanging against

the face of that tower. It is very good of you to come to see me, and

I hope that the news of my mishap has not upset my father.”

 

“My poor boy,” said Lady Graves, bending over him and kissing him, “I

am afraid that you must suffer a great deal of pain.”

 

“Nothing to speak of,” he answered, “but I am pretty well smashed up,

and expect that I shall be on my back here for some weeks. Queer old

place, isn’t it? This good lady tells me that it is her niece’s room.

It’s a very jolly one, anyhow. Just look at the oak panelling and that

old mantelpiece. By the way, I hope that Miss Joan—I think that she

said her name was Joan—is not much hurt. She is a brave girl, I can

tell you, mother. Had it not been that she caught me when I fell, I

must have gone face first on to that spiked tomb, and then–-”

 

“Had it not been for her you would never have climbed the tower,”

answered Lady Graves with a shudder. “I can’t think what induced you

to be so foolish, at your age, my dear boy.”

 

“I think it was because she is so pretty, and I wanted to oblige her,”

he answered, with the candour of a mind excited by suffering. “I say,

I hope that somebody has written to the Levingers, or they will be

wondering what on earth has become of me.”

 

“Yes, yes, dear; they are here, and everything has been explained to

them.”

 

“Oh, indeed. Make them my excuses, will you? When I am a bit better I

should like to see them, but I don’t feel quite up to it just now.”

 

Henry made this last remark in a weaker voice; and, taking the hint,

Dr. Childs touched Lady Graves on the shoulder and nodded towards the

door.

 

“Well, dear, I must be going,” said his mother; “but Ellen or I will

come over to-morrow to see how you are getting on. By the way, should

you like us to send for a trained nurse to look after you?”

 

“Most certainly not,” Henry answered, with vigour; “I hate the sight

of hospital nurses—they always remind me of Haslar, where I was laid

up with jaundice. There are two doctors, and this good lady taking

care of me here, and if that isn’t enough for me, nothing will be.”

 

“Well, dear, we will see how you get on,” said his mother doubtfully.

Then she kissed him and went; but the doctor stopped behind, and

having taken his patient’s temperature, ordered him another sleeping

draught.

 

So soon as Lady Graves had left the parlour, Joan followed her

example, murmuring with truth that she felt a little faint.

 

“What a beautiful girl, father!” said Emma to Mr. Levinger. “Who is

she? Somebody said the other day that there was a mystery about her.”

 

“How on earth should I know?” he answered. “She is Mrs. Gillingwater’s

niece and I believe that her parents are dead; that is the only

mystery I ever heard.”

 

“I think that there must be something odd, all the same,” said Emma.

“If you notice, her manners are quite different from those of most

village girls, and she speaks almost like a lady.”

 

“Been educated above her station in life, I fancy,” her father

answered snappishly. “That is the way girls of this kind are ruined,

and taught to believe that nothing in their own surroundings is good

enough for them. Anyhow, she has led poor Graves into this mess, for

which I shall not forgive her in a hurry.”

 

“At least she did her best to save him, and at great risk to herself,”

said Emma gently. “I don’t see what more she could have done.”

 

“That’s woman’s logic all over,” replied the father. “First get a man

who is worth two of you into some terrible scrape, physical or

otherwise, and then do your ‘best to save him,’ and pose as a heroine.

It would be kinder to leave him alone altogether in nine cases out of

ten, only then it is impossible to play the guardian angel, as every

woman loves to do. Just to gratify her whim—for that is the plain

English of it—this girl sends poor Graves up that tower; and because,

when he falls off it, she tries to throw her arms round him, everybody

talks of her wonderful courage. Bother her and her courage!