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

CHAPTER XI

ELLEN GROWS ALARMED

 

On the morrow Henry had his first long interview with his mother and

Ellen, who again detailed to him those particulars of his illness of

which he had no memory, speaking more especially of the events of the

afternoon and evening when he was supposed to be dying. To these Ellen

added her version of the incident of Emma’s fainting fit, which,

although it was more ample, did not differ materially from that given

him by Joan.

 

“I have heard about this,” said Henry, when she paused; “and I am

sorry that my illness should have pained Miss Levinger so much.”

 

“You have heard about it? Who told you—Dr. Childs?”

 

“No; Joan Haste, who is nursing me.”

 

“Then I can only say that she had no business to do so. It is bad

enough that this young woman, to whom we certainly owe no gratitude,

should have thrust herself upon us at such a terrible moment; but it

is worse that, after acting the spy on poor Emma’s grief, she should

have the hardihood to come and tell you that she had done so, and to

describe what passed.”

 

“You must really excuse me, Ellen,” her brother answered; “but I for

one owe a great deal of gratitude to Joan Haste—indeed, had it not

been for her care, I doubt if I should be here to be grateful to-day.

Also it does not seem to have struck you that probably she took some

interest in my case, and that her motive was not to spy upon you, but

to hear what the doctor had to say.”

 

“A great deal of interest—too much, indeed, I think,” said Ellen

drily; and then checked herself, for, with a warning glance at her

daughter, Lady Graves suddenly changed the conversation.

 

A few minutes later his mother went out of the room to speak to Mrs.

Gillingwater, leaving Ellen and Henry alone.

 

“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen presently.

“I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is not good

for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little

put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly,

and also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.”

 

“I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I

am sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional

temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness

threatening the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a

strain upon her nerves.”

 

“A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows.

 

“Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so. Really,

Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly.

 

“Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered. “Either you are

the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance out of sheer

contrariness.”

 

“Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters,

Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church

tower has not improved my wits.”

 

“Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told you

when you came home?”

 

“You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or

less disagreeable.”

 

“I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.”

 

“Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.”

 

“Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly

in love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.”

 

“No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to contradict, but I

must decline to believe that.”

 

“Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not

satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger,

ask the girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate

confession that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you

believe me?”

 

“It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I think it

quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her excitement,

and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen,

that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what

slipped from her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in

a false position. Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to

tell you every foolish thing which I may have uttered during my

delirium, what would you think of them, I wonder? Still, I dare say

that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after this I am sure I

do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the face. And

now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or

some one?”

 

Ellen left her brother’s room in a state of irritation which was not

the less intense because it was suppressed. She felt that her coup

had not come off—that she had even made matters worse instead of

better. She had calculated, if Henry’s affections were not touched,

that at least his vanity would be flattered, by the tale of Emma’s

dramatic exhibition of feeling: indeed, for aught she knew, either or

both of these conjectures might be correct; but she was obliged to

confess that he had given no sign by which she could interpret his

mind in any such sense. The signs were all the other way, indeed, for

he had taken the opportunity to lecture her on her breach of

confidence, and it angered her to know that the reproof was deserved.

In truth, she was so desperately anxious to bring about this marriage

as soon as possible, that she had allowed herself to be carried away,

with the result, as she now saw, of hindering her own object.

 

Ellen had a very imperfect appreciation of her brother’s character.

She believed him to be cold and pharisaical, and under this latter

head she set down his notions concerning the contraction of marriages

that chanced to be satisfactory from a money point of view. It did not

enter into her estimate of him to presume that he might possess a

delicacy of feeling which was lacking in her own nature; that the idea

of being thrust into marriage with any woman in order to relieve the

pecuniary necessities of his family, might revolt him to the extent of

causing a person, whom perhaps he would otherwise have loved, to

become almost distasteful to him. She did not understand even that the

premature and unsought declaration of affection for himself on the

part of the lady who was designed by others to be his wife, might

produce a somewhat similar effect. And yet a very slight consideration

of the principles of human nature would have taught her that this was

likely to be the case.

 

These were solutions of Henry’s conduct that did not suggest

themselves to Ellen, or, if they did, she dismissed them

contemptuously in her search for a more plausible explanation. Soon

she found one which seemed to explain everything: Joan was the

explanation. Nothing escaped Ellen’s quick eyes, and she had noticed

that Joan also was distressed at Henry’s danger. She had marked,

moreover, how he clung to this girl, refusing to be parted from her

even in his delirium, and with what tenderness she nursed him; and she

knew how often men fall in love with women who tend them in sickness.

 

Now, although she did not like Joan Haste, and resented as an

impertinence, or worse, her conduct in following Dr. Childs to the

parlour and reporting what took place there to Henry, Ellen could not

deny that she was handsome, indeed beautiful, or that her manners were

refined beyond what was to be expected of one in her station, and her

bearing both gracious and dignified. Was it not possible, Ellen

reflected, that these charms had produced an effect even upon her

puritan brother, who already expressed his gratitude with such

unnecessary warmth?

 

The thought filled her with alarm, for if once Henry became entangled

with this village beauty, she knew enough of him to be sure that there

would be an end of any prospect of his engagement to Emma—at least

for the present. Meanwhile the girl was about him all day and every

day, and never had a woman a better opportunity of carrying her

nefarious schemes to a successful issue; for that Joan had schemes she

soon ceased to doubt.

 

In this dilemma Ellen took counsel with her fiancé, whom she knew to

possess a certain shrewdness; for she preferred to say nothing to her

mother, and Sir Reginald was so unwell that he could not be troubled

with such matters. By this time Edward Milward was aware that the

Graves family desired greatly to bring about a match between Henry and

Emma, though he was not aware how pressing were the money difficulties

which led them to be anxious for this alliance. He listened with

interest to Ellen’s tale, then chuckled and said—

 

“Depend upon it you have knocked the right nail on the head as usual,

Ellen. Those sanctimonious fellows like your brother are always the

deepest, and of course he is playing his little game.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘his little game,’ Edward, and I wish

that you would not use such vulgar expressions to me; nor can I see

how Henry can be playing anything, considering that he never saw this

person till the day of his accident, and that he has been laid up in

bed ever since.”

 

“Oh, well, he is getting ready to play it, which is much the same

thing, and of course it puts him off the other girl. I am sure I don’t

blame him either, for I think that Joan—what’s her name—is about the

loveliest woman I ever saw, and one can’t wonder that he prefers her

to that thin ghost of a Miss Levinger with her die-away airs and

graces. After all flesh and blood is the thing, and you may depend

upon it Henry thinks so.”

 

In this speech, had he but known it, Edward contrived to offend his

betrothed in at least three separate ways, but she thought it prudent

to suppress her resentment, at any rate for the moment.

 

“Do you think, dear,” Ellen said blandly, “that you could manage to

remember that you are not in a club smoking-room? I did not ask for

these reflections; I asked you to give me your advice as to the best

way to deal with a difficulty.”

 

“All right, love: please don’t look so superior; and save up your

sarcasm for the wicked Henry. As for my advice, here it is in a

nutshell: get the girl out of his way, and then perhaps he will begin

to think of the other one, to whom you are so anxious to tie him up,

though I can’t say that I consider the connection desirable myself.”

 

Having delivered himself thus, Edward put his hands into his pockets

and strolled off in a huff. Although he was not thin-skinned, to tell

the truth Ellen’s slings and arrows sometimes irritated this young

man.

 

“I wonder if she will always go on like this after we are married?” he

thought to himself. “Perhaps she’ll get worse. What’s that about a

green and a dry tree? She’s dry enough