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

CHAPTER XV

THE FIRSTFRUITS

 

Some days had passed since this night of avowal when, very early one

morning, Henry was awakened from sleep by the sound of wheels and of

knocking at the inn door. A strange apprehension took hold of him, and

he rose from his bed and limped to the window. Then he saw that the

carriage which had arrived was the old Rosham shooting brake, a long

plain vehicle with deal seats running down its length on either side,

constructed to carry eight or nine sportsmen to and from the more

distant beats. Knocking at the door was none other than Edward

Milward, and Henry guessed at once that he must have come to fetch

him.

 

“Well, perhaps it is as well,” he thought to himself grimly; then

again his heart was filled with fear. What had happened? Why did

Milward come thus, and at such an hour?

 

In another minute Edward had entered the room, followed by Mrs.

Gillingwater.

 

“Your father is dying, Graves,” he blurted out. “I don’t know what it

is; he collapsed suddenly in the middle of the night. If you want to

see him alive—and you had better, if you can, while he has got his

senses—you must make shift to come along with me at once. I have

brought the brake, so that you can lie in it at full length. That was

Ellen’s idea: I should never have thought of it.”

 

“Great Heaven!” said Henry. Then, assisted by Mrs. Gillingwater, he

began to get into his clothes.

 

In ten minutes they were off, Henry lying flat upon a mattress at the

bottom of the brake. Once he lifted his head and looked through the

open rails of the vehicle towards the door of the house. Mrs.

Gillingwater, who was a shrewd woman, interpreted the glance.

 

“If you are looking for Joan, sir, to say good-bye to her, it is no

use, for she’s in her room there sleeping like the dead, and I

couldn’t wake her. I don’t think she is quite herself, somehow; but

she’ll be sorry to miss you, and so shall I, for the matter of that;

but I’ll tell her.”

 

“Thank you, thank you—for everything,” he answered hastily, and they

started.

 

The drive was long and the road rough, having been much washed by

recent rains; but after a fashion Henry enjoyed it, so far as his

pressing troubles of mind would allow him to enjoy anything, for it

was a lovely morning, and the breath of the open air, the first that

he had tasted for many weeks, was like wine to him. On the way he

learned from his companion all that there was to be told about his

father. It appeared, as Henry had heard already, that he had been

unwell for the last two months—not in a way to give alarm, though

sufficiently to prevent him from leaving the house except on the

finest days, or at times his room. On the previous day, however, he

seemed much better, and dined downstairs. About ten o’clock he went to

bed, and slept soundly till a little past midnight, when the household

was aroused by the violent ringing of Lady Graves’s bell, and they

rushed upstairs to find that Sir Reginald had been seized with a fit.

Dr. Childs was sent for at once, and gave an opinion that death might

occur at any moment. His treatment restored the patient’s

consciousness; and Sir Reginald’s first words expressed the belief

that he was dying, and an earnest wish to see his son, whereupon

Edward, who chanced to be spending the night at Rosham, was despatched

with the brake to Bradmouth.

 

At length they reached the Hall, and Henry was helped from the

vehicle; but in ascending the stone steps, which he insisted upon

doing by himself, one of his crutches slipped, causing the foot of his

injured limb to come down with some force upon the edge of the step.

The accident gave him considerable pain, but he saved himself from

falling, and thought little more of it at the time.

 

In the dining-room he found Ellen, who looked pale, and seemed

relieved to see him.

 

“How is my father?” he asked.

 

“Insensible again, just now. But I am so glad that you have come,

Henry, for he has been asking for you continually. All this business

about the property seems to weigh more upon his mind now than it has

done for years, and he wants to speak to you on the subject.”

 

Then his mother came down, and her eyes were red with weeping.

 

“You have returned to a sad home, Henry,” she said kissing him. “We

are an unlucky family: death and misfortune are always at our doors.

You look very white, my dear boy, and no wonder. You had better try to

eat something, since it useless for you to attempt to see your poor

father at present.”

 

So Henry ate, or made a pretence of doing so, and afterwards was

helped upstairs to a room opposite to that in which his father lay

dying, where he settled himself in an invalid chair which Sir Reginald

had used on the few occasions when he had been outside the house

during the past weeks, and waited. All that day and all the next night

he waited, and still his father did not recover consciousness—indeed,

Dr. Childs now appeared to be of opinion that he would pass from coma

to death. Much as he wished to bid a last farewell to his father,

Henry could not repress a certain sense of relief when he heard that

this was likely to be the case, for an instinct, coupled with some

words which Ellen had let fall, warned him that Sir Reginald wished to

speak to him upon the subject of Miss Levinger.

 

But the doctor was mistaken; for about six o’clock in the morning,

nearly twenty-four hours after he had reached the house, Henry was

awakened by Ellen, who came to tell him that their father was fully

conscious and wished to see him at once. Seating himself in the

invalid chair, he was wheeled across the passage to the red bedroom,

in which he had himself been born. The top halves of some of the

window-shutters were partly open, and by the light that streamed

though them into the dim death-chamber, he saw his father’s gaunt but

still stately form propped up with pillows in the great four-post bed,

of which the red curtains had been drawn back to admit the air.

 

“Here comes Henry,” whispered Lady Graves.

 

The old man turned his head, and shaking back his snowy hair, he

peered round the room.

 

“Is that you, my son?” he said in a low voice, stretching out a

trembling hand, which Henry took and kissed. “You find me in a bad

way: on the verge of death, where you have so lately been.”

 

“Yes, it is I, father.”

 

“God bless you, my boy! and God be thanked that you have been able to

come to listen to my last words and that I have recovered my senses so

that I can speak to you! Do not go away, my dear, or you, Ellen, for I

want you all to hear what I have to say. You know, Henry, the state of

the property. Mismanagement and bad times have ruined it. I have been

to blame, and your dear brother, whom I hope soon to see, was to blame

also. It has come to this, that I am leaving you beggars, and worse

than beggars, since for the first time in the history of our family we

cannot pay our debts.”

 

Here he stopped and groaned, and Lady Graves whispered to him to rest

awhile.

 

“No, no,” he answered. “Give me some brandy; I will go on; it does not

matter if I use myself up, and my brain may fail me at any moment.

Henry, I am dying here, on this spot of earth where so many of our

forefathers have lived and died before me; and more than the thought

of leaving you all, more than the memory of my sins, or than the fear

of the judgment of the Almighty, Whose mercy is my refuge, the thought

crushes me that I have failed in my trust, that my children must be

beggared, my name dishonoured, and my home—yes, and my very

grave—sold to strangers. Henry, I have but one hope now, and it is in

you. I think that I have sometimes been unjust to you in the past; but

I know you for an upright and self-denying man, who, unlike some of

us, has always set his duty before his pleasure. It is to you, then,

that I appeal with my last breath, feeling sure that it will not be in

vain, since, even should you have other wishes, you will sacrifice

them to my prayer, to your mother’s welfare, and to the honour of our

name. You know that there is only one way of escape from all our

liabilities—for I believe you have been spoken to on the subject;

indeed, I myself alluded to it—by a marriage between yourself and

Emma Levinger, who holds the mortgages on this property, and has other

means. Her father desires this, and I have been told that the girl

herself, who is a good and a sweet woman, has declared her affection

for you; therefore it all rests with you. Do you understand me?”

 

“Say yes, and that you will marry her on the first opportunity,”

whispered Ellen into Henry’s ear. “He will kill himself with talking

so much.” Then she saw her brother’s face, and drew back her head in

horror. Heavens! could it be that he was going to refuse?

 

“I will try to make myself plain,” went on Sir Reginald after a pause,

and swallowing another sip of brandy. “I want you to promise, Henry,

before us all, that nothing, except the death of one of you, shall

prevent you from marrying Emma Levinger so soon as may be possible

after my funeral. When I have heard you say that, I shall be able to

die in peace. Promise, then, my son, quickly; for I wish to turn my

mind to other matters.”

 

Now all eyes were bent upon Henry’s face, and it was rigid and ashen.

Twice he tried to speak and failed; the third time the words came, and

they sounded like a groan.

 

“Father, I cannot.”

 

Ellen gasped, and