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

CHAPTER XVI

FORTITER IN RE.

 

When the lawyer had gone, for a while there was silence in Henry’s

room. Everybody seemed to wish to speak, and yet no one could find any

words to say. Of course Henry was aware that the subject which had

been discussed at the last dreadful scene of his father’s life would

be renewed on the first opportunity, but he was nervously anxious that

it should not be now, when he did not feel able to cope with the

bitter arguments which he was sure Ellen was preparing for him, and

still less with the pleadings of his mother, should she condescend to

plead. After all it was he who spoke the first.

 

“Perhaps, Ellen,” he said, “you will tell me who were present at our

father’s funeral.”

 

“Everybody,” she answered; adding, with meaning, “You see, the truth

about us has not yet come out. We are still supposed to be people of

honour and position.”

 

Her mother turned and made a gesture with her hand, as though to

express disapproval of the tone in which she spoke; and, taking the

hint, Ellen went on in a dry, clear voice, like that of one who reads

an inventory, to give the names of the neighbours who attended the

burial, and of more distant friends who had sent wreaths, saying in

conclusion:

 

“Mr. Levinger of course was there, but Emma did not come. She sent a

lovely wreath of eucharist lilies and stephanotis.”

 

At this moment the old butler came in, his face stained with

grief—for he had dearly loved Sir Reginald, who was his

foster-brother—and announced that Dr. Childs was waiting to see Sir

Henry.

 

“Show him up,” said Henry, devoutly thankful for the interruption.

 

“How do you do, Captain—I mean Sir Henry Graves?” said the doctor, in

his quiet voice, when Lady Graves and Ellen had left the room. “I

attended your poor father’s funeral, and then went on to see a

patient, thinking that I would give you a look on my way back.

However, don’t let us talk of these things, but show me your leg if

you will. Yes, I thought so; you have given it a nasty jar; you should

never have tried to walk up those steps without help. Well, you will

have to stop quiet for a month or so, that is all; and I think that it

will be a good thing for you in more ways than one, for you seem very

much shaken, my dear fellow, and no wonder, with all this trouble

after a dangerous illness.”

 

Henry thanked him; and then followed a little general conversation, in

which Dr. Childs was careful not to let him know that he was aware of

the scene that had occurred at his father’s death, though as a matter

of fact the wildest rumours were floating up and down the country

side, based upon hints that had fallen from Lady Graves in her first

grief, and on what had been overheard by listeners at the door.

Presently he rose to go, saying that he would call again on the

morrow.

 

“By the way,” he added, “I have got to see another patient

to-night—your late nurse, Joan Haste.”

 

“What is the matter with her?” asked Henry, flushing suddenly red, a

symptom of interest or distress that did not escape the doctor’s

practised eye.

 

“So the talk is true,” he thought to himself. “Well, I guessed as

much; indeed, I expected it all along: the girl has been in love with

him for weeks. A pity, a sad pity!”

 

“Oh! nothing at all serious,” he answered; “a chill and a touch of

fever. It has been smouldering in her system for some time, I think.

It seems she got soaked about ten days ago, and stood in her wet

things. She is shaking it off now, however.”

 

“Indeed; I am glad to hear that,” Henry answered, in a tone of relief

which he could not quite conceal. “Will you remember me to Miss Haste

when you see her, and tell her that–-”

 

“Yes?” said the doctor, his hand on the door.

 

“That I am glad she has recovered, and—that—I was sorry not to be

able to say good-bye to her,” he added hurriedly.

 

“Certainly,” answered Dr. Childs, and went.

 

Henry saw no more of his mother or his sister that evening, which was

a sorrowful one for him. He grieved alone in his room, comforted only

by the butler Thomson, who came to visit him, and told him tales of

his father’s boyhood and youth; and they grieved elsewhere, each

according to her own nature. On the morrow the doctor called early and

reported favourably of Henry’s condition. He told him that Joan was

doing even better than he had expected, that she sent him her duty and

thanked him kindly for his message, and with this Henry was fain to be

content. Indeed, what other message could she have sent him, unless

she had written? and something told him that she would not write. Any

words that could be put on paper would express both too much and too

little.

 

Henry was not the only person at Rosham whose rest was troubled this

night, seeing that Ellen also did not sleep well. She had loved her

father in her own way and sorrowed for him, but she loved her family

better than any individual member of it, and mourned still more

bitterly for its sad fate. Also she had her own particular troubles to

overcome, for she was well aware that Edward imagined her to possess

the portion of eight thousand pounds which had been allotted to her

under the will, and it was necessary that he should be undeceived and

enlightened on various other points in connection with the Rosham

affairs, which could no longer be concealed from him. On the morrow he

rode over from Upcott, and very soon gave Ellen a chance of

explanation, by congratulating her upon the prospective receipt of the

eight thousand. Like a bold woman she took her opportunity at once,

though she did not care about this task and had some fears for the

issue.

 

“Don’t congratulate me, Edward,” she said, “for I must tell you I have

discovered that this eight thousand pounds is very much in the

clouds.”

 

Edward whistled. “Meaning–-?” he asked.

 

“Meaning, my dear, that after you left the lawyer explained our

financial position. To put it shortly, the entail has been cut, the

estate has been mortgaged for more than its value, and there is not a

farthing for anybody.”

 

“Indeed!” answered Edward: “that’s jolly good news. Might I ask what

is going to happen then?”

 

“It all depends upon Henry. If he is not a fool, and marries Miss

Levinger, everything will come right, except my eight thousand pounds

of course, for she holds the mortgages, or her father does for her. If

he is a fool—which I have reason to believe is the case—and

declines to marry Miss Levinger, then I suppose that the estate will

be made bankrupt and that my mother will be left to starve.”

 

At this announcement Edward uttered an indignant grunt.

 

“Look here, Ellen,” he said; “it is all very fine, but you have been

playing it pretty low down upon me. I never heard a word of this mess,

although, of course, I knew that you were embarrassed, like most

people nowadays. What I did not know—to say nothing of your not

having a penny—was that I am to have the honour of marrying into a

family of bankrupts; and, to tell you the truth, I am half inclined to

reconsider my position, for I don’t wish to be mixed up with this sort

of thing.”

 

“About that you must do as you like, Edward,” she answered, with

dignity; “but let me tell you that this state of affairs is not my

fault. In the first place, it is the fault of those who are dead and

gone, and still more is it the fault of my brother Henry, whose

wickedness and folly threaten to plunge us all into ruin.”

 

“What do you mean by his ‘wickedness and folly’?”

 

“I mean that matter of which I spoke to you before—the matter of this

wretched girl, Joan Haste. It seems that he has become involved in

some miserable intrigue with her, after the disgusting fashion of you

men, and on this account he refuses to marry Emma Levinger. Yes,

although my father prayed him to do so with his dying breath, he still

refuses, when he knows that it would be his own salvation and that of

his family also.”

 

“He must be mad,” said Edward—“stark, staring mad: it’s no such great

wonder about the girl, but that he should decline to marry Miss

Levinger is sheer insanity; for, although I don’t think much of her,

and the connection is a bad one, it is clear that she has got the

dollars. What does he mean to do, then? Marry the other one?”

 

“Very possibly, for all I know to the contrary. It would be quite in

keeping with his conduct.”

 

“Oh, hang it, Ellen!—that I could not stand. It is not to be expected

of any man that he should come into a family of which the head will be

a bankrupt, who insists upon marrying a barmaid.”

 

“Again I say that you must please yourself, Edward; but if you feel so

strongly about Henry’s conduct—and I admit that it is quite natural

that you should do so—perhaps you had better speak to him yourself.”

 

“All right: I will,” he answered. “Although I don’t like meddling with

other people’s love affairs, for