Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) đ
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
- Performer: -
Book online «Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) đ». Author H. Rider Haggard
sometimes I think that I am pretty green. By George! if I believed
that she always meant to keep up this game of snubs and sharp answers,
fond as I am of her, I think I would cut the show before it is too
late. There are a good many things that I donât like about it; I
sometimes suspect that the whole set of them are pretty well broke,
and I donât want to marry into a bankrupt family. Then that fellow
Henry is an infernal prigânot but what I would be careful to see
precious little of him. I wonder why Ellen is so anxious that he
should take up with the Levinger girl? From all I can find out the
father is a disreputable old customer, who made a low marriage, and
whom everybody declines to know. It is shady, deuced shady,â and,
filled with these gloomy musings, Edward made his way into the
dining-room to lunch.
Here Ellen, who in the interval had bethought herself that she was
showing a little too much of the iron hand, received him graciously
enough: indeed, she was so affectionate and pleasant in her manner,
that before the afternoon was over Edwardâs doubts were dispelled, and
he forgot that he had that morning contemplated a step so serious as
the breaking off of his engagement.
However coarsely he might express himself, Ellen had wit enough to see
that Edwardâs advice was of the soundest. Certainly it was desirable
that Joan Haste should be got rid of, but how was this to be brought
about? She could not tell her to go, nor could she desire Mrs.
Gillingwater to order her out of the house. Ellen pondered the
question deeply, and after sleeping a night over it she came to the
conclusion that she would take Mr. Levinger into her counsel. She knew
him to be a shrewd and resourceful man; she knew, moreoverâfor her
father had repeated the gist of the conversation between themâthat he
was bent upon the marriage of Henry with his daughter; and lastly she
knew that he was the landlord of the Crown and Mitre, in which the
Gillingwaters lived. Surely, therefore, if any one could get rid of
Joan, Mr. Levinger would be able to do so.
As it chanced upon this particular morning, Ellen was to drive over in
the dogcart to lunch at Monkâs Lodge, calling at the Crown and Mitre
on her way through Bradmouth in order to hear the latest news of
Henry. This programme she carried out, only stopping long enough at
the inn, however, to run to her brotherâs room for a minute while the
cart waited at the door. Here she discovered him propped up with
pillows, while by his side was seated Joan, engaged in reading to him,
and, worse still, in reading poetry. Now, for poetry in the abstract
Ellen did not greatly care, but she had heard the tale of Paolo and
Francesca, and knew well that when a young man and woman are found
reading verses together, it may be taken as a sign that they are very
much in sympathy.
âGood morning, Henry,â said Ellen. âGood gracious, my dear! what are
you doing?â
âGood morning, Ellen,â he answered. âI am enjoying myself listening to
Joan here, who is reading me some poetry, which she does very nicely
indeed.â
Ellen would not even turn her head to look at Joan, who had risen and
stood book in hand.
âI had no idea that you wasted your time upon such nonsense,
especially so early in the morning,â she said, glancing round, âwhen I
see that your room has not yet been dusted. But never mind about the
poetry. I only came in to ask how you were, and to say that I am going
to lunch with the Levingers. Have you any message for them?â
âNothing particular,â he said precisely, and with a slight hardening
of the face, âexcept my best thanks to Miss Levinger for her note and
the fruit and flowers she has so kindly sent me.â
âVery well, then; I will go on, as I donât want to keep the mare
standing. Good-bye, dear; I shall look in again in the afternoon.â And
she went without waiting for an answer.
âI wished to ask her how my father was,â said Henry, âbut she never
gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, Joan.â
âNo, sir; if you will excuse me, I donât think that I will read any
more poetry.â
âWhy not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty
years since I have seen a line of âLancelot and Elaine.ââ And he
looked at her, waiting for an answer.
âBecause,â blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, âbecause Miss Graves
doesnât wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is right,
andâit is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to
say that the room wasnât dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it
yourself after aunt left.â
âMy dear girl, donât distress yourself,â Henry answered, with more
tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. âI really am
not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to
who should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be
upset, quite unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this
morning and compromise on the Times.â
Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards
Monkâs Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour.
Monkâs Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was
surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east,
however, stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf,
not more than a hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of
the house commanded an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the
building lay the gardens, which were old-fashioned and beautiful, and
sheltered by the encircling belts of firs; but in front were neither
trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly gales, and the salt spray
which drifted thither in times of storm, would not allow of their
growth.
Descending from the dogcart, Ellen was shown through the house into
the garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to
read, under the shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still.
âHow good of you to come, Ellen!â she said, springing upââand so
early too.â
âI canât take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my
dear,â Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; âit is pleasant to
escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I
have been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and
other things, my life at home is one long worry just now.â
âIt ought not to be, when you are engaged to be married,â said Emma
interrogatively.
âEven engagements have their drawbacks, as no doubt you will discover
one day,â she answered, with a little shrug of her shoulders. âEdward
is the best and dearest of men, but he can be a wee bit trying at
times: he is too affectionate and careful of me, if that is possible,
for you know I am an independent person and do not like to have some
one always running after me like a nurse with a child.â
âPerhaps he will give up that when you are married,â said Emma
doubtfully. Somehow she could not picture her handsome and formidable
friendâfor at times the gentle Emma admitted to herself that she
was rather formidableâas the constant object and recipient of
petits soins and sweet murmured nothings.
âPossibly he will,â answered Ellen decisively. âBy the way, I just
called in to see Henry, whom I found in a state of great delight with
the note and roses which you sent him. He asked me to give you his
kindest regards, and to say that he was much troubled by your thought
of him.â
âThey were lilies, not roses,â answered Emma, looking down.
âI meant liliesâdid I say roses?â said Ellen innocently. âAnd,
talking of lilies, you look a little pale, dear.â
âI am always pale, Ellen; and, like you, I have been a good deal
worried lately.â
âWorried! Who can worry you in this Garden of Eden?â
âNobody. It isâmy own thoughts. I dare say that even Eve felt worried
in her garden after she had eaten that apple, you know.â
Ellen shook her head. âI am not clever, like you,â she said, smiling,
âand I donât understand parables. If you want my advice you must come
down to my level and speak plainly.â
Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into
the golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel
path, that was bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as
though to admire some particular flower.
âShe looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of
hers,â thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; âand really it
would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot
out there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has
something to say, and will come back presently.â
She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path,
Emma turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar
tree.
âI will speak plainly,â she said, âthough I could not make up my mind
to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellenâso bitterly ashamed
that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be
seen again.â
âAnd why, my dear?â asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. âWhat dreadful
crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?â
âNo crime, but a folly, which they say is worseâan unpardonable
folly. You know what I meanâthose words that I said when your brother
was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them.â
âYes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more
than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my
dearest wish that things should come about between Henry and you as I
am sure that they will come about, now that I know your mind towards
him.â
âIf they please you, the memory of them tortures me,â Emma answered,
passionately clenching her slim white hands. âOh! how could I be so
shameless as to declare myâmy love for a man who has never spoken a
single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter
indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it
is I cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense
uttered in a moment of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the
dreadful truth, that broke from me, and which I had no power to
withhold. I do love him; I have loved him from the day when I first
saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love him; and that is
why I am disgraced.â
âReally, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming
fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has
happened.â
âNo, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept
it secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could
Comments (0)