Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) 📖

burglars, and

wondered if he should get up; but the sounds soon ceased, so he turned

over and went to sleep again. As he learned in the morning, the cause

of the disturbance was that Mr. Levinger had been seized with one of

his heart attacks, which for a few minutes threatened to be serious,

if not fatal. Under the influence of restoratives, that were always

kept at hand, the danger passed as quickly as it had arisen, although

Emma remained by her father’s bedside to watch him for a while.

 

“That was a near thing, Emma,” he said presently: “for about thirty

seconds I almost thought–-” and he stopped.

 

“Well, it is over now, father dear,” she answered.

 

“Yes, but for how long? One day I shall be taken in this fashion and

come back no more.”

 

“Pray don’t talk like that, father.”

 

“Why not, seeing that it is what I must accustom my mind to? Oh! Emma,

if I could but see you safely married I should not trouble so much,

but the uncertainty as to your future worries me more than anything

else. However, you must settle these things for yourself; I have no

right to dictate to you about them. Good night, my love, and thank you

for your kindness. No, there is no need for you to stop up. If I

should want anything I will touch the bell.”

 

“I wonder why he is so bent upon my getting married,” thought Emma, as

she went back to her bed, “especially as, even did anything happen to

him, I should be left well off—at least, I suppose so. Well, it is no

use my troubling myself about it till the time comes, if ever it does

come.”

 

After his attack of the previous night, Mr. Levinger was unable to

come out shooting as he had hoped to do. He said, however, that if he

felt well enough he would drive in the afternoon to a spot known as

the Hanging Wood, which was to be the last and best beat of the day;

and it was arranged that Emma should accompany him and walk home, a

distance of some two miles.

 

The day was fine, and the shooting very fair; but, fond as he was of

the sport, Henry did not greatly enjoy himself—which, in view of what

lay behind and before him, is scarcely to be wondered at.

 

After luncheon the guns and beaters were employed in driving two

narrow covers, each of them about half a mile long, towards a wood

planted upon the top of a rise of ground. On they went steadily,

firing at cock pheasants only, till, the end of the plantations being

unstopped, the greater number of the birds were driven into this

Hanging Wood, which ended in a point situated about a hundred and

twenty yards from the borders of the two converging plantations.

Between these plantations and the wood lay a little valley of pasture

land, through which ran a stream; and it was the dip of this valley,

together with the position of the cover on the opposite slope, that

gave to the Hanging Wood its reputation of being the most sporting

spot for pheasant shooting in that neighbourhood. The slaughter of

hand-reared pheasants is frequently denounced, for the most part by

people who know little about it, as a tame and cruel amusement; and it

cannot be denied that this is sometimes so, especially where the

object of the keeper, or of his master, is not to show sport, but to

return a heavy total of slain at the end of the day. In the case of a

cover such as has been described, matters are very different, however;

for then the pheasants, flying towards their homes, from which they

have been disturbed, come over the guns with great speed and at a

height of from eight-and-twenty to forty yards, and the shooting must

be good that will bring to bag more than one in four of them.

 

By the banks of the stream between the covers Henry and his companions

found Mr. Levinger and Emma waiting for them, the pony trap in which

they had come having been driven off to a little distance, so as not

to interfere with the beat.

 

“Here I am,” said Mr. Levinger: “I don’t feel up to much, but I was

determined to see the Hanging Wood shot again, even if it should be

for the last time. Now then, Bowles, get your beaters round as quick

as you can, and be careful that they keep wide of the cover, and don’t

make a noise. I will place the guns. You’ve no time to lose: the light

is beginning to fade.”

 

Bowles and his small army moved off to the right, while Mr. Levinger

pointed out to each sportsman the spot to which he should go upon the

banks of the stream; assigning to Henry the centre stand, both because

he was accompanied by a loader with a second gun, and on account of

his reputation of being the best shot present.

 

“The wind is rising fast and blowing straight down the cover,” said

Mr. Levinger, when he had completed his arrangements; “those wild-bred

birds will take some stopping, unless I am much mistaken. I tell you

what, Graves: I bet you half a crown that you don’t kill a pheasant

for every four cartridges you fire, taking them as they come, without

shirking the hard ones.”

 

“All right,” answered Henry, “I can run to that”; and they both

laughed, while Emma, who was standing by, dressed in a pretty grey

tweed costume, looked pleased to see her father show so much interest

in anything.

 

Ten minutes passed, and a shrill whistle, blown far away at the end of

the cover, announced that the beaters were about to start. Henry

cocked his gun and waited, till presently a brace of pheasants were

seen coming towards him with the wind in their tails, and at a

tremendous height, one bird being some fifty yards in front of the

other.

 

“Over you, Graves,” said Mr. Levinger.

 

Henry waited till the first bird was at the proper angle, and fired

both barrels, aiming at least three yards ahead of him; but without

producing the slightest effect upon the old cock, which sailed away

serenely. Snatching his second gun with an exclamation, he repeated

the performance at the hen that followed, and with a similar lack of

result.

 

“There go four cartridges, anyway,” said Mr. Levinger.

 

“It isn’t fair to count them,” answered Henry, laughing; “those birds

were clean out of shot.”

 

“Yes, out of your shot, Graves. You were yards behind them. You

mustn’t be content with aiming ahead here, especially in this wind; if

you don’t swing as well, you’ll scarcely kill a bird. Look out: here

comes another. There! you’ve missed him again. Swing, man, swing!”

 

By this time Henry was fairly nettled, for, chancing to look round, he

saw Emma was laughing at his discomfiture. The next time a bird came

over him he took his host’s advice and “swung” with a vengeance, and

down it fell far behind him, dead as a stone.

 

“That’s better, Graves; you caught him in the head.”

 

Now the fun became fast and furious, and Emma, watching Henry’s face

as he fired away with as much earnestness and energy as though the

fate of the British Empire depended upon each shot, thought that he

was quite handsome. Handsome he was not, nor ever would be; but it is

true that, like most Englishmen, he looked his best in his rough

shooting clothes and when intent upon his sport. Five minutes more,

and the firing, which had been continuous all along the line, began to

slacken, and then died away altogether, Henry distinguishing himself

by killing the last two birds that flew over with a brilliant right

and left. Still, when the slain came to be counted it was found that

he had lost his bet by one cartridge.

 

“Don’t be depressed,” said Levinger, as he pocketed the half-crown;

“the other fellows have done much worse. I don’t believe that young

Jones has touched a feather. The fact is that a great many of the

birds you fired at were quite impossible. I never remember seeing them

fly so high and fast before. But then this wood has not been shot in

half a gale of wind for many years. And now I must say good-bye to

these gentleman and be off, or I shall get a chill. You’ll see my

daughter home, won’t you?”

 

As it chanced, Emma had gone to fetch a pheasant which she said had

fallen in the edge of the plantation behind them. When she returned

with the bird, it was impossible for her to accompany her father, even

if she wished to do so, for he had already driven away.

 

Henry congratulated her upon the skill with which she had marked down

the cock, at the same time announcing his intention of reclaiming the

half-crown from her father. Then, having given his guns to the loader,

they started for the high road, accompanied by the two pupils of the

neighbouring clergyman. A few hundred yards farther on these young

gentlemen went upon their way rejoicing, bearing with them a leash of

pheasants and a hare.

 

“You must show me the road home, Miss Levinger,” said Henry, by way of

making conversation, for they were now alone.

 

“The shortest path is along the cliff, if you think that we can get

over the fence,” she answered.

 

The hedge did not prove unclimbable, and presently they were walking

along the edge of the cliff. Below them foamed an angry sea, for the

tide was high, driven shoreward by the weight of the easterly gale,

while to the west the sky was red with the last rays of a wintry

sunset.

 

For a while they walked in silence, which Emma broke, saying, “The sea

is very beautiful to-night, is it not?”

 

“It is always beautiful to me,” he answered.

 

“I see that you have not got over leaving the Navy yet, Sir Henry.”

 

“Well, Miss Levinger, to tell you the truth I haven’t had a very

pleasant time ever since I came ashore. One way and another there have

been nothing but sorrow and worries and disagreeables, till often and

often I have wished myself off the coast of Newfoundland, with ice

about and a cotton-wool fog, or anywhere else that is dangerous and

unpleasant.”

 

“I know that you have had plenty of trouble, Sir Henry,” she said in

her gentle voice, “and your father’s death must have been a great blow

to you. But perhaps your fog will lift, as I suppose that it does

sometimes—even on the coast of Newfoundland.”

 

“I hope so; it is time that it did,” he answered absently, and then

for a minute was silent. He felt that, if he meant to propose, now was

his chance, but for the life of him he could not think how to begin.

It was an agonising moment, and, though the evening had turned

bitterly cold, he became aware that the perspiration was running down

his forehead.

 

“Miss Levinger,” he said suddenly, “I have something to ask you.”

 

“To ask me, Sir Henry? What about?”

 

“About—about yourself. I wish to ask you if you will honour me by

promising to become my wife?”

 

Emma heard, and, stopping suddenly in her walk, looked round as though

to find a refuge, but seeing none went on again.

 

“Miss Levinger,” Henry continued, “I am not skilled at this sort of

thing, and I hope that you will make allowances for