Читать книгу Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard - Страница 11

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That Henry and Joan were left lying for so many hours among the graves of Ramborough Abbey is not greatly to be wondered at, since, before he had ridden half a mile, Master Willie Hood’s peculiar method of horsemanship resulted in frightening the cob so much that, for the first time in its peaceful career, it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. For a mile or more it galloped on at right angles to the path, while Willie clung to its mane, screaming “Wo!” at the top of his voice, and the seabirds’ eggs with which his pockets were filled, now smashed into a filthy mass, trickled in yellow streams down the steed’s panting sides.

At length the end came. Arriving at a fence, the cob stopped suddenly, and Willie pitched over its head into a bramble bush. By the time that he had extricated himself—unharmed, but very much frightened, and bleeding from a dozen scratches—the horse was standing five hundred yards away, snorting and staring round in an excited manner. Willie, who was a determined youth, set to work to catch it.

Into the details of the pursuit we need not enter: suffice it to say that the sun had set before he succeeded in his enterprise. Mount it again he could not, for the saddle had twisted and one stirrup was lost; nor would he have done so if he could. Therefore he determined to walk into Bradmouth, whither, after many halts and adventures, he arrived about ten o’clock, leading the unwilling animal by the rein.

Now Willie, although exceedingly weary, and somewhat shaken, was a boy of his word; so, still leading the horse, he proceeded straight to the residence of Dr. Childs, and rang the bell.

“I want the doctor, please, miss,” he said to the servant girl who answered it.

“My gracious! you look as if you did,” remarked that young lady, surveying his bleeding countenance.

“’Tain’t for myself, Silly!” he replied. “You ask the doctor to step out, for I don’t trust this here horse to you or anybody: he’s run away once, and I don’t want no more of that there game.”

The girl complied, laughing; and presently Dr. Childs, a middle-aged man with a quiet manner, appeared, and asked what was the matter.

“Please, sir, there’s a gentleman fallen off Ramborough Tower and broken his leg; and Joan Haste she’s with him, and she’s all bloody too—though I don’t know what she’s broken. I was to ask you to go and fetch him with a shutter, and to take things along to tie him up with.”

“When did he fall, and what is his name, my boy?” asked the doctor.

“I don’t know when he fell, sir; but I saw Joan Haste about six o’clock time. Since then I’ve been getting here with this here horse; and I wish that I’d stuck to my legs, for all the help he’s been to me—the great idle brute! I’d rather wheel a barrow of bricks nor pull him along behind me. Oh! the name? She said it was Captain Graves of Rosham: that was what I was to tell her aunt.”

“Captain Graves of Rosham!” said Dr. Childs to himself. “Why, I heard Mr. Levinger say that he was coming to stay with him to-day!”

Then he went into the house, and ten minutes later he was on his way to Ramborough in a dog-cart, followed by some men with a stretcher. On reaching the ruined abbey, the doctor stood up and looked round; but, although the moon was bright, he could see no one. He called aloud, and presently heard a faint voice answering him. Leaving the cart in charge of his groom, he followed the direction of the sound till he came to the foot of the tower. Here, beneath the shadow of the spiked tomb, clasping the senseless body of a man in her arms, he found a woman—Joan Haste— whose white dress was smirched with blood, and who, to all appearance, had but just awakened from a faint. Very feebly—for she was quite exhausted—she explained what had happened; and, without more words, the doctor set to work.

“It’s a baddish fracture,” he said presently. “Lucky that the poor fellow is insensible.”

In a quarter of an hour he had done all that could be done there and in that light, and by this time the men who were following with the stretcher, were seen arriving in another cart. Very gently they lifted Henry, who was still unconscious, on to the stretcher, and set out upon the long trudge back to Bradmouth, Dr. Childs walking by their side. Meanwhile Joan was placed in the dog-cart and driven forward by the coachman, to see that every possible preparation was made at the Crown and Mitre, whither it was rapidly decided that the injured man must be taken, for it was the only inn at Bradmouth, and the doctor had no place for him in his own house.

At length they arrived, and Henry, who by now was recovering consciousness, was carried into Joan’s room, an ancient oak-panelled apartment on the ground floor. Once this room served as the justice-chamber of the monks; for what was now the Crown and Mitre had been their lock-up and place of assize, when, under royal charter, they exercised legal rights over the inhabitants of Bradmouth. There the doctor and his assistant, who had returned from visiting some case in the country, began the work of setting Henry’s broken leg, aided by Mrs. Gillingwater, Joan’s aunt, a hard-featured, stout and capable-looking woman of middle age. At length the task was completed, and Henry was sent to sleep under the influence of a powerful narcotic.

“And now, sir,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, as Dr. Childs surveyed his patient with a certain grave satisfaction, for he felt that he had done well by a very difficult bit of surgery, “if you have a minute or two to spare, I think that you might give Joan a look: she’s got a nasty hole in her shoulder, and seems shaken and queer.”

‘They…set out upon the long trudge back to Bradmouth.’

Then she led the way across the passage to a little room that in the monastic days had served as a cell, but now was dedicated to the use of Mr. Gillingwater whenever his wife considered him too tipsy to be allowed to share the marital chamber.

Here Joan was lying on a truckle bed, in a half-fainting condition, while near her, waving a lighted candle to and fro over her prostrate form, stood Mr. Gillingwater, a long, thin-faced man, with a weak mouth, who evidently had taken advantage of the general confusion to help himself to the gin bottle.

“Poor dear! poor dear! ain’t it sad to see her dead?” he said, in maudlin tones, dropping the hot grease from the candle upon the face of the defenceless Joan; “and she, what she looks, a real lady. Oh! ain’t it sad to see her dead?” And he wept aloud.

“Get out, you drunken sot, will you!” exclaimed his wife, with savage energy. “Do you want to set the place on fire?” And, snatching the candle from Mr. Gillingwater’s hand, she pushed him through the open door so vigorously that he fell in a heap in the passage. Then she turned to Dr. Childs, and said, “I beg your pardon, sir; but there’s only one way to deal with him when he’s on the drink.”

The doctor smiled, and began to examine Joan’s shoulder.

“It is nothing serious,” he said, when he had washed the wound, “unless the rust from the spike should give some trouble in the healing. Had it been lower down, it would have been another matter, for the lung might have been pierced. As it is, with a little antiseptic ointment and a sleeping draught, I think that your niece will be in a fair way to recovery by to-morrow morning, if she has not caught cold on that damp grass.”

“However did she come by this, sir?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater.

“I understand that Captain Graves climbed the tower to get some young jackdaws. He fell, and she tried to catch him in her arms, but of course was knocked backwards.”

“She always was a good plucked one, was Joan,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, with a certain reluctant pride. “Well, if no harm comes of it, she has brought us a bit of custom this time anyhow, and when we want it bad enough. The Captain is likely to be laid up here some weeks, ain’t he, sir?”

“For a good many weeks, I fear, Mrs. Gillingwater, even if things go well with him.”

“Is he in any danger, then?”

“There is always some danger to a middle-aged man in such a case: it is possible that he may lose his leg, and that is a serious matter.”

“Lord! and all to get her young jackdaws. You have something to answer for, miss, you have,” soliloquised Mrs. Gillingwater aloud; adding, by way of explanation, as they reached the passage, “She’s an unlucky girl, Joan is, for all her good looks,—always making trouble, like her mother before her: I suppose it is in the blood.”

Leaving his assistant in charge, Dr. Childs returned home, for he had another case to visit that night. Next morning he wrote two notes—one to Sir Reginald Graves and one to Mr. Levinger, both of whom were patients of his, acquainting them with what had occurred in language as little alarming as possible. Having despatched these letters by special messengers, he walked to the Crown and Mitre. As he had anticipated, except for the pain of the wound in her shoulder, Joan was almost herself again: she had not caught cold, the puncture looked healthy, and already her vigorous young system was shaking off the effects of her shock and distress of mind. Henry also seemed to be progressing as favourably as could be expected; but it was deemed advisable to keep him under the influence of opiates for the present.

“I suppose that we had better send for a trained nurse,” said the doctor. “If I telegraph to London, we could have one down by the evening.”

“If you do, sir, I am sure I don’t know where she’s to sleep,” answered Mrs. Gillingwater; “there isn’t a hole or corner here unless Joan turns out of the little back room, and then there is nowhere for her to go. Can’t I manage for the present, sir, with Joan to help? I’ve had a lot to do with sick folk of all sorts in my day, worse luck, and some knack of dealing with them too, they tell me. Many and many’s the eyes that I have shut for the last time. Then it isn’t as though you was far off neither: you or Mr. Salter can always be in and out if you are wanted.”

“Well,” said the doctor, after reflecting, “we will let the question stand over for the present, and see how the case goes on.”

He knew Mrs. Gillingwater to be a capable and resourceful woman, and one who did not easily tire, for he had had to do with her in numerous maternity cases, where she acted the part of sage-femme with an address that had won her a local reputation.

About twelve o’clock a message came to him to say that Lady Graves and Mr. Levinger were at the inn, and would be glad to speak to him. He found them in the little bar-parlour, and Emma Levinger with them, looking even paler than her wont.

“Oh! doctor, how is my poor son?” said Lady Graves, in a shaken voice. “Mrs. Gillingwater says that I may not see him until I have asked you. I was in bed this morning and not very well when your note came, but Ellen had gone over to Upcott, and of course Sir Reginald could not drive so far, so I got up and came at once.” And she paused, glancing at him anxiously.

“I think that you would have done better to stop where you were, Lady Graves, for you are not looking very grand,” answered Dr. Childs. “I thought, of course, that your daughter would come. Well, it is a bad double fracture, and, unluckily, Captain Graves was left exposed for some hours after the accident; but at present he seems to be going on as well as possible. That is all I can say.”

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Levinger.

“Joan Haste can tell you better than I can,” the doctor answered. “She is up, for I saw her standing in the passage. I will call her.”

At the mention of Joan’s name Mr. Levinger’s face underwent a singular contraction, that, quick as it was, did not escape the doctor’s observant eye. Indeed, he made a deprecatory movement with his hand, as though he were about to negative the idea of her being brought before them; then hearing Lady Graves’s murmured “by all means,” he seemed to change his mind suddenly and said nothing. Dr. Childs opened the door and called Joan, and presently she stood before them.

Her face was very pale, her under lip was a little cut, and her right hand rested in a sling on the bosom of her simple brown dress; but her very pallor and the anxiety in her dark eyes made her beauty the more remarkable, by touching it with an added refinement. Joan bowed to Mr. Levinger, who acknowledged her salute with a nod, and curtseyed to Lady Graves; then she opened her lips to speak, when her eyes met those of Emma Levinger, and she remained silent.

The two women had seen each other before; in childhood they had even spoken together, though rarely; but since they were grown up they had never come thus face to face, and now it seemed that each of them found a curious fascination in the other. It was of Emma Levinger, Joan remembered, that Captain Graves had spoken on the previous night, when his mind began to wander after the accident; and though she scarcely knew why, this gave her a fresh interest in Joan’s eyes. Why had his thoughts flown to her so soon as his mental balance was destroyed? she wondered. Was he in love with her, or engaged to be married to her? It was possible, for she had heard that he was on his way to stay at Monk’s Lodge, where they never saw any company.

Joan had almost made up her mind, with considerable perspicuity, that there was something of the sort in the air, when she remembered, with a sudden flush of pleasure, that Captain Graves had spoken of herself also yonder in the churchyard, and in singularly flattering terms, which seemed to negative the idea that the fact of a person speaking of another person, when under the influence of delirium, necessarily implied the existence of affection, or even of intimacy, between them. Still, thought Joan, it would not be wonderful if he did love Miss Levinger. Surely that sweet and spiritual face and those solemn grey eyes were such as any man might love.

But if Joan was impressed with Emma, Emma was equally impressed with Joan, for in that instant of the meeting of their gaze, the thought came to her that she had never before seen so physically perfect a specimen of womanhood. Although Emma could theorise against the material, and describe beauty as an accident, and therefore a thing to be despised, she was too honest not to confess to herself her admiration for such an example of it as Joan afforded. This was the girl whose bravery, so she was told, had saved Captain Graves from almost certain death; and, looking at her, Emma felt a pang of envy as she compared her health and shape with her own delicacy and slight proportions. Indeed, there was something more than envy in her mind—something that, if it was not jealousy, at least partook of it. Of late Emma’s thoughts had centred themselves a great deal round Captain Graves, and she was envious of this lovely village girl with whom, in some unknown way, he had become acquainted, and whose good fortune it had been to be able to protect him from the worst effects of his dreadful accident.

At that moment a warning voice seemed to speak in Emma’s heart, telling her that this woman would not readily let go the man whom fate had brought to her, that she would cling to him indeed as closely as though he were her life. It had nothing to do with her, at any rate as yet; still Emma grew terribly afraid as the thought went home, afraid with a strange, impalpable fear she knew not of what. At least she trembled, and her eyes swam, and she wished in her heart that she had never seen Joan Haste, that they might live henceforth at different ends of the world, that she might never see her again.

All this flashed through the minds of the two girls in one short second; the next Emma’s terror, for it may fitly be so called, had come and gone, and Lady Graves was speaking.

“Good day, Joan Haste,” she said kindly: “I understand that you were with my son at the time of this shocking accident. Will you tell us how it came about?”

“Oh, my Lady,” answered Joan with agitation, “it was all my fault—at least, in a way it was, though I am sure I never meant that he should be so foolish as to try and climb the tower.” And in a simple straightforward fashion she went on to relate what had occurred, saying as little as possible, however, about her own share in the adventure.

“Thank you,” said Lady Graves when Joan had finished. “You seem to have behaved very bravely, and I fear that you are a good deal hurt. I hope you will soon be well again. And now, Dr. Childs, do you think that I might see Henry for a little?”

“Well, perhaps for a minute or two, if you will keep as quiet as possible,” he answered, and led the way to the sick room.

By this time the effects of the sleeping draughts had passed off, and when his mother entered Henry was wide awake and talking to Mrs. Gillingwater. He knew her step at once, and addressed her in a cheery voice, trying to conceal the pain which racked him.

“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You find me in a queer way, but better off than ever I expected to be again when I was hanging against the face of that tower. It is very good of you to come to see me, and I hope that the news of my mishap has not upset my father.”

“My poor boy,” said Lady Graves, bending over him and kissing him, “I am afraid that you must suffer a great deal of pain.”

“Nothing to speak of,” he answered, “but I am pretty well smashed up, and expect that I shall be on my back here for some weeks. Queer old place, isn’t it? This good lady tells me that it is her niece’s room. It’s a very jolly one anyhow. Just look at the oak panelling and that old mantelpiece. By the way, I hope that Miss Joan—I think that she said her name was Joan—is not much hurt. She is a brave girl, I can tell you, mother. Had it not been that she caught me when I fell, I must have gone face first on to that spiked tomb, and then——”

“Had it not been for her you would never have climbed the tower,” answered Lady Graves with a shudder. “I can’t think what induced you to be so foolish, at your age, my dear boy.”

“I think it was because she is so pretty, and I wanted to oblige her,” he answered, with the candour of a mind excited by suffering. “I say, I hope that somebody has written to the Levingers, or they will be wondering what on earth has become of me.”

“Yes, yes, dear; they are here, and everything has been explained to them.”

“Oh, indeed. Make them my excuses, will you? When I am a bit better I should like to see them, but I don’t feel quite up to it just now.”

Henry made this last remark in a weaker voice; and, taking the hint, Dr. Childs touched Lady Graves on the shoulder and nodded towards the door.

“Well, dear, I must be going,” said his mother; “but Ellen or I will come over to-morrow to see how you are getting on. By the way, should you like us to send for a trained nurse to look after you?”

“Most certainly not,” Henry answered, with vigour; “I hate the sight of hospital nurses—they always remind me of Haslar, where I was laid up with jaundice. There are two doctors and this good lady taking care of me here, and if that isn’t enough for me, nothing will be.”

“Well, dear, we will see how you get on,” said his mother doubtfully. Then she kissed him and went; but the doctor stopped behind, and having taken his patient’s temperature, ordered him another sleeping draught.

So soon as Lady Graves had left the parlour, Joan followed her example, murmuring with truth that she felt a little faint.

“What a beautiful girl, father!” said Emma to Mr. Levinger. “Who is she? Somebody said the other day that there was a mystery about her.”

“How on earth should I know?” he answered. “She is Mrs. Gillingwater’s niece and I believe that her parents are dead; that is the only mystery I ever heard.”

“I think that there must be something odd, all the same,” said Emma. “If you notice, her manners are quite different from those of most village girls, and she speaks almost like a lady.”

“Been educated above her station in life, I fancy,” her father answered snappishly. “That is the way girls of this kind are ruined, and taught to believe that nothing in their own surroundings is good enough for them. Anyhow, she has led poor Graves into this mess, for which I shall not forgive her in a hurry.”

“At least she did her best to save him, and at great risk to herself,” said Emma gently. “I don’t see what more she could have done.”

“That’s woman’s logic all over,” replied the father. “First get a man who is worth two of you into some terrible scrape, physical or otherwise, and then do your ‘best to save him,’ and pose as a heroine. It would be kinder to leave him alone altogether in nine cases out of ten, only then it is impossible to play the guardian angel, as every woman loves to do. Just to gratify her whim—for that is the plain English of it—this girl sends poor Graves up that tower; and because, when he falls off it, she tries to throw her arms round him, everybody talks of her wonderful courage. Bother her and her courage! The net result is that he will never be the same man again.”

Her father spoke with so much suppressed energy that Emma looked at him in astonishment, for of late years, at any rate, he had been accustomed to act calmly and to speak temperately.

“Is Captain Graves’s case so serious?” she asked.

“From what young Salter tells me I gather that it is about as bad as it can be of its kind. He has fractured his leg in a very awkward place, there is some haemorrhage, and he lay exposed for nearly five hours, and had to be carried several miles.”

“What will happen to him, then?” asked Emma in alarm. “I thought that the worst of it was over.”

“I can’t tell you. It depends on Providence and his constitution; but what seems likely is that they will be forced to amputate his leg and make him a hopeless cripple for life.”

“Oh!” said Emma, catching her breath like one in pain; “I had no idea that it was so bad. This is terrible.” And for a moment she leant on the back of a chair to support herself.

“Yes, it is black enough; but we cannot help by stopping here, so we may as well drive home. I will send to inquire for him this evening.”

So they went, and never had Emma a more unhappy drive. She was looking forward so much to Captain Graves’s visit, and now he lay wounded—dangerously ill. The thought wrung her heart, and she could almost find it in her gentle breast to detest the girl who, however innocently, had been the cause of all the trouble.