Mrs. Gillingwater watched her pass, and fell into a reflective mood.
“She is a beauty and no mistake,” she thought to herself; “I never saw such another in all my born days. Her mother was well enough, but she wasn’t in it with Joan; and what’s more, I like her pride. Why should she take that canting chap if she don’t want to? I’m paid to back him, and a day’s work for a day’s wage, that’s my motto. But I’d rather see her marry the Captain, and sit in the church a lady, with a fur round her neck and a carriage waiting outside, than snuffle in a chapel praising the Lord with a pack of oily-faced children. If she had the go of a heifer calf, she would marry him though; he is bound to be a baronet, and it would make a ladyship of her, which with a little teaching is just what she is fit to be; for if he ain’t almost as sweet on her and small wonder after all that nursing as she is on him, I was born in the Flegg Hundred, that’s all. But go is just what Joan ain’t got, not when she can make anything for herself out of it anyway; she’d do what you like for love, but she wouldn’t turn her finger round a teacup to crown herself a queen. Well, there is no helping them as won’t help themselves, so I am all for Samuel Rock and a hundred pounds in my pocket, especially as I dare say that I can screw another hundred out of him if I square Joan, to say nothing of a trifle from the Captain over and above the board for holding my tongue. I suppose he will marry old Levinger’s girl, the Captain will; a pale, puling-faced thing she is, and full of soft words as a boiled potato with flour, but she’s got plenty of that as will make her look rosy to any landlord in these times. Still, hang me, if I was a man, if I wouldn’t rather take Joan and those brown eyes of hers, and snap my fingers at the world, the flesh, and the devil.”
Who or what Mrs. Gillingwater meant by “the world, the flesh, and the devil” is not quite evident, but certainly they symbolised persons or conveyed some image to her mind in this connection, for, suiting the action to the word, she snapped her fingers thrice at the empty air, and then sought her bonnet prior to some private expedition in pursuance of pleasure, or more probably of profit.
CHAPTER XIV.
SOWING THE WIND.
Joan went to her room and took off her wet things, for she was soaked to the skin, clothing herself anew in her Sunday dress a soft grey garment, with little frills about the neck and wrists. Then she brushed her waving brown hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the back of her head; and, though she did not think of it, no style could have been more becoming to her. Her toilet completed, a few minutes after her aunt had left the house, she went to the parlour to get herself some tea, of which she drank two or three cups, for she felt unusually thirsty, but she could scarcely swallow a mouthful. The food seemed to choke her, and when she attempted to eat the effort brought on a feeling of dizziness and a tingling sensation in her limbs.
“I wonder what is the matter with me?” she said to herself. “I feel as though my veins were on fire. I suppose that these scenes have upset me; or perhaps that tea was too strong. Well, I must go and look after Captain Graves. Aunt won’t be back till twelve o’clock or so, and it’s my last night, so I had better make the most of it. I dare say that they will turn me out of the house to-morrow.” And, with a bitter little laugh, she took up the candle preparatory to going to Henry’s room.
Near the door Joan paused, and, whether by chance or by design, turned to look at herself in an oak-framed mirror that hung upon the wall, whither doubtless it had been brought from some old house in the neighbourhood, for it was costly and massive in make. Her first glance was cursory, then she held up the candle and began to examine herself more attentively, since, perhaps for the first time in her life, her appearance fascinated her, and she became fully aware of her own loveliness. Indeed, in that moment she was lovely as lovely as we may imagine the ancient Helen to have been, or any of those women who have set the world aflame. Her brown eyes were filled with a strange light beneath their curving lashes and the clear-cut heavy lids; her sweet mouth drooped a little, like that of a sleeping child, showing the ivory of her teeth between the parted lips; her cheeks glowed like the bloom on a peach; and above, the masses of her gold-brown hair shone faintly in the candlelight. Perhaps it was that the grey dress set it off more perfectly than usual at least it seemed to Joan, considering herself critically, that her form was worthy of the face above it; and, in truth, it would have been hard to find a woman cast in a more perfect mould. Tall, and somewhat slender for her height, her every movement was full of grace, and revealed some delicacy of limb or neck or carriage.
Seeing herself thus, a new light broke upon Joan’s mind, and she understood how it came about that Samuel Rock worshipped her so madly. Well, if mere beauty could move one man thus, why should not beauty and tenderness and love—ah! love that could not be measured—suffice to move another? She smiled at the thought—a slow, sweet smile; and with the smile a sense of her own power entered into her, a power that she had never learned until this moment.
Except for the occasional visits of Mrs. Gillingwater, bringing him his tea or dinner, Henry had been alone that day since one o’clock. Nearly nine weeks had passed from the date of his accident, and although he did not dare as yet to set his injured limb to the ground, in all other respects he was perfectly well, but thinner in the face, which was blanched by confinement and adorned with a short chestnut-coloured beard. So well was he, indeed, that he had been allowed to leave his bed and to take exercise on crutches in the room, though the doctor considered that it would not be wise for him to risk the shaking of a journey home, or even to venture out at present. In this view Henry had acquiesced, although his sister Ellen pooh-poohed it, saying that she was certain that he could be brought back safely. The truth was that at the time he had no yearning for the society of his family, or indeed for any other society than that in which he found himself. He was glad to be away from Rosham and the carking care that brooded on the place; he was glad to escape from Ellen and the obnoxious Edward.
Nor did he wish to visit Mr. Levinger at present, for he knew that then he would be expected to propose to his daughter, which for many reasons he did not desire to do. Although she had exaggerated its effects—for, in fact, the matter had almost slipped from his memory—Emma, poor girl, had been right to some extent in her forebodings as to the results of her passionate outburst upon Henry’s mind, should he ever hear the story of it. Not that he thought the worse of her: no man thinks the worse of a woman because she either is, or pretends to be, in love with him; but the incident irritated him in that it gave a new twist to a tangled skein. How could he remain on terms of ordinary friendship with a girl who had made such an avowal? It seemed to him difficult, if not impossible. Surely he must either place himself in regard to her upon the footing which she appeared to desire, or he must adopt the easier alternative and keep away from her altogether.