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

big blue eyes, like yours. I

was ashamed about it at first, and it frightened me. I used to

dream at nights that everybody I knew was hunting me through the

streets, pointing and gibbering at me, with my aunt, Mrs.

Gillingwater, at the head of them. Now I’m not ashamed any more. I

don’t care: why should I? Nobody will bother because a nameless

girl has a nameless baby—nobody except me; and I shall love it,

and love it, and love it almost as much as I love you, my dear.

But I forgot: I am going to die—kiss me when I am dead,

Henry—pale lips for you to kiss, my own!—so there will be no

child after all, and that is a pity, for you won’t be able to see

it. If it is born at all it will be born in heaven, or wherever

poor girls who have gone wrong are sent to. I wonder what is the

meaning of it, Henry; I wonder, not why I should love you, for I

was bred to that, that was my birth-luck, but why I should suffer

so because I love you? Is it my fault, or somebody else’s?—I

don’t mean yours, dear—or is it simply a punishment because I am

wicked?—because, if so, it seems curious. You see, if I had taken

you at your word and married you, then I shouldn’t have been

wicked—that is, in the eyes of others—and I shouldn’t have

suffered. I should have been as good as all married women are, and

oh! a great deal happier than most of them. But because I couldn’t

think of marrying you, knowing that it would be your ruin, I am

wicked and I suffer; at least I can guess no other reason. Well,

Henry, I don’t mind suffering so long as you are happy, and I hope

that you will always be happy. But I am selfish too: When I am

dead, I hope that you will think of me at times—yes, and of the

baby that wasn’t born—and if I can, I shall try to wander into

your sleep now and again, and you will see me there white robed,

and with my hair spread out—for you used to praise my

hair—holding the dream-baby in my arms. And at last you will die

also and come to find me; not that you will need to seek, for

though I am a sinner God will be good and pitiful to me because I

have endured so much, and I shall be waiting at your bedside to

draw your passing spirit to my breast. Oh! I have been lonely, so

dreadfully lonely; I have felt as though I stood by myself in a

world where nobody understood me and everybody scorned and hated

me. But I know now that this was only because I could not see you.

If only I could see you I should die happy. Oh! my darling, my

darling, if only I could see you, and you were kind to me for one

short hour, I would–-”

 

Here Joan’s letter came to an abrupt termination, for the simple

reason that the agony in her head grew so sharp that she fainted for a

moment, then, recovering herself, staggered to her bed, forgetting all

about the disjointed and half-crazy epistle which it had been her

fancy to write.

 

A few minutes later Mrs. Bird entered the room accompanied by a

doctor—not a “red lamp” doctor, but a very clever and rising man from

the hospital, who made a rapid examination of the patient.

 

“Um!” he said, after taking her temperature, “looks very like the

beginnings of what you would call ‘brain fever,’ though it may be only

bad influenza; but I can’t tell you much about it at present. What do

you know of the history of the case, Mrs. Bird?”

 

She told him, and even repeated the confession that Joan had made to

her.

 

“When did she say all this?” he asked.

 

“About an hour and a half ago, sir.”

 

“Then you must not pay too much attention to it. She is in a state of

cerebral excitement with high fever, and was very likely wandering at

the time. I have known people invent all sorts of strange stories

under such conditions. However, it is clear that she is seriously ill,

though a woman with such a splendid physique ought to pull through all

right. Indeed, I do not feel anxious about her. What a beautiful girl

she is, by the way! You’ll sit up with her to-night, I suppose? I’ll

be round by eight o’clock to-morrow morning, and I will send you

something in half an hour that I hope will keep her quiet till then.”

 

Mrs. Bird did not go to bed that night, the most of which she spent by

Joan’s side, leaving her now and again to rest herself awhile upon the

sofa in the sitting-room. As she was in the act of lying down upon

this sofa for the first time, her eye fell upon the written sheets of

Joan’s unfinished letter. She took them up and glanced at them, but

seeing from its opening words that the letter was of a strictly

confidential character, she put it down and tried to go to sleep. The

attempt, however, was not successful, for whenever Mrs. Bird closed

her eyes she saw those passionate words, and a great desire seized her

to learn to whom they were addressed, and whether or no the document

threw any light upon the story that Joan had told her. Now, if Mrs.

Bird had a weak point it was curiosity; and after many struggles of

conscience, the end of it was, that in this instance temptation got

the better of her. From time to time glancing guiltily over her

shoulder, as though she feared to see the indignant writer rise from

the bed where she lay in semi-torpor, she perused the sheets from

beginning to end.

 

“Well, I never did!” she said, as she finished them—“no, not in all

my born days. To think of the poor girl being able to write like that:

not but what it is mad enough, in all conscience, though there’s a

kind of sense in the madness, and plenty of feeling too. I declare I

could cry over it myself for sixpence, yes, that I could with all this

silly talk about a babe unborn. She seems to have thought that she is

going to die, but I hope that isn’t true; it would be dreadful to have

her die here, like the late accountant, let alone that we are all so

fond of her. Well, I know her aunt’s name now, for it’s in the letter;

and if things go bad I shall just take the liberty to write and tell

her. Yes, and I’m by no means sure that I won’t write to this Mr.

Graves too, just to harrow him up a bit and let him know what he has

done. If he’s got the feelings of a man, he’ll marry her straight away

after this—that is, if she’s left alive to marry him. Anyhow I’ll

make bold to keep this for a while, until I know which way things are

going.” And she placed the sheets in an envelope, which she hid in the

bosom of her dress.

 

Next morning the doctor came, as he had promised, and announced that

Joan was worse, though he still declined to express any positive

opinion as to the nature of her illness. Within another twenty-four

hours, however, his doubts had vanished, and he declared it to be a

severe case of “brain fever.”

 

“I wish I had moved her to the hospital at once,” he said; “but it is

too late for that now, so you will have to do the best you can with

her here. A nurse must be got: she would soon wear you out; and what

is more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done

with her.”

 

“A nurse!” said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, “how am I to afford

all that expense?”

 

“I don’t know; but can’t she afford it? Has she no friends?”

 

“She has friends, sir, of a sort, but she seems to have run away from

them, though I think that I have the address of her aunt. She’s got

money too, I believe; and there’s some one who gives her an

allowance.”

 

“Very likely, poor girl,” answered the doctor drily. “Well, I think

that under the circumstances you had better examine her purse and see

what she has to go on with, and then you must write to this aunt and

let her know how things are. I dare say that you will not get any

answer, but it’s worth a penny stamp on the chance. And now I’ll be

witness while you count the money.”

 

Joan’s purse was easily found; indeed, it lay upon the table before

them, for, notwithstanding Mr. Levinger’s admonitions, she was

careless, like most of her sex, as to where she put her cash. On

examination it was found to contain over fifteen pounds.

 

“Well, there’s plenty to go on with,” said the doctor; “and when

that’s gone, if the relations won’t do anything, I must get a sister

to come in and nurse her. But I shouldn’t feel justified in

recommending her case to them while she has so much money in her

possession.”

 

Within three hours the nurse arrived—a capable and kindly woman of

middle age who thoroughly understood her business. As may be imagined,

Mrs. Bird was glad enough to see her; indeed, between the nursing of

Joan, who by now was in a high fever and delirious, upstairs, and

attending to her paralytic husband below, her strength was well-nigh

spent, nor could she do a stitch of the work upon which her family

depended for their livelihood. That afternoon she composed a letter to

Mrs. Gillingwater. It ran as follows:—

 

“Madam,—

 

“You may think it strange that I should write to you, seeing that

you never heard of me, and that I do not know if there is such a

person as yourself, though well enough acquainted with the name of

Gillingwater down Yarmouth way in my youth; but I believe, whether

I am right or wrong—and if I am wrong this letter will come back

to me through the Post Office—that you are the aunt of a girl

called Joan Haste, and that you live at Bradmouth, which place I

have found on the map. I write, then, to tell you that Joan Haste

has been lodging with me for some months, keeping herself quiet

and respectable, and working in a situation in Messrs. Black &

Parker’s shop in Oxford Street, which doubtless is known to you if

ever you come to London. Two nights ago she came back from her

work ill, and now she lies in a high fever and quite off her head

(so you see she can’t tell me if you are her aunt or not). Whether

she lives or dies is in the hands of God, and under Him of the

doctor; but he, the doctor I mean, thinks that I ought to let her

relations, if she has any, know of her state, both because it is

right that they should, and so that they may help her if they

will. I have grown very fond of her myself, and will do all I can

for her; but I am a poor woman with an invalid husband and child

to look after, and must work to support the three of us, so that

won’t be much. Joan has about fifteen pounds in her purse, which

will of course pay for doctor, food and nursing for