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

bore laymen with

these matters. I can only say, sir, that I am deeply interested in the

case, and will do my utmost to pull her through. I would rather that

she had been at the hospital; but, on the whole, she is not badly off

here, especially as I have succeeded in getting the best nurse for her

that I know anywhere. Good night.”

 

“Good night, Doctor, and whatever the issue, pray accept my thanks in

advance, and remember that you need not spare money.”

 

“Don’t be afraid, sir—I sha’n’t. I’ll spend a thousand pounds over

her, if necessary; and save your thanks at present—three weeks hence

it may be another matter, or there may be only the bill to pay. Well,

I must be off. Good night. Perhaps, Mrs. Bird, you will send out for

the things the nurse wants,” and he went.

 

“That seems a capable man,” said Mr. Levinger; “I like the look of

him. And now, madam, you will need some cash in hand. I have brought

twenty pounds with me, which I suppose will be enough to go on with,

without touching Joan’s money,” and he placed that sum upon the table.

 

“By the way, Mrs. Bird,” he added, “perhaps you will be good enough to

send me a note or a telegram every day informing me of your patient’s

progress—here is my address—also to keep an account of all sums

expended, in which you can include an extra allowance of a pound a

week to yourself, to compensate you for the trouble and anxiety to

which this illness must put you.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” she answered, curtseying—“I call that very liberal;

though, to tell you the truth, I am so fond of Joan that I would not

take a farthing if I could afford it. But, what between two

deaf-and-dumb people to look after and her on my mind, it is no use

pretending that I can get through as much dressmaking work as I ought;

and so, as you seem well able to pay, I will put my pride in my

pocket, and the money along with it. Also I will keep you informed

daily, as you ask.”

 

“Two deaf-and-dumb people?”

 

“Yes, sir,”—and she told him about her husband and Sally.

 

“Really,” he said, when she had finished, surveying the frail little

woman with admiration, “you seem to have more than your share of this

world’s burden, and I respect you, madam, for the way in which you

bear it.”

 

“Not a bit, sir,” she answered cheerily; “while it pleases God to give

me my health, I wouldn’t change places with the Queen of England and

all her glory.”

 

“I admire you still more, Mrs. Bird,” he answered, as he bowed himself

out politely; “I wish that everybody could face their trials so

cheerfully.” But within himself he said, “Poor Joan! no wonder she was

wretched, shut up in this dreadful little house with deaf-and-dumb

folk for companions. Well, I have done all I can for her now, but I

wish that I had begun earlier. Oh! if I could have the last

twenty-five years over again, things would be very different to-day.”

 

Mrs. Bird was delighted with Mr. Levinger. Never before, as she

explained presently with much gesticulation to Jim, had she met so

charming, so handsome, so thoughtful, and so liberal an elderly

gentleman.

 

“But,” gesticulated Jim back, “if he is all this, why didn’t he look

after Joan better before?”—a question that his wife felt herself

unable to answer, beyond saying that Joan and all connected with her

were “most mysterious, my dear, and quite beyond me.”

 

Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she saw that whereas she had

given Mr. Levinger every information in her power, he had imported

none to her. To this moment she did not know what was the exact

relationship in which he stood towards Joan. Though there were many

dissimilarities between them, it had struck her, observing him, that

his eyes and voice were not unlike Joan’s. Could he be her father?

And, if so, how did it come about that he had allowed her to wander to

London and to live there unprotected? Like the rest, it was a mystery,

and one that after much cogitation Mrs. Bird was forced to give up as

insoluble, though on the whole she came to the conclusion that her

visitor was not a blood relation of Joan.

 

Mr. Levinger duly carried out his programme, and on the morrow

escorted his daughter and Ellen back to Bradmouth. He did not,

however, think fit to tell them the true cause of his visit to London,

which he accounted for by saying that he had come up to bargain with a

dealer in curiosities about some ancient British ornaments that were

on the market. Nor, oddly enough, did Ellen chance to mention that she

had seen Joan selling mantles at Messrs. Black and Parker’s; the fact

being that, as regards this young woman, there reigned a conspiracy of

silence. Neither at Rosham nor at Monk’s Lodge was her name ever

mentioned, and yet she was seldom out of the minds of the members of

either of those households. Ellen, when the preparations for her

approaching marriage allowed her time for thought, never ceased to

congratulate herself upon her presence of mind in preventing the

recognition of Joan by Henry. It was clear to her that her obstinate

brother had begun to settle down and to see matters in a truer light,

especially as regarded Emma; but it was also clear that had he once

found the missing Joan there would have been new troubles. Well, he

had not found her, so that danger was gone by. And Ellen rejoiced

accordingly.

 

Mrs. Bird kept her promise, writing and telegraphing regularly to Mr.

Levinger to inform him of Joan’s progress. Indeed, for some time the

messenger from the Bradmouth post-office arrived almost daily with a

yellow envelope at Monk’s Lodge. One of these telegrams Emma opened by

chance, as her father happened to be out and the boy said that it

required an answer. It ran: “Patient had serious relapse last night.

Doctor proposes to call in–-” [here followed the name of a very

eminent authority on such ceases]—“do you sanction expense? Reply,

Bird.” Emma was naturally quite unable to reply, and so soon as he

came in she handed the telegram to Mr. Levinger, explaining why she

had opened it. He read it, then said, with as much severity as he ever

showed towards his daughter:—

 

“I wish, my dear Emma, that in future you would be so kind as to leave

my letters and telegrams alone. As you have opened it, however, and

your curiosity is doubtless excited, I may as well tell you that this

is a business cypher, and has to do with nothing more romantic than

the Stock Exchange.”

 

“I am very sorry, father,” she answered coldly—for, trusting as she

was by nature, she did not believe him—“I will be more careful in the

future.”

 

Then she left the room, feeling that another enigma had been added to

the growing stock of family mysteries.

 

Slowly the days went by, till at length it became clear to those who

tended her that Joan would recover from her illness.

 

The last and greatest crisis had come and gone, the fever had left

her, and she no longer wandered in her mind, but lay upon the bed a

shadow of her former self, so weak that she could scarcely speak above

a whisper. All day long she lay thus, staring at the dingy ceiling

above her with her brown eyes, which, always large, now looked

positively unnatural in her wasted face—a very pathetic sight to see.

At times the eyes would fill with tears, and at times she would sigh a

little, but she never smiled, except in acknowledgment of some service

of the sick room. Once she asked Mrs. Bird if any one had discovered

that she was ill, or come to see her, and on receiving a reply in the

affirmative, asked eagerly—

 

“Who? What was his name?”

 

“Mr. Levinger,” the little woman answered.

 

“It is very kind of him,” Joan murmured, and turned her head upon the

pillow, where presently Mrs. Bird saw such a mark as might have been

left by the falling of a heavy raindrop.

 

Then it was that Mrs. Bird’s doubts and difficulties began afresh.

From what she had heard while attending on Joan in her delirium, she

was now convinced that the poor girl’s story was true, and that the

letter which she had written was addressed not to any imaginary

person, but to a living man who had worked her bitter wrong. This view

indeed was confirmed by the doctor, who added, curiously enough, that

had it not been for her condition he did not believe that she would

have lived. In these circumstances the question that tormented Mrs.

Bird was whether or no she would do right to post that letter. At one

time she thought of laying the matter before Mr. Levinger, but upon

consideration she refrained from so doing. He was the girl’s guardian,

and doubtless he knew nothing of her disgrace. Why, then, should she

expose it, unless such a step became absolutely necessary? Ultimately

he would have to be told, but there seemed no need to tell him until

an appeal to the man’s honour and pity had failed. After much thought

Mrs. Bird adopted a third course, and took the doctor into her

confidence. He was a man of rough manners, plain speech, and good

heart, and her story did not in the least surprise him.

 

“There’s nothing wonderful about this, Mrs. Bird,” he said. “I have

seen the same thing with variations dozens of times in my twenty years

of experience. It’s no use your starting off to call this man a

scoundrel and a brute. It’s fashionable, I know, but it does not

follow that it is accurate: you see it is just possible that the girl

may have been to blame herself, poor dear. However, she is in a mess,

and the thing is to get her out of it, at the expense of the man if

necessary, for we are interested in her and not in him. That letter of

hers is a beautiful production in a queer kind of way, and ought to

have an effect on the individual, if he is not already married, or a

bad lot—both of which things are probable. I tell you what, I will

make a few inquiries to-morrow. What did you say his name was? Henry

Graves? Thanks; good-bye. No, no opiate to-night, I think.”

 

On the following day the doctor returned, and having visited Joan and

reported favourably of her progress, he descended to the front

parlour, where Mrs. Bird was waiting for him.

 

“She’s getting on well,” he said—“a good deal better than I expected,

indeed. Well, I have looked up Sir Henry Graves, for he’s a baronet.

As it chanced, I came across a man at the hospital last night who used

to stay with his father down at Rosham. The old man, Sir Reginald,

died a few months ago; and Henry, the second son—for his elder

brother broke his neck in a steeplechase—succeeded him. He is, or

was, a captain in the Navy, rather a distinguished man in a small way;

and not long ago he met with an accident, broke his leg or something

of that sort, and was laid up at an inn in a place called Bradmouth.

It seems that he is a good sort of fellow, though rather taciturn.

That’s all I could find out about him.”

 

“Joan comes from Bradmouth, and