Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) 📖
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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himself in marriage to a rich lady for whom he has no affection?”
“These things are true; but still I say that he must suffer, and for
the reasons that I have given.”
“You say that, Lady Graves, but what you mean is that he will not
suffer. I will put your thoughts into words: you think that your son
has been betrayed by me into a troublesome position, from which most
men would escape simply enough—namely, by deserting the woman. As it
chances, he is so foolish that, when he has heard of her trouble, he
refuses to do this—from a mistaken sense of honour. So you come to
appeal to that fallen and unfortunate woman, although it must be an
insult to you to be obliged even to speak to her, and because you are
kind-hearted, you say that your son must suffer. How must he suffer
according to your view? His punishment will be, firstly, that at the
cost of some passing pain he escapes from a disgraceful marriage with
a nameless girl—a half-lady—born of nobody knows whom and bred up in
a public-house, with such results that on the first opportunity she
follows her mother’s example; and secondly, that he must marry a sweet
and beautiful lady who will bring him love as well as fortune, and
having shaken himself clear from trouble of every sort, live happy and
honoured in the position that he has inherited. And if, as you wish, I
inflict all this upon him by refusing to marry him, what will be my
reward? A life of shame and remorse for myself and my unborn child,
till at length I die of a broken heart, or perhaps–-” and she
stopped.
“Oh! how can I ask it of you?” broke in Lady Graves.
“I do not know—that is a matter for your own conscience; but you have
asked it, understanding all that it means to me. Well, Lady Graves, I
will do as you wish, I will not accept your son’s offer. He never made
me a promise of marriage, and I never asked or expected any. Whatever
I have done I did for love of him, and it was my fault, not his—or as
much my fault as his—and I must pay the price. I love him so well
that I sacrifice my child and myself, that I put him out of my
life—yes, and give him to the arms of my rival!”—and Joan made a
movement with her hands as though to push away some unseen presence.
“You are a very noble woman,” said Lady Graves—“so noble that my mind
misgives me; and notwithstanding all that I have said, I am inclined
to ask you to forget that promise and let things take their chance.
Whatever may have been your faults, no man could do wrong to marry
such a wife.”
“No, no—I have promised, and there’s an end; and may God have mercy
on me, for He alone knows how I shall perform what now I undertake!
Forgive me, your ladyship, but I am very tired.”
Then her visitor rose.
“My dear girl,” she said, “my dear, dear girl, in asking all this of
you I have done only what I believed to be my duty; and should you, on
reflection, come to any different conclusion from what which you have
just expressed, I can only say that I for one shall not blame you, and
that, whatever the event, you will always have me for your friend.”
And, moved to it by a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed Joan
upon the forehead.
“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to me. Do
not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same
mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.”
Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she
left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I
had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for
the best. Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house!
What can he be looking for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and
manner remind me of a cat watching a caged bird.”
Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her
hands to her head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a
scene out of a book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an
end sooner than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it
matter? And now what am I to do?” She thought a while, then went to
the table and began to write. She wrote thus:—
“Dear Sir Henry,—
“I have received your letter, but could not answer it before
because I was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in
it, but it is not to be thought of that a gentleman in your
position should marry a poor girl like me; and, if you did, I dare
say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing that, as
they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems,
from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I
was ill. I remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no
attention to it, since people often talk and write nonsense when
they are off their heads. You will be glad to know that I hope to
get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see anybody at
present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon
me. I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another
situation as soon as I can get about. Thanking you again,
“Believe me
“Your affectionate
“Joan.
“P.S.—You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as
she is very romantic. I cannot help thinking how sorry you would
be if I were to take you at your word. Just fancy Sir Henry Graves
married to a shop-girl!”
Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious
epistle, with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of
art—indeed, just the kind of letter that a person of her position and
bringing up might be expected to write to a former flame of whom, for
reasons of her own, she wished to see no more.
“There,” she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy, “if that
does not disgust him with me, I don’t know what will. Bah! It makes me
sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have to
write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep up for
long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till
you are married, dear.” And she rested her head, that now was
clustered over with little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept
bitterly, till she heard the girl coming up with her tea, when she
dried her eyes and sent her letter to the post.
Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise.
THE GATE OF HELL
On the afternoon of the day following the interview between Lady
Graves and Joan, it occurred to Henry, who chanced to be in Bradmouth,
that he might as well call at the post-office to get any letters which
had been despatched from London on the Sunday. There was but one, and,
recognising the handwriting on the envelope, he read it eagerly as he
sat upon his horse.
Twice did he read it, then he put it in his pocket and rode homewards
wondering, for as yet he could scarcely believe that it had been
written by Joan Haste. There was nothing in the letter itself that he
could find fault with, yet the tone of it disgusted him. It was vulgar
and flippant. Could the same hand have written these words and those
other words, incoherent and yet so touching, that had stirred his
nature to its depths? and if so, which of them reflected the true mind
of the writer? The first letter was mad, but beautiful; the second
sane, but to his sense shocking. If it was genuine, he must conclude
that the person who penned it, desired to have done with him: but was
it genuine? He could not account for the letter, and yet he could not
believe in it; for if Joan wrote it of her own free will, then indeed
he had misinterpreted her character and thrown his pearls, such as
they were, before the feet of swine. She had been ill, she might have
fallen under other influences; he would not accept his dismissal
without further proof, at any rate until he had seen her and was in a
position to judge for himself. And yet he must send an answer of some
sort. In the end he wrote thus:—
“Dear Joan,—
“I have received your note, and I tell you frankly that I cannot
understand it. You say that you do not wish to marry me, which,
unless I have altogether misunderstood the situation (as may be
the case), seems incomprehensible to me. I still purpose to come
to town on Friday, when I hope that you will be well enough to see
me and to talk this matter over.
“Affectionately yours,
“Henry Graves.”
Joan received this note in due course of post.
“Just what I expected,” she thought: “how good he is! Most people
would have had nothing more to do with me after that horrid, common
letter. How am I to meet him if he comes? I cannot—simply I cannot. I
should tell him all the truth, and where would my promise be then! If
I see him I shall marry him—that is, if he wishes it. I must not see
him, I must go away; but where can I go? Oh! Heaven help me, for I
cannot help myself.”
The journey to London had not changed Mr. Samuel Rock’s habits, which
it will be remembered were of a furtive nature. When Lady Graves saw
him on the Sunday, he was employed in verifying the information as to
Joan’s address that he had obtained from Mrs. Gillingwater. Any other
man would have settled the matter by inquiring at No. 8 as to whether
or not she lived there, but he preferred to prowl up and down in the
neighbourhood of the house till chance assured him of the fact.
As it happened, Fortune favoured him from the outset, for if Lady
Graves saw him, he also saw her as she left the house, and was not
slow to draw conclusions from her visit, though what its exact object
might be he could not imagine. One thing was clear, however: Mrs.
Gillingwater had not lied, since to suppose that by the merest
coincidence Lady Graves was calling at this particular house for some
purpose unconnected with Joan Haste, was an idea too improbable to be
entertained. Still his suspicious mind was not altogether satisfied:
for aught he knew Joan had left the place, or possibly she might be
dead. In his desire to solve his doubts on these points before he
committed himself to any overt act, Samuel returned on the Monday
morning to Kent Street from the hotel where he had taken a room, and
set himself to watch the windows of No. 8; but without results, for
the fog was so thick that he could see nothing
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