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Read books online » Fiction » Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) 📖

Book online «Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (cat reading book .TXT) 📖». Author H. Rider Haggard



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put an end to them by bartering

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.

CHAPTER XXXIII

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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