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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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my awkwardness. Do

you think that you could care enough for me to marry me? I know very

well that I have little to recommend me, and there are circumstances

connected with my financial position which make it almost presumptuous

that I should ask you.”

 

“I think, Sir Henry,” she answered, speaking for the first time, “that

we may leave money matters out of the question. I have heard something

of the state of affairs at Rosham, and I know that you are not

responsible for it, though you are expected by others to remedy it.”

 

“It is very generous of you to speak like that, Miss Levinger; and it

helps me out of a great difficulty, for I could not see how I was to

explain all this business to you.”

 

“I think that it is only just, Sir Henry, not generous. Provided that

there is enough on one side or the other, money is not the principal

question to be considered.”

 

“No, Miss Levinger, I agree with you, though I have known others who

thought differently. The main thing is whether you can care enough

about me.”

 

“That is one thing, Sir Henry,” she answered in a low voice; “also

there are others.”

 

“I suppose that you mean whether or no I am worthy of you, Miss

Levinger. Well, even though it should destroy my chances with you, I

will tell you frankly that, in my judgment, I am not. Listen, Miss

Levinger: till within a few months ago I had never cared about any

woman; then I saw you for the second time, and thought you the

sweetest lady that I had ever met, for I understood how good and true

you are, and in my heart I hoped that a day would come when I might

venture to ask you what I am asking you now. Afterwards trouble arose

through my own weakness and folly—trouble between myself and another

woman. I am sure that you will not press me for details, because, in

order to give them, I must betray another person’s secret. To be

brief, I should probably have married this woman, but she threw me

over and chose another man.”

 

“What!” said Emma, startled out of her self-control, “is Joan Haste

married?”

 

“I see that you know more about me than I thought. She is married—to

Mr. Samuel Rock.”

 

“I cannot understand it at all; it is almost incredible.”

 

“Nor can I, but the fact remains. She wrote to tell me of it herself,

and, what is more, her husband showed me the marriage certificate. And

now I have made a clean breast of it, for I will not sail under false

colours, and you must judge me. If you choose to take me, I promise

you that no woman shall ever have a better husband than I will be to

you, for your happiness and welfare shall be the first objects of my

life. The question is, after what I have told you, can you care for

me?”

 

Emma stopped, for all this while they had been walking slowly, and

looked him full in the eyes, a last red ray of the dying light falling

on her sweet face.

 

“Sir Henry,” she said, “you have been frank with me, and I honour you

for it, none the less because I happen to know something of the story.

And now I will be equally frank with you, though to do so is humbling

to me. When I stayed in the same house with you more than two years

ago, you took little notice of me, but I grew fond of you, and I have

never changed my mind. Still I do not think that, as things are, I

should marry you on this account alone, seeing that a woman looks for

love in her marriage; and, Sir Henry, in all that you have said to me

you have spoken no word of love.”

 

“How could I, knowing what I had to tell you?” he broke in.

 

“I cannot say, but it is so; and therefore, speaking for myself alone,

I should be inclined to answer you that we had best go our separate

ways in life, though I am sure that, as you promise, you would be a

good and kind husband to me. But there are other people to be

considered; there is my father, who is most anxious that I should make

a satisfactory marriage—such as I know this would be for me, for I am

nobody and scarcely recognised in society here—and who has the

greatest respect and affection for you, as he had for your father

before you. Then there is your family: if I refuse you it would mean

that you would all be ruined, and though it may hurt your pride to

hear me say so, I shrink from such a thought–-”

 

“Oh! pray do not let that weigh with you,” he interrupted. “You know

well that, although much of what you say is unhappily true, I am not

seeking you that you may mend my broken fortunes, but because you are

what you are, and I desire above all things to make you my wife.”

 

“I am sorry, Sir Henry, but, though I believe every word you say, I

must let it weigh with me, for I wish to be a blessing to those about

me, and not a curse. Well, for all these reasons, and chiefly perhaps,

to be honest, because I am fond of you though you do not care very

much for me, I will be your wife, Sir Henry, as you are good enough to

wish it,” and she gave him her hand.

 

He took it and kissed it, and they walked on in silence till they were

near to the house. Then Henry spoke, and his voice betrayed more

emotion than he cared to show.

 

“How can I thank you, Emma!” he said; “and what am I to say to you? It

is useless to make protestations which you would not believe, though

perhaps they might have more truth in them than you imagine. But I am

sure of this, that if we live, a time will come soon when you will not

doubt me if I tell you that I love you.” And, drawing her to him, he

kissed her upon the forehead.

 

“I hope so, Henry,” she said, disengaging herself from his arms, and

they went together into the house.

 

Within ten weeks of this date Henry and Emma were spending a long

honeymoon among the ruined temples of the Nile.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE DESIRE OF DEATH—AND THE FEAR OF HIM

 

Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the

first excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she

lapsed into a condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every

week brought her rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband,

most of which she threw into the fire half-read. At length there came

one that she perused eagerly enough, for it announced the approaching

marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss Levinger—tidings which were

confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr. Levinger himself,

enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she would take

nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a

copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the

dress and appearance “of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom,

Captain Sir Henry Graves, Bart., R.N.”

 

“At least I have not done all this for nothing,” said Joan, as she

threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon

her bed moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable

despair.

 

She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never

have found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did

she regret that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock

had been careful to inform her of his interview with Henry, putting

his own gloss upon what passed between them; and the knowledge that

her lover must hate and despise her was the sharpest arrow of the many

which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest she could bear, but

than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable was her

state!—scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother, but

who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a

man she hated, and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets,

however poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear

of it could avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right—as she had sown

so she must reap.

 

One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London

winter gave way to spring, and the time of her trial grew near. In

health she remained fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so

vigorous a constitution; but the end of each week found her sadder and

more broken in spirit than its beginning. She had no friends, and went

out but little—indeed, her only relaxations were found in reading,

with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry had once told

her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with Jim and

Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the

shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household.

Mrs. Bird’s eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom

she consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase.

 

“Oh! my dear,” she said to Joan, “what is to happen to us all if I go

blind? I have a little money put away—about a hundred and fifty

pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and

then I suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know,

my dear, they separate husband and wife in those places.” And, quite

broken down by such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep.

 

“At any rate, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at

present,” answered Joan gently, “since Sally helps, and I can do the

fine work that you cannot manage.”

 

“It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you

in out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me,

and how I should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to

repine, for God has always looked after us heretofore, and I do not

believe that He Who feeds the ravens will suffer us to starve, or to

be separated. So I will try to be brave and trust in Him.”

 

“Ah!” answered Joan, “I wish that I could have your faith; but I

suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let

me begin at once. No, don’t thank me any more; it will be a comfort;

besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you.”

 

Thenceforth Mrs. Bird’s orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever

they had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave

her some relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a

new desire entered into her mind—that most terrible of all desires,

the desire of Death! Of Death she became enamoured, and her daily

prayer to Heaven was that she might die, she and her child together,

since her imagination could picture no future in another world more

dreadful than that which awaited her in this.

 

Only once during these

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