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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man whom I have married for your sake, that the sight of him is
dreadful to me, and that I had sooner live in prison than with him.
And yet to-day I go to him.”
“I do not doubt you, Joan,” he answered, in a voice that betrayed the
extremity of his distress; “but the thing is so appalling that it
paralyses me, and I know neither what to do nor to say. Do you want
help to get away from him?”
She shook her head sadly, and answered, “I can escape from him in one
way only, Henry—by death, for my bargain was that when the time of
grace was ended I would come to be his faithful wife. After all he is
my husband, and my duty is towards him.”
“I suppose so—curse him for a cringing hound. Oh, Joan! The thought
of it drives me mad, and I am helpless. I cannot in honour even say
the words that lie upon my tongue.”
“I know,” she answered; “say nothing, only tell me that you believe
me.”
“Of course I believe you; but my belief will not save you from Samuel
Rock, or me from my remorse.”
“Perhaps not, dear,” she answered quietly, “but since there is no
escape we must accept the inevitable; doubtless things will settle
themselves sooner or later. And now there is another matter of which I
want to speak to you. You know your father-in-law is very ill, dying
indeed, and yesterday he telegraphed for me to come to see him from
London. What do you think that he had to tell me?”
Henry shook his head.
“This: that I am his legitimate daughter; for it seems that in
marrying your wife’s mother he committed bigamy, although he did not
mean to do so.”
“Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken, Joan, or
we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.”
“I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect
clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told
her on the previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates
of her mother’s marriage and of her own birth.
“Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old rogue has
betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious
that I should marry his daughter. Did she know anything of this,
Joan?”
“Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is
in order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to
you. Look, there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the
two certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered
them to the winds.
“What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they are only
copies.”
“It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered,
with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the
name of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the
registration of my birth.”
“I will get those out of him,” he said grimly, nodding his head
towards the house.
“If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the
sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can
well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret
of her birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.”
“That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was
ever a man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is
just, for it is Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.”
“Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name,
attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.”
“By whom?”
“By my husband, to whose house I must now be going.”
For a few moments there was silence, then Joan spoke again:—
“I forgot, Henry: I have something to give you that you may like to
keep,” and she took a tiny packet from her breast.
“What is it?” he said, shrinking back a little.
“Only—a lock of the—baby’s hair.” And she kissed it and gave it to
him.
He placed the paper in his purse calmly enough. Then he broke down.
“Oh! my God,” he said, with a groan, “forgive me, but this is more
than I can bear.”
Another second, and they were sobbing in each other’s arms, seeing
nothing of a man, with a face made devilish by hate and jealousy, who
craned his head forward to watch them from the shelter of a thick bush
some few yards away.
HUSBAND AND WIFE
When Joan parted from Henry she walked quickly to Monk’s Vale station
to catch the train. Arriving just in time, she bought a third-class
ticket to Bradmouth, and got into an empty carriage. Already they were
starting, when the door opened, and a man entered the compartment. At
first she did not look at him, so intent was she upon her own
thoughts, till some curious influence caused her to raise her eyes,
and she saw that the man was her husband, Samuel Rock.
She gazed at him astonished, although it was not wonderful that she
should chance to meet a person within a few miles of his own home; but
she said nothing.
“How do you do, Joan?” Samuel began, and as he spoke, she noticed that
his eyes were bloodshot and wild, and his face and hands twitched: “I
thought I couldn’t be mistook when I saw you on the platform.”
“Have you been following me, then?” she asked.
“Well, in a way I have. You see it came about thus: this morning I
find that young villain, Willie Hood, driving his donkeys off my
foreshore pastures, and we had words, I threatening to pull him, and
he giving me his sauce. Presently he says, ‘You’d be better employed
looking after your wife than grudging my dickies a bellyful of sea
thistles; for, as we all know, you are a very affectionate husband,
and would like to see her down here after she’s been travelling so
long for the benefit of her health.’ Then, of course, I ask him what
he may chance to mean; for though I have your letter in my pocket
saying that you were coming home shortly, I didn’t expect to have the
pleasure of seeing you to-day, Joan; and he tells me that he met you
last night bound for Monk’s Vale. So you see to Monk’s Vale I come,
and there I find you, though what you may happen to be doing,
naturally I can’t say.”
“I have been to see Mr. Levinger,” she answered; “he is very ill, and
telegraphed for me yesterday.”
“Did he now! Of course that explains everything; though why he should
want to see you it isn’t for me to guess. And now where might you be
going, Joan? Is it ‘home, sweet home’ for you?”
“I propose to go to Moor Farm, if you find it convenient.”
“Oh, indeed! Well, then, that’s all right, and you’ll be heartily
welcome. The place has been done up tidy for you, Joan, by the same
man that has been working at Rosham to make ready for the bride. She’s
come home to-day too, and it ain’t often in these parts that we have
two brides home-coming together. It makes one wonder which of the
husbands is the happier man. Well, here we are at Bradmouth, so if
you’ll come along to the Crown and Mitre I’ll get my cart and we’ll
drive together. There are new folks there now. Your aunt’s in jail,
and your uncle is in the workhouse; and both well suited, say I,
though p’raps you will think them a loss.”
To all this talk, and much more like it, Joan made little or no
answer. She was not in a condition to observe people or things
closely, nevertheless it struck her that there was something very
strange about Samuel’s manner. It occurred to her even that he must
have been drinking, so wild were his looks and so palpable his efforts
to keep his words and gestures under some sort of control.
Presently they were seated in the cart and had started for Moor Farm.
The horse was a young and powerful animal, but Samuel drove it quietly
enough till they were clear of the village. Then he commenced to shout
at it and to lash it with his whip, till the terrified beast broke
into a gallop and they were tearing along the road at a racing pace.
“We can’t get home too fast, can we, darling?” he yelled into her ear,
“and the nag knows it. Come on, Sir Henry, come on! You know that a
pretty woman likes to go the pace, don’t you?” and again he bought
down his heavy whip across the horse’s flanks.
Joan clung to the rail of the cart, clenched her teeth and said
nothing. Luckily the last half-mile of the road ran up a steep
incline, and, notwithstanding Rock’s blows and urgings, the horse,
being grass-fed, became blown, and was forced to moderate its pace.
Opposite the door of the house Rock pulled it up so suddenly that Joan
was almost thrown on to her head; but, recovering her balance, she
descended from the cart; which her husband gave into the charge of a
labourer.
“Here’s your missus come home at last, John,” he said, with an idiotic
chuckle. “Look at her: she’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she?”
“Glad to see her, I’m sure,” answered the man. “But if you drive that
there horse so you’ll break his wind, that’s all, or he’ll break your
neck, master.”
“Ah! John, but you see your missus likes to go fast. We’ve been too
slow up at Moor Farm, but all that’s going to be changed now.”
As he spoke two great dogs rushed round the corner of the house
baying, and one of them, seeing that Joan was a stranger, leapt at her
and tore the sleeve of her dress. She cried out in fear, and the man,
John, running from the head of the horse, beat the dogs back.
“Ah! you would, Towser, would you?” said Rock. “You wait a moment, and
I’ll teach you that no one has a right to touch a lady except her
husband,” and he ran into the house.
“Don’t go, pray,” said Joan to the man; “I am frightened,”—and she
shrank to his side for protection, for the dogs were still walking
round her growling, their hair standing up upon their backs.
By way of answer John tapped his forehead significantly and whispered,
“You look out for yourself, missus; he’s going as his grandfather did.
He’s allus been queer, but I never did see him like this before.”
Just then Rock reappeared from the house, carrying his
double-barrelled gun in his hand.
“Towser, old boy! come here, Towser!” he said, addressing the dog in a
horrible voice of pretended affection, that, however, did not deceive
it, for it stood still, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Surely,” Joan gasped, “you are not going–-”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when there was a report, and
the unfortunate Towser rolled over on to his side dying, with a charge
of No. 4 shot in his breast. The horse, frightened by
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