JOAN HASTE by H. RIDER HAGGARD (e reader comics TXT) 📕

"Well, I never did!" she said, as she finished them--"no, not in all my born days. To think of the poor girl being able to write like that: not but what it is mad enough, in all conscience, though there's a kind of sense in the madness, and plenty of feeling too. I declare I could cry over it myself for sixpence, yes, that I could with all this silly talk about a babe unborn. She seems to have thought that she is going to die, but I hope that isn't true; it would be dreadful to have her die here, like the late accountant, let alone that we are all so fond of her. Well, I know her aunt's name now, for it's in the letter; and if things go bad I shall just take the liberty to write and tell her. Yes, and I'm by no means sure that I won't write to this Mr. Graves too, just to harrow him up a bit and let him know what he has done. If he's got the feelings of a man, he'll marry her straight away after this--that is, if she's left alive to marry him. Anyhow I'll make bold to keep this for a while, until I know which way things are going." And she placed the sheets in an envelope, which she hid in the bosom of her dress.

Next morning the doctor came, as he had promised, and announced that Joan was worse, though he still declined to express any positive opinion as to the nature of her illness. Within another twenty-four hours, however, his doubts had vanished, and he declared it to be a severe case of "brain fever."

"I wish I had moved her to the hospital at once," he said; "but it is too late for that now, so you will have to do the best you can with her here. A nurse must be got: she would soon wear you out; and what is more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done with her."

"A nurse!" said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, "how am I to afford all that expense?"

"I don't know; but can't she afford it? Has she no friends?"

"She has friends, sir, of a sort, but she seems to have run away from them, though I think that I have the address of her aunt. She's got money too, I believe; and there's some one who gives her an allowance."

"Very likely, poor girl," answered the doctor drily. "Well, I think that under the circumstances you had better examine her purse and see what she has to go on with, and then you must write to this aunt and let her know how things are. I dare say that you will not get any answer, but it's worth a penny stamp on the chance. And now I'll be witness while you count the money."

Joan's purse was easily found; indeed, it lay upon the table before them, for, notwithstanding Mr. Levinger's admonitions, she was careless, like most of her sex, as to where she put her cash. On examination it was found to contain over fifteen pounds.

"Well, there's plenty to go on with," said the doctor; "and when that's gone, if the relations won't do anything, I must get a sister to come in and nurse her. But I shouldn't feel justified in recommending her case to them while she has so much money in her possession."

Within three hours the nurse arrived--a capable and kindly woman of middle age who thoroughly understood her business. As may be imagined, Mrs. Bird was glad enough to see her; indeed, between the nursing of Joan, who by now was in a high fever and delirious, upstairs, and attending to her paralytic husband below, her strength was well-nigh spent, nor could she do a stitch of the work upon which her family depended for their livelihood. That afternoon she composed a letter to Mrs. Gillingwater. It ran as follows:--

"Madam,--

"You may think it strange that I should write to you, seeing that you never heard of me, and that I do not know if there is such a person as yourself, though well enough acquainted with the name of Gillingwater down Yarmouth way in my youth; but I believe, whether I am right or wrong--and if I am wrong this letter will come back to me through the Post Office--that you are the aunt of a girl called Joan Haste, and that you live at Bradmouth, which place I have found on the map. I write, then, to tell you that Joan Haste has been lodging with me for some months, keeping herself quiet and respectable, and working in a situation in Messrs. Black & Parker's shop in Oxford Street, which doubtless is known to you if ever you come to London. Two nights ago she came back from her work ill, and now she lies in a high fever and quite off her head (so you see she can't tell me if you are her aunt or not). Whether she lives or dies is in the hands of God, and under Him of the doctor; but he, the doctor I mean, thinks that I ought to let her relations, if she has any, know of her state, both because it is right that they should, and so that they may help her if they will. I have grown very fond of her myself, and will do all I can for her; but I am a poor woman with an invalid husband and child to look after, and must work to support the three of us, so that won't be much. Joan has about fifteen pounds in her purse, which will of course pay for doctor, food and nursing for a few weeks; but her illness, if things go well with her, is likely to be a long one, and if they don't, then there will be her funeral expenses to meet, for I suppose that you would wish to have her buried decent in a private grave. Joan told me that there is some one who is a kind of guardian to her and supplies her with money, so if you can do nothing yourself, perhaps you will send him this letter, as I can't write to him not knowing his address. Madam, I do hope that even if you have quarrelled with Joan, or if she hasn't behaved right to you, that you will not desert her now in her trouble, seeing that if you do and she dies, you may come to be sorry for it in after years. Trusting to hear from you,

"Believe me, Madam, "Obediently yours, "Jane Bird, Dressmaker.

"P.S.--I enclose my card, and you will find my name in the London Directory."

When she had finished this letter, and addressed it thus,

"Mrs. Gillingwater, "Bradmouth, "Please deliver at once,"

Mrs. Bird posted it with her own hands in the pillar-box at the corner of Kent Street.

Then she returned to the house and sat down to reflect as to whether or not she should write another letter--namely, to the Mr. Henry Graves of Rosham, who, according to Joan's story, was the author of her trouble, enclosing in it the epistle which the girl had composed at the commencement of her delirium. Finally she decided not to do so at present, out of no consideration for the feelings of this wicked and perfidious man, but because she could not see that it would serve any useful purpose. If Joan's relations did not come forward, then it would be time enough to appeal to him for the money to nurse or to bury her. Or even if they did come forward, then she might still appeal to him--that is, if Joan recovered--to save her from the results of his evil doings and her folly by making her his wife. Until these issues were decided one way or another, it seemed to Mrs. Bird, who did not lack shrewdness and a certain knowledge of the world, that it would be wisest to keep silent, more especially in view of the fact that, as the doctor had pointed out, the whole tale might be the imagining of a mind diseased.

And here it may be convenient to say that some weeks went by before it was known for certain whether Joan would die or live. Once or twice she was in considerable if not in imminent danger; moreover, after periods of distinct improvement, she twice suffered from relapses. But in the end her own splendid constitution and youth, aided by the care and skill with which she was nursed, pulled her through triumphantly. When her return to life and health was assured, Mrs. Bird again considered the question of the advisability of communicating with Henry in the interests of her patient.

On the morning after the posting of Mrs. Bird's letter, Mrs. Gillingwater was sitting at breakfast in the parlour of the Crown and Mitre, in no happy frame of mind. Things had gone very ill with her since Joan disappeared, some months previously. To begin with, the ample allowance that Mr. Levinger had been in the habit of paying for his ward's support no longer found its way into her pocket, and the sums received from that quarter were now inconsiderable, amounting indeed to a remission of rent only. Then, try as she would, she could not extract another farthing from Samuel Rock, who, in fact, had shown the very nastiest temper when she ventured to ask him for a trifle, having gone so far as to allege that she had been playing a double game with him as to Joan, and was concealing from him the secret of that young lady's whereabouts.

"Look here, mum," he had said in conclusion, "if you want money you must give value, do you understand? At present you have had lots of money out of me, but I have had precious little value out of you. On the day that you tell me Joan's true address, there will be five-and-twenty sovereigns to go into your pocket. Look, I keep them ready,"--and going to a drawer he unlocked it and showed her the gold, at which Mrs. Gillingwater glared avariciously. "Yes, and on the day that I marry her there'll be fifty more to follow. Don't you be afraid but what I can afford it and will keep my word. But till I get