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

"Well, you can cheer up now, Thomson, for, although for his position your master will not be a rich man, the bad times are done with."

"Yes, my lady, they are done with; and please God they won't come no more in my day. If your ladyship is going to walk outside I'll call March, as I know he's very anxious to show you the new vinery."

"Thank you, Thomson, but I think I will sit quiet and enjoy myself till Sir Henry comes, and then we can all go and see the gardens together. Mr. and Mrs. Milward are coming over this afternoon, are they not?"

"Yes, I believe so, my lady; that is, Miss Ellen--I mean Mrs. Milward--drove round with her husband yesterday to look at the new furniture in the drawing-room, and said that they should invite themselves to dinner to-night to welcome the bride. He's grown wonderful pleasant of late, Mr. Milward has, and speaks quite civil to the likes of us since Sir Henry's marriage; though March, he do say it's because he wants our votes--for I suppose you've heard, my lady, that he's putting up for Parliament in this division--but then March never was no believer in the human heart."

"Yes, I have heard, and I am told that Miss Ellen will pull him through. However, we need not think of that yet. By the way, Thomson, tell March to cut a bowlful of sweet peas and have them put in your mistress's room. I remember that when she was here as a girl, nearly three years ago, she said that they were her favourite flower."

When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door of the hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds and the light shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond, to read the morning psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon, however, the book dropped from her hand and she fell to musing on the past, and how strangely, after all its troubles, the family that she loved, and with which her life was interwoven, had been guided back into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than a year ago there had been nothing before them but ruin and extinction--and now! It was not for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were for the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she must follow them; but rather for her dead husband's sake, and for the sake of the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their descendants.

Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her knees when she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit to Joan Haste, things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since heard that this poor girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she had seen in the train when she went to London; for Henry had told her as much and spoken very bitterly of her conduct. The story seemed a little curious, and she could not altogether understand it, but she supposed that her son was right, and that on consideration the young woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a wise marriage with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a poor gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue was most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their gratitude. Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little doze, from which she was awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and went to the front door to find Henry, looking very well and bronzed, helping his wife out of the carriage.

"Why, mother, is that you?" he said, with a pleasant laugh. "This is first-rate: I didn't expect from your letter that you would be down before to-morrow," and he kissed her. "Look, here is my invalid; I have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did not imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don't know how she survived it."

"Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way, that I may say how you do to your mother."

"Well, Emma," said Lady Graves, "I must say that, notwithstanding your bad crossing, you look very well--and happy."

"Thank you, Lady Graves," she answered, colouring slightly; "I am both well and happy."

"Welcome home, dear!" said Henry; and putting his arm round his wife, he gave her a kiss, which she returned. "By the way," he added, "I wonder if there is any news of your father."

"Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand," answered Lady Graves. "But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing; here it is."

Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It said:--

"Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over on the following morning?

"Yours affectionately, "G. L."

"He seems pretty well," said Henry. "But I'll drive to Bradmouth and take the two o'clock train to Monk's Vale, coming back to-night."

"Ellen and her husband are going to be here to dinner," said Lady Graves.

"Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps you and Emma will look after them. I dare say that I shall be home before they go. No, don't bother about meeting me. Probably I shall return by the last train and walk from Bradmouth. I must go, as you remember I wrote to your father from abroad saying that I would come and see him to-day, and he will have the letter this morning."

After her interview with Mr. Levinger, for the first time in her life Joan slept beneath her father's roof--or rather she lay down to sleep, since, notwithstanding her weariness, the scene through which she had passed, together with the aching of her heart for all that she had lost, and its rebellion against the fate which was in store for her on the morrow, made it impossible that she should rest. Once towards morning she did doze off indeed, and dreamed.

She dreamt that she stood alone upon a point of rock, out of all sight or hope of shore, while round her raged a sea of troubles. From every side they poured in upon her to overwhelm her, and beneath the black sky above howled a dreary wind, which was full of voices crying to each other of her sins and sorrows across the abysm of space. Wave after wave that sea rolled on, and its waters were thick with human faces, or rather with one face twisted and distorted into many shapes, as though reflected from a thousand faulty mirrors--now long, now broad, and now short; now so immense that it filled the ocean and overflowed the edge of the horizon, and now tiny as a pin's point, yet visible and dreadful. Gibbering, laughing, groaning, and shouting aloud, still the face was one face--that of Samuel Rock, her husband. Nearer it surged and nearer, till at length it flowed across her feet, halving itself against them; then the one half shouted with laughter and the other screamed in agony, and joining themselves together, they rose on the waters of that sea, which of a sudden had grown red, and, smiting her upon the breast, drove her down and down and down into the depths of an infinite peace, whence the voice of a child was calling her.

Then she awoke, and rejoiced to see the light of day streaming into the room; for she was frightened at her nightmare, though the sense of peace with which it closed left her strangely comforted. Death must be like that, she thought.

At breakfast Joan inquired of the servant how Mr. Levinger was; and, being of a communicative disposition, the girl told her that he had gone to bed late last night, after sitting up to burn and arrange papers, and said that he should stop there until the doctor had been. She added that a letter had arrived from Sir Henry announcing his intention of coming to see her master after lunch. Joan informed the woman that she should wait at Monk's Lodge to hear Dr. Childs's report, but that Mr. Levinger need not be troubled about her, since, having only a handbag with her, she could find her own way back to Bradmouth, either on foot or by train. Then she went to her room and sat down to think.

Henry was coming here, and she was glad of it; for, dreadful as such an interview would be, already she had made up her mind that she must see him alone and for the last time. Everything else she could bear, but she could no longer bear that he should think her vile and faithless. To-day she must go to her husband, but first Henry should learn why she went. He was safely married now, and no harm could come of it, she argued. Also, if she did not take this opportunity, how could she know when she might find another? An instinct warned her that her career in Bradmouth as the wife of Mr. Rock would be a short one; and at least she was sure that, when once she was in his power, he would be careful that she should have no chance of speaking with the man whom he knew to have been her lover. Yes, it might be unheroic and inconsistent, but she could keep silence no longer; see him she must and would, were it only to tell him that his child had lived, and was dead.

Moreover, there was another matter. She must warn him to guard against the secret which she had learned on the previous night being brought directly or indirectly to the knowledge of his wife. Towards Emma her feelings, if they could be defined at all, were kindly; and Joan guessed that, should Henry's wife discover how she had been palmed off upon an unsuspecting husband, it would shatter her happiness. For her own part, Joan had quickly made up her mind to let all this sad history of falsehood and dishonour sink back into the darkness of the past. It mattered to her little now whether she was legitimate or not, and it was useless to attempt to clear the reputation of a forgotten woman, who had been dead for twenty years, at the expense of blasting that of her own father. Also, she knew that if Samuel got hold of this story, he would never rest from his endeavours to wring from its rightful owner the fortune that might pass to herself by a quibble of the law. No, she had the proofs of her identity; she would destroy them, and if any others were to be found among her father's papers after his death Henry must do likewise.

When Dr. Childs had gone, about one o'clock, Joan saw the servant, who told her the doctor said that Mr. Levinger remained in much the same condition, and that he yet might live for another month or two. On the other hand, he might die at any moment, and, although he did not anticipate such immediate danger, he had ordered him to stay in bed, and had advised him to send for a clergyman if he wished to see one; also to write to his daughter, Lady Graves, asking her to come on the morrow and to stay with him for the present. Joan thanked the maid, and leaving a message for Mr. Levinger to the effect that she would come to see