Joan Haste by H. Rider Haggard (ereader manga .txt) đź“•
She might have spared herself the trouble, for even as she sighed and sought, a sha
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“Mother,” he began in a hoarse voice, “last night I told you that I
intended to propose to Miss Levinger; now I have come to tell you that
such a thing is absolutely impossible.”
“Why, Henry?”
“Because I am going to marry another woman, mother.”
“Going to marry another woman?” she repeated, bewildered. “Whom? Is it
that girl?”
“Yes, mother, it is she—Joan Haste. You remember a conversation that
we had shortly after my father’s death?”
She bowed her head in assent.
“Then you pointed out to me what you considered to be my duty, and
begged me to take time to think. I did so, and came to the conclusion
that on the whole your view was the right one, as I told you last
night. This morning, however, I have received two letters, the first
news of Joan Haste that has reached me since she left Bradmouth, which
oblige me to change my mind. Here they are: perhaps you will read
them.”
Lady Graves took the letters and perused them carefully, reading them
twice from end to end. Then she handed them back to her son.
“Do you understand now, mother?” he asked.
“Perfectly, Henry.”
“And do you still think that I am wrong in determining to marry Joan
Haste—whom I love?”
“No, Henry: I think that you are right if the girl desires it—since,”
she added with a touch of bitterness, “it seems to be conceded by the
world that the duty which a man owes to his parents and his family
cannot be allowed to weigh against the duty which he owes to the
partner of his sin. Oh! Henry, Henry, had you but kept your hands
clean to this temptation as I know that you have done in others, these
sorrows would not have fallen upon us. But it is useless to reproach
you, and perhaps you are as much sinned against as sinning. At least
you have sown the wind and you must reap the whirlwind, and whoever is
to blame, it has come about that the fortunes of our house are fallen
irretrievably, and that you must give your honour and your name into
the keeping of a frail girl who has neither.” And with a tragic
gesture of despair Lady Graves rose and left the room.
“Whether or not virtue brings its own reward I cannot say,” reflected
Henry, looking after her, “but that vice does so is pretty clear. It
seems to me that I am a singularly unfortunate man, and so, I suppose,
I shall remain.”
THE GATE OF PARADISE
For some days Lady Graves was completely prostrated by this new and
terrible misfortune, which, following as it did hard upon the hope of
happier things, seemed to her utterly overwhelming. She dared not even
trust herself to see her son, but kept her room, sending a message to
him to say that she was unwell and did not wish to be disturbed. For
his part Henry avoided the house as much as possible. As it chanced,
he had several invitations to shoot during this particular week, one
of them coupled with an engagement to dine and sleep; and of all these
he availed himself, though they brought him little enjoyment. On the
third morning after he had posted his letter, there came a short
answer from Mrs. Bird, stating that Joan would be well enough to see
him on the following Thursday or Friday; but from Joan herself he
received no reply. This note reached him on a Friday, just as he was
starting to keep his aforesaid engagement to shoot and sleep. On
Saturday he returned to Rosham to find that his mother had gone to
town, leaving a note of explanation to be given to him. The note
said:—
“Dear Henry,—
“I am going to London to stay for a few days with my old friend and
your grandmother, Lady Norse. Circumstances that have recently
arisen make it necessary that I should consult with the lawyers,
to see if it is possible for me to recover any of the sums that
from time to time have been expended upon this estate out of my
private fortune. I am not avaricious, but if I can obtain some
slight provision for my remaining years, of course I must do so;
and I desire that my claim should be made out legally, so as to
entitle me to rank as a creditor in the bankruptcy proceedings
which are now, I suppose, inevitable.
“Your affectionate mother,
“E. Graves.”
Henry put the letter into his pocket with a sigh. Like everything
else, it was sad and humiliating; but he was not sorry to find that
his mother had gone, for he had no more wish to meet her just now than
she had to meet him. Then he began to wonder if he ought to take any
steps to advise Mr. Levinger of his intentions, so that the mortgagee
might proceed to recover such portion of the capital advanced as the
assets would realise. On the whole he determined to let the matter be
for a while. He was sick to death of arguments, reproaches, and
affairs; it would be time enough to face these and other disagreeables
when he had seen Joan and was about to marry her, or had already done
so. There was no pressing need for hurry. By Mr. Levinger’s help
arrangements had been made under which the vacant farms were being
carried on for the present, and he had a little money in hand. He
remembered, indeed, that he was engaged to stay at Monk’s Lodge on the
following Friday. Well, he could telegraph from London making his
apologies and saying that he was detained in town by business, which
would save the necessity of writing an explanatory letter. One step he
did take, however: he wrote to an old messmate of his who held an
under-secretaryship in the Government, explaining the condition of the
estate to which he had succeeded, and asking him to interest himself
to obtain him a consulship, no matter how remote, or any other
suitable employment. Also he put himself in communication with the
Admiralty, to arrange for the commutation of his pension, which of
course was not liable for his father’s debts, so that he might have
some cash in hand wherewith to start in married life. Then he composed
himself to wait quietly at Rosham till the following Friday, when he
purposed to go to town.
Lady Graves’s note to Henry was true in substance, but it was not the
whole truth. She was still an able and an energetic woman, and her
mind had not been idle during those days when she kept her room,
refusing to see her son. On the contrary, she considered the position
in all its bearings, recalling every word of her interviews with
Henry, and of Joan’s letter to him, no sentence of which had escaped
her memory. After much thinking she came to a conclusion—namely, that
while it would be absolutely useless to make any further attempt to
turn Henry from his purpose, it was by no means certain that the girl
herself could not be appealed to with success. She recollected that,
according to Henry’s story, Joan had all along declined to entertain
the idea of marrying him, and that even in the mad rhapsody which Mrs.
Bird had forwarded, she stated that she could never suffer such a
thing, because it would mean his ruin. Of course, as she was well
aware, should these two once meet it was probable, it was almost
certain, that Joan Haste would be persuaded to retract her
self-denying ordinance, and to allow herself to be made Henry’s wife
and a respectable member of society. The woman who was so
circumstanced and did otherwise would be more than human, seeing that
her own honour and the honour of her child were at stake, and that
consent meant social advancement to her, and the lifelong
gratification of a love which, however guilty it might have been in
its beginning, was evidently sincere. But if she could be appealed to
before they met, it might be different. At any rate it seemed to
Lady Graves that the experiment was worth trying.
Should she be justified in making such an appeal? This girl had been
wronged, and she had rights: could she then be asked to forgo those
rights? Lady Graves answered the question in the affirmative. She was
not a hard and worldly woman, like her daughter, nor was she careful
of her own advantage in this matter, but her dead husband’s wishes
were sacred to her and she had her son’s best interests at heart.
Moreover, she was of opinion, with Ellen, that a man has no right to
undo his family, and bring the struggle of generations to an
inglorious end, in order that he may gratify a personal passion or
even fulfil a personal duty. It was better that this girl should be
wronged, if indeed she was wronged, and that Henry should suffer some
remorse and shame, than that a day should come when others would learn
that the family had been ousted out of its place and heritage because
he had chosen to pay a debt of honour at their expense.
The reasoning may have been faulty, and perhaps Lady Graves was not
the person to give judgment upon a case in which she was so deeply
interested; but, such as it was, it carried conviction to her mind,
and she determined to act upon it. There was but one way to do
this—to see the girl face to face, for she would trust nothing to
letters. She had learned through Thomson the butler that Henry was not
going to town for some days, and she must be beforehand with him. She
had Joan’s address—that is, she had seen it at the head of Mrs.
Bird’s letter, and she would take the chance of her being well enough
to receive her. It was a forlorn hope, and one that Lady Graves had no
liking for; still, for the sake of all that had been and of all that
might be, she made up her mind to lead it.
Henry’s letter reached Kent Street in due course, and when she read it
Mrs. Bird was a proud and happy woman. She also had led a forlorn
hope, and never in her wildest moments had she dreamed that the enemy
would capitulate thus readily. She could scarcely believe her eyes:
the wicked baronet, the penny-novel villain of her imaginings, had
proved himself to be an amenable creature, and as well-principled as
any common man; indeed, she gathered, although he did not say so in as
many words, that actually he meant to marry the victim of his vices.
Mrs. Bird was dumfoundered; she read and re-read Henry’s note, then
she examined the enclosure addressed to Joan, holding it to the light
and trying to peep beneath the edges of the envelope, to see if
perchance she could not win some further word of comfort. So great was
her curiosity, indeed, that she looked with longing at the kettle
boiling on the hearth, wondering if she would not be justified in
reducing the gum upon the envelope to a condition that would enable
her to peruse the writing within before she handed it seemingly
inviolate to Joan. But at this point conscience came to her rescue and
triumphed over her curiosity, devouring as it was.
When first she read Henry’s letter she had determined that in the
interests of Joan’s health the enclosure must not be given to her for
some days, but by degrees she modified this decision. Joan was out of
danger now, and the
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