Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

CHAPTER XIV

SOWING THE WIND

 

Joan went to her room and took off her wet things, for she was soaked

to the skin, clothing herself anew in her Sunday dress—a soft grey

garment, with little frills about the neck and wrists. Then she

brushed her waving brown hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the

back of her head; and, though she did not think of it, no style could

have been more becoming to her. Her toilet completed, a few minutes

after her aunt left the house, she went to the parlour to get herself

some tea, of which she drank two or three cups, for she felt unusually

thirsty, but she could scarcely swallow a mouthful. The food seemed to

choke her, and when she attempted to eat the effort brought on a

feeling of dizziness and a tingling sensation in her limbs.

 

“I wonder what is the matter with me?” she said to herself. “I feel as

though my veins were on fire. I suppose that these scenes have upset

me; or perhaps that tea was too strong. Well, I must go and look after

Captain Graves. Aunt won’t be back till twelve o’clock or so, and it’s

my last night, so I had better make the most of it. I dare say that

they will turn me out of the house to-morrow.” And, with a bitter

little laugh, she took up the candle preparatory to going to Henry’s

room.

 

Near the door Joan paused, and, whether by chance or by design, turned

to look at herself in an oak-framed mirror that hung upon the wall,

whither doubtless it had been brought from some old house in the

neighbourhood, for it was costly and massive in make. Her first glance

was cursory, then she held up the candle and began to examine herself

more attentively, since, perhaps for the first time in her life, her

appearance fascinated her, and she became fully aware of her own

loveliness. Indeed, in that moment she was lovely—as lovely as we may

imagine the ancient Helen to have been, or any of those women who have

set the world aflame. Her brown eyes were filled with a strange light

beneath their curving lashes and the clear-cut heavy lids; her sweet

mouth dropped a little, like that of a sleeping child, showing the

ivory of her teeth between the parted lips; her cheeks glowed like the

bloom on a peach; and above, the masses of her gold-brown hair shone

faintly in the candlelight. Perhaps it was that the grey dress set it

off more perfectly than usual—at least it seemed to Joan, considering

herself critically, that her form was worthy of the face above it;

and, in truth, it would have been hard to find a woman cast in a more

perfect mould. Tall, and somewhat slender for her height, her every

movement was full of grace, and revealed some delicacy of limb or neck

or carriage.

 

Seeing herself thus, a new light broke upon Joan’s mind, and she

understood how it came about that Samuel Rock worshipped her so madly.

Well, if mere beauty could move one man thus, why should not beauty

and tenderness and love—ah! love that could not be measured—suffice

to move another? She smiled at the thought—a slow, sweet smile; and

with the smile a sense of her own power entered into her, a power that

she had never learned until this moment.

 

Except for the occasional visits of Mrs. Gillingwater, bringing him

his tea or dinner, Henry had been alone that day since one o’clock.

Nearly nine weeks had passed from the date of his accident, and

although he did not dare as yet to set his injured limb to the ground,

in all other respects he was perfectly well, but thinner in the face,

which was blanched by confinement and adorned with a short

chestnut-coloured beard. So well was he, indeed, that he had been

allowed to leave his bed and to take exercise on crutches in the room,

though the doctor considered that it would not be wise for him to risk

the shaking of a journey home, or even to venture out at present. In

this view Henry had acquiesced, although his sister Ellen pooh-poohed

it, saying that she was certain that he could be brought safely. The

truth was that at the time he had no yearning for the society of his

family, or indeed for any other society than that in which he found

himself. He was glad to be away from Rosham and the carking care that

brooded on the place; he was glad to escape from Ellen and the

obnoxious Edward.

 

Nor did he wish to visit Mr. Levinger at present, for he knew that

then he would be expected to propose to his daughter, which for many

reasons he did not desire to do. Although she had exaggerated its

effects—for, in fact, the matter had almost slipped from his

memory—Emma, poor girl, had been right to some extent in her

forebodings as to the results of her passionate outburst upon Henry’s

mind, should he ever hear the story of it. Not that he thought the

worse of her: no man thinks the worse of a woman because she either

is, or pretends to be, in love with him; but the incident irritated

him in that it gave a new twist to a tangled skein. How could he

remain on terms of ordinary friendship with a girl who had made such

an avowal? It seemed to him difficult, if not impossible. Surely he

must either place himself in regard to her upon the footing which she

appeared to desire, or he must adopt the easier alternative and keep

away from her altogether.

 

No, he wanted none of their company, and he was glad that it was still

unsafe for him to travel, though he longed for the fresh air. But that

he did wish for some company became evident to him this afternoon,

although he had received with a certain amount of resignation a note

in which Ellen informed him that their father seemed so fidgety and

unwell that she could not drive over to Bradmouth that day. He could

no longer disguise the truth from himself—it was the society of Joan

that he desired; and of Joan he had seen less and less during the last

fortnight. Neither she nor anybody else had said anything to that

effect, but he was convinced that she was being kept out of his way.

Why should she be kept out of his way? A guilty conscience gave him

the answer readily enough: because it was not desirable that they

should remain upon terms of such intimacy. Alas! it was so. He had

fought against the fact, ridiculing and denying it up to this very

hour, but now that fact had become too strong for him, and as he sat a

prey to loneliness and uncomfortable thoughts, he was fain to

acknowledge before the tribunal of his own heart that, if he was not

in love with Joan, he did not know what was the matter with him. At

the least it had come to this: her presence seemed necessary to him,

and the prospective pain of parting from her absolutely intolerable.

 

It is not too much to say that this revelation of his sad plight

dismayed Henry. For a moment, indeed, his faculties and judgment were

paralysed. To begin with, for him it was a new experience, and

therefore the more dangerous and crushing. If this were not a mere

momentary madness, and if the girl cared for him as it would appear

that he cared for her, what could be the issue? He had no great regard

for the prejudice and conventions of caste, but, circumstanced as he

was, it seemed absolutely impossible that he should marry her. Had he

been independent, provided always that she did care for him, he

would have done it gladly enough. But he was not independent, and such

an act would mean the utter ruin of his family. More, indeed: if he

could bring himself to sacrifice them, he had now no profession and

no income. And how would a man hampered and dragged down by a glaring

mésalliance be able to find fresh employment by means of which he

could support a wife?

 

No, there was an end of it. The thing could not possibly be done.

What, then, was the alternative? Clearly one only. To go, and at once.

Some men so placed might have found a third solution, but Henry did

not belong to this class. His character and sense of right rebelled

against any such notion, and the habits of self-restraint in which he

had trained himself for years afforded what he believed to be an

impregnable rampart, however frail might be the citadel within.

 

So thought Henry, who as yet had never matched himself in earnest in

such a war. There he sat, strong in his rectitude and consciousness of

virtue, however much his heart might ache, making mental preparations

for his departure on the morrow, till at last he grew tired of them,

and found himself wishing that Joan would come to help him to get

ready.

 

He was lying with his back to the door on a sofa placed between the

bed and the wide hearth, upon which a small fire had been lighted, for

the night was damp and chilly; and just as this last vagrant wish

flitted through his mind, a sound attracted