Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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dying man, his head sank back upon the pillow, and he lay there
bewildered. Presently he lifted it and spoke again.
“I do not think—my hearing—I must have misunderstood. Did you say
you could not promise, Henry? Why not? With everything at stake, and
my dying prayer—mine, your father’s. Oh! why not? Are you married,
then?”
The sweat broke from Henry’s brow and rolled down his face in large
drops, as he answered, always in the voice that sounded like a groan—
“I am not married, father; and, before God, sooner than be forced to
refuse you I would lie as you lie now. Have pity, I beseech you, on my
cruel strait, between my honour and the denial of your wish. I cannot
promise that I will marry Emma Levinger, because I am bound to another
woman by ties that may not be broken, and I cannot be so base as to
desert her.”
“Another woman? I am too late, then?” murmured his father more and
more feebly. “But stay: there is still hope. Who is she? At least you
will not refuse to tell me her name.”
“Her name is Joan Haste.”
“Joan Haste? What! the girl at the inn? The bastard! My son, my only
remaining son, denies his dying father, and brings his mother and his
name to disgrace and ruin, because he is bound in honour to a village
bastard!” he screamed. “Oh, my God! that I should have lived to hear
this! Oh, my God! my God!”
And suddenly the old man flung his arms wide and fell back. Lady
Graves and Ellen ran to him. Presently the former came away from the
bed.
“Your father is dead, Henry,” she said. “Perhaps, after what has
passed, you will feel that this is no fit place for you. I will ring
for some one to take you to your room.”
But the last bitterness of these words, so awful from a mother’s lips,
was spared to Henry, for he had swooned. As he sank into
unconsciousness a solemn voice seemed to speak within his tortured
brain, and it said, “Behold the firstfruits of iniquity.”
Henry did not attend his father’s funeral, for the good reason that he
was ill in bed. In the first place, though he made light of it at the
time, that slip of his on the stone steps had so severely affected his
broken limb as to necessitate his lying by for at least another month;
and in the second he had received a shock to his nerves, healthy as
they were, from which he could not hope to recover for many a month.
He was kept informed of all that went on by Thomson, the old butler,
for neither his mother nor Ellen came near him during those dark days.
He heard the footsteps of the carpenter who measured his father’s
body, he heard the coffin being brought upstairs; and the day
afterwards he heard the shuffling tramp of the tenants, who, according
to ancient custom, bore down the corpse of the dead owner of Rosham to
lie in state in the great hall. He heard the workmen nailing the
hatchment of the departed baronet beneath his window; and then at last
a day came when he heard a noise of the rolling wheels of carriages,
and the sound of a church bell tolling, as his father was laid to rest
among the bones of his ancestors.
So bitter was the resentment against him, that none had asked Henry to
look his last upon his father’s face. For a while he thought it better
that he should not do so, but on the second night after the death
nature grew too strong for him, and he determined to do that alone
which, under happier circumstances, it should have been his duty to do
with his widowed mother and his sister at his side. Painfully he
dragged himself from the bed, and, placing a candle and a box of
matches in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he limped upon his
crutches across the silent corridor and into the death-chamber, where
the atmosphere was so heavy with the scent of flowers that for a
moment it brought back his faintness. Recovering himself, he closed
the door and made shift to light his candle. Then by its solitary
light he approached the bed on which his father’s corpse was lying,
half hidden by wreaths and covered with a sheet. With a trembling hand
he drew down the wrapping and exposed the dead man’s face. It was calm
enough now: there was no trace there of the tormenting grief that had
been upon it in the moment of dissolution; it bore the seal of perfect
peace, and, notwithstanding the snowy hair, a more youthful aspect
than Henry could remember it to have worn, even in the days of his
childhood.
In sad and solemn silence Henry gazed upon the clay that had given him
life, and great bitterness and sorrow took hold of him. He covered his
eyes with his hand, and prayed that God might forgive him for the pain
which he had caused his father in his last hour, and that his father
might forgive him too in the land where all things are understood, for
there he would learn that he could not have spoken otherwise. Well, he
was reaping as he had sown, and there remained nothing to him except
to make amendment as best he could. Then with a great effort he
dragged himself up upon the bed, and kissed his father’s forehead.
Having replaced the sheet, he extinguished the candle and turned to
leave the room. As he opened the door he saw a figure draped in black,
who stood in the passage listening. It was his mother. She advanced
towards him with a cold, sad mien, and opened her lips as though to
speak. Then the light fell upon his face, and she saw that it was torn
by grief and stained with tears, and her look softened, for now she
understood something of what her son’s sufferings must be. Still she
did not speak, and in silence, except for the tapping of his crutches
on the polished floor, Henry passed her with bowed head, and reached
his room again.
In due course the family returned from the funeral, and, outwardly at
any rate, a break occurred in the conspiracy of silence and neglect of
which Henry was the object, for it was necessary that he should be
present at the reading of the will. This ceremony took place in the
bedroom of the new baronet, and gathered there were a representative
from the London firm of lawyers that had managed, or mismanaged, the
Graves’s affairs for several generations, the widow, Ellen, and Edward
Milward. Bowing gravely to Sir Henry, the lawyer broke the seals of
the document and began the farce—for a farce it was, seeing that the
will had been signed nearly five-and-twenty years before, when the
position of the family was very different. After reciting the
provisions of the entail—that, by the way, had long been cut—under
which his deceased brother Reginald should have entered into the
enjoyment of all the land and hereditaments and the real property
generally, with remainder to his children, or, in the event of his
death without issue, to Henry, the testator went on to deal with the
jointure of the widow, which was fixed at eight hundred a year in
addition to the income arising from her own fortune, that, alas! had
long since been lost or muddled away. Then it made provision for the
younger children—ten thousand to Henry and eight thousand to
Ellen—to be paid out of the personalty, or, should this prove
insufficient, to be raised by way of rentcharge on the estate, as
provided for under the marriage settlement of Sir Reginald and his
wife; and, after various legacies and directions as to the disposal of
heirlooms, ended by constituting Reginald, or, in the event of his
death without issue, Henry, residuary legatee.
When he had finished reading this lengthy document, which he well knew
not to be worth the paper on which it was written, the lawyer solemnly
exhibited the signatures of the testator and of the attesting
witnesses, and laid it down with a sigh. Three of the listeners were
aware that the will might as well have affected to dispose of the
crown of England as to devise to them these various moneys, lands and
chattels; but the fourth, Edward Milward, who had never been admitted
to full confidence as to the family position, was vastly pleased to
learn that his future wife inherited so considerable a sum, to say
nothing of her chance of succeeding to the entire estate should Henry
die without issue. That there had been embarrassments and mortgage
charges he knew, but these, he concluded, were provided for by life
insurances, and had rolled off the back of the property on the death
of the late owner. Indeed, he showed his pleasure so plainly in his
face that the lawyer, guessing he was labouring under some such
delusion, hesitated and looked at him pointedly before he proceeded to
make remarks upon the document. Ellen, always on the watch, took the
hint, and, laying her hand affectionately on Milward’s shoulder, said
in a low voice:
“Perhaps you will not mind leaving us for a few moments, Edward: I
fancy there are one or two matters that my mother would not like to be
discussed outside her own family at present.”
“Certainly,” answered Edward, who, having learned all he wished to
know, rejoiced at the chance of escape, seeing that funerals and
will-reading exercised a depressing effect upon his spirits.
Lady Graves was at the other end of the room and looking out of an
open window, so that she did not overhear these remarks. Henry,
however, did hear them, and spoke for the first time.
“I think that you had better stay, Milward,” he said: “there is
nothing to conceal,” and he smiled grimly at his own
double-entendre.
“No, thanks,” answered Edward airily: “I have heard all I want to
know, so I will go into the garden and smoke a cigarette.” And before
Henry could speak again he was gone.
“You are probably aware, Sir Henry,” began the lawyer, “that all the
main provisions of this document”—and he tapped the will with his
knuckle—“fall to the ground, for the reason that the capital sums
with which they dealt were exhausted some years since; though I am
bound to tell you that, in my opinion, the legality of the methods by
which some of those sums were brought into possession might even now
be contested.”
“Yes,” answered Henry, “and good money thrown after bad.”
“Of course,” went on the lawyer, “you succeed to the estates, which
have been little, if at all, diminished in acreage; but they are, I
believe, mortgaged to more than their present value in favour of a Mr.
Levinger, who holds the securities in trust for his daughter, and to
whom there is a large sum due by way of back interest.”
“Yes, I am aware of it.”
“Hem,” said the lawyer. “Then I am afraid that there is not much more
to say, is there? I trust that you may be able—to find means to
meet—these various liabilities, in which case we shall be most happy
to act for you in the matter. By the way, we still have a small sum in
our hands that was sent to us by our late esteemed client to pay a
debt of your late brother’s, which on enquiry was found not to be
owing. This we propose to remit to
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