Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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am sorry that I cannot rise to receive you.”
“My boy,” she said in a low voice, “I have been thinking a great deal
of the sad scene which took place in connection with your dear
father’s death, and of my subsequent conduct towards you, and I have
come to apologise to you. I do not know the exact circumstances that
led you to act as you have done—I may even say that I scarcely wish
to know them; but on reflection I feel that nothing but the strongest
reasons of considerations of honour would have induced you to refuse
your father’s last request, and that I have therefore no right to
judge you harshly. This came home to me when I saw you leaving the
room yonder a few nights since, and your face showed me what you were
suffering. But at that time my heart was too frozen with grief, and, I
fear, also too much filled with resentment against you to allow me to
speak. If you can tell me anything that will give me a better
understanding of the causes of all this dreadful trouble, I shall be
grateful to you; for then we may perhaps consult together and find
some way out of it. But I repeat that I do not come to force your
confidence. I come, Henry, to express my regret, and to mourn with you
over a husband and a father whom we both loved dearly,”—and, moved by
a sudden impulse of affection, she bent down and kissed her son upon
the forehead.
He returned the embrace, and said, “Mother, those are the first kind
words that I have heard for a long while from any member of my family;
and I can assure you that I am grateful for them, and shall not forget
them, for I thought that you had come here to revile me like everybody
else. You say that you do not ask my confidence, but fortunately a man
can speak out to his mother without shame, even when he has cause to
be ashamed of what he must tell her. Now listen, mother: as you know,
I never was a favourite in this house; I dare say through my own
fault, but so it is. From boyhood everybody more or less looked down
upon me, and, with the exception of yourself, I doubt if anybody cared
for me much. Well, I determined to make my own way in the world and to
show you all that there was something in me, and to a certain extent I
succeeded. I worked hard to succeed too; I denied myself in many ways,
and above all I kept myself clear from the vices that most young men
fall into in one shape or another. Then came this dreadful business of
my brother’s death, and just as I was beginning really to get on I was
asked to leave the profession which was everything to me. From the
letters that reached me I gathered that in some mysterious way it lay
in my power, and in mine alone, to pull the family affairs out of the
mire if I returned home. So I retired from the Service and I came,
because I thought that it was my duty, for hitherto I have tried to do
my duty when I could see any way to it. On the first night of my
arrival here I learned the true state of affairs from Ellen, and I
learned also what it was expected that I should do to remedy
it—namely, that I should marry a young lady with whom I had but a
slight acquaintance, but who, as it chances, is the owner of the
mortgages on this estate.”
“It was most indiscreet of Ellen to put the matter like that,” said
Lady Graves.
“Ellen is frequently indiscreet, mother; but doubtless it never
occurred to her that I should object to doing what she is ready to do
for herself—marry for money. I am glad you see, however, that her
method was not exactly calculated to prepossess any man in favour of a
marriage, of which he did not happen to have thought for himself.
Still the young lady came, and I liked her exceedingly; I liked her
more than any woman that I had met before, the one inexplicable thing
about her to my mind being—why on earth she should wish to marry me,
as I understand is, or was, the case.”
“You foolish boy!” said Lady Graves, smiling a little; “do you not
understand that she had become fond of you during that week when you
were here together the year before last?”
“I can’t say that I understand it, mother, for I had not much to do
with her. But even if it is so, it does not satisfactorily explain why
her father should be equally anxious for this match. Of course I know
that he has given lots of reasons, but I cannot help thinking that
there is something behind them all. However, that is neither here nor
there.”
“I fancy, Henry, that the only thing behind Mr. Levinger’s reasons is
an earnest desire for the happiness of a daughter to whom he is much
attached.”
“Well, mother, as I was saying, I took a great fancy to the girl, and
though I did not like at all the idea of making advances to a lady to
whom we are under such obligations, I determined to put my pride in my
pocket, and, if I still continued to admire her after further
acquaintance, to ask her if she would allow me to share her fortune,
for I think that is an accurate way of putting it. So I went off to
stay at Monk’s Lodge, and the chapter of troubles began. The girl who
indirectly was the cause of my accident became my nurse, and it seems
that—she grew attached to me, and—I grew attached to her. It was not
wonderful: you know her; she is very beautiful, she has a good heart,
and in most ways she is a lady. In short, she is a woman who in any
less prejudiced country would certainly be received into society if
she had the means to enter it. Well, so things went on without
anything remarkable happening, until recently.” And he repeated to her
fairly and fully all that had passed between himself and Joan.
“Now, mother,” he said, “I have made my confession to you, and perhaps
you will understand how it came about that, fresh from such scenes,
and taken as I was utterly by surprise, I was unable to promise what
my father asked. I do not know what your judgment of my conduct may
be; probably you cannot think of it more harshly than I do myself, and
in excuse of it I can only say that the circumstances were strange,
and, as I have discovered, I love the woman. What, therefore, is my
duty towards her?”
“Did you ever promise to marry her, Henry?”
“Promise? Yes, I said that I would; for, as you know, I am a bit of a
puritan, although I have little right to that title now, and it seemed
to me that marriage was the only way out of the trouble.”
“Does she expect you to marry her, then?”
“Certainly not. She declares that she would not allow it on any
consideration. But this goes for nothing, for how can I take advantage
of her inexperience and self-sacrificing folly? You have the whole
facts: what do you think that I should do?”
“Henry, I am older than you are; I have seen a great deal of life, and
perhaps you, who are curiously unworldly, may think me the reverse. I
accept your story as it stands, well knowing that you have told me the
exact truth, without hiding anything which would weigh against
yourself; and on the face of that story, I cannot say that I consider
it to be your duty to marry this poor girl, with whom, through your
own weakness and folly, you have placed yourself in such false
relations—though undoubtedly it is your duty to do everything in your
power to provide for her. If you had deliberately set yourself to lead
her astray, the case might be different; only, were you capable of
such conduct—which I know that you are not—you would not now be
tormented by doubts as to your duty towards her. You talk of Joan
Haste’s ‘inexperience.’ Are you sure that this is so? The whole
history of her conduct seems to show experience, and even art, or at
any rate a knowledge, very unusual in a girl of her age and position,
of how best to work upon a man’s tenderness and to move his feelings.
That art may have been unconscious, an art which Nature gave her; and
that knowledge may have been intuitive, for of course all things are
possible, and I can only judge of what is probable. At least it is
clear that she never expected that you would marry her, because she
knew that such an act would bring you to ruin, and I respect her for
her honesty in this particular.”
“Should a man shrink from his duty because duty means disaster,
mother?”
“Not if it is his duty, perhaps, Henry; but in the present case
that, to say the least of it, is not proved. I will answer your
question by another: Should a man neglect many undoubted duties, among
them that of obeying the dying petition of his father, in order to
indulge his conscience with the sense that he has fulfilled one which
is open to doubt? Henry, I do not wish to push you about this matter,
for I see that, even if you do not love Joan Haste so much as you
think, at the least you are strongly attracted to her; also I see that
your self-questionings are honest, and that you are anxious to do what
is right, independently of the possible consequences to yourself. But
I do pray of you not to be led away, and, if you can avoid it, not to
see this girl again at present. Take time to consider: one month, two,
three, as you like; and in the meanwhile do not commit yourself beyond
redemption. Remember all that is at stake; remember that a man in your
position is not entirely his own master. Of myself I will not speak.
Why should I? I am old, and my day is done; such years as remain to me
I can drag out in obscurity without repining, for my memories are
enough for me, and I have little care left for any earthly advantage.
But of your family I do venture to speak. It has been here so long,
and your father loved this place so well, that it breaks my heart to
think of its going to the hammer—after three centuries,”—and the old
lady turned her head and wiped her eyes furtively, then added: “And it
will go to the hammer—it must. I know Mr. Levinger well; he is a
curious man, and whatever his real reasons may be, his mind is set
upon this marriage. If he is disappointed about it, he will certainly
take his remedy; indeed, he is bound to do so, for the money at stake
is not his, but his daughter’s.”
“You tell me to take three months to consider, mother; but, looking at
the matter from the family point of view, how am I to do this? It
seems that we have scarcely a sixpence in the world, and a heavy
accumulation of debt. Where is the money to come from to enable us to
carry
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