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

CHAPTER XVIII

CONGRATULATIONS

 

Joan was not really ill: she had contracted a chill, accompanied by a

certain amount of fever, but this was all. Indeed, the fever had

already taken her on the night of her love scene with Henry, and to

its influence upon her nerves may be attributed a good deal of the

conduct which to Lady Graves had seemed to give evidence of art and

experienced design. Nothing further was said by her aunt as to her

leaving the house, and things went on as usual till the morning when

she woke up and learned that her lover had gone under such sad

circumstances. It was a shock to her, but she grieved more for him

than for herself. Indeed, she thought it best that he should be gone;

it even seemed to her that she had anticipated it, that she had always

known he must go and that she would see him no more. The curtain was

down for ever; her short tragedy had culminated and was played out, so

Joan believed, unaware that its most moving acts were yet to come. It

was terrible, and henceforth her life must be a desolation; but it

cannot be said that as yet her conscience caused her to grieve for

what had been: sorrow and repentance were to overtake her when she

learned all the trouble and ruin which her conduct had caused.

 

No, at present she was glad to have met him and to have loved him,

winning some share of his love in return; and she thought then that

she would rather go broken-hearted through the remainder of her days

than sponge out those memories and be placid and prosperous without

them. Whatever might be her natural longings, she had no intention of

carrying the matter any further, least of all had she any intention of

persuading or even of allowing Henry to marry her, for she had been

quite earnest and truthful in her declarations to him upon this point.

She did not even desire that his life should be burdened with her in

any way, or that she should occupy his mind to the detriment of other

persons and affairs; though of course she hoped that he would always

think of her with affection, or perhaps with love, and she would have

been no true woman had she not done so. Curiously enough, Joan seemed

to expect that Henry would adopt the same passive attitude towards

herself which she contemplated adopting towards him. She knew that men

are for the most part desirous of burying their dead loves out of

sight—sometimes, in their minds, marking the graves with a secret

monument visible to themselves alone, be it a headstone with initials

and a date, or only a withered wreath of flowers; but more often

suffering the naked earth of oblivion to be trodden hard upon them, as

though fearful lest their poor ghosts should rise again, and, taking

flesh and form, come back to haunt a future in which they have no

place.

 

She did not understand that Henry was not of this class, that in many

respects his past life had been different to the lives of the majority

of men, or that she was absolutely the first woman who had ever

touched his heart. Therefore she came to the conclusion, sadly enough,

and with an aching jealousy which she could not smother, but with

resignation, that the next important piece of news she was likely to

hear about her lover would be that of his engagement to Miss Levinger.

 

As it chanced, tidings of a totally different nature reached her on

the following day, though whether they were true or false she could

not tell. It was her aunt who brought them, when she came in with her

supper, for Joan was still confined to her room.

 

“There are nice doings up there at Rosham,” said Mrs. Gillingwater,

eyeing her niece curiously.

 

Joan’s heart gave a leap.

 

“What’s the matter?” she asked, trying not to look too interested.

 

“Well, the old baronet is gone for one thing, as was expected that he

must; and they say that he slipped off while he was cursing and

swearing at his son, the Captain, which don’t seem a right kind of way

to die, to my mind.”

 

“Died cursing and swearing at Captain Graves? Why?” murmured Joan

faintly.

 

“I can’t tell you rightly. All I know about it came to me from Lucilla

Smith, who is own sister to Mary Roberts, the cook up there, who, it

seems, was listening at the door, or, as she puts it, waiting to be

called in to say good-bye to her master, and she had it from the

gardener’s boy.”

 

“She? Who had it, aunt?”

 

“Why, Lucilla Smith had, of course. Can’t you understand plain

English? I tell you that old Sir Reginald sat up in bed and cursed and

swore at the Captain till he was black in the face. Then he screeched

out loud and died.”

 

“How dreadful!” said Joan. “But what was he cursing about?”

 

“About? Why, because the Captain wouldn’t promise to marry Miss

Levinger, who’s got bonds on all the property, down to the plate in

the pantry, in her pocket. That old fox of a father of hers stole them

when he was agent there, I expect–-” Here Mrs. Gillingwater checked

herself, and added hastily, “But that’s neither here nor there; at any

rate she’s got them, and can sell the Graves’s up to-morrow if she

likes, which being so, it ain’t wonderful that old Sir Reginald cursed

when he heard his son turn round coolly and say that he wouldn’t marry

her at any price.”

 

“Did he tell why he wouldn’t marry her?” asked Joan, with a desperate

effort to look unconcerned beneath her aunt’s searching gaze.

 

“I don’t know that he did. If so, Lucilla doesn’t know, so I suppose

that Mary Roberts couldn’t hear. She did hear one thing, however: she

heard your name, miss, twice, so there wasn’t no mistake about it.”

 

“My name? Oh! my name!” gasped Joan.

 

“Yes, yours, unless there is another Joan Haste in these parts, which

I haven’t heard on. And now, perhaps, you will tell me what it was

doing there?”

 

“How can I tell you when I don’t know, aunt?”

 

“How can you tell me when you won’t say, miss? That’s what you mean.

Look here, Joan: do you take me for a fool? Do you suppose that I

haven’t seen through your little game? Why, I have watched it all

along, and I’m bound to say that you don’t play half so bad for a

young hand. Well, it seems that you pulled it off this time, and I’m

not saying but what I am proud of you, though I still hold that you

would have done better to have married Samuel; for I believe, when all

is said and finished, he will be the richer man of the two. It’s very

nice to be a baronet’s lady, no doubt; but if you have nothing to live

in—and I don’t fancy that there are many pickings left up there at

Rosham—I can’t see that it helps you much forrarder.”

 

“What do you mean, aunt?”

 

“Mean? Now, Joan, don’t you begin trying your humbug on me: keep that

for the men. You’re not going to pretend that you haven’t been making

love to the Captain—I beg his pardon, Sir Henry he is now—as hard as

you know how. Well, it seems that you have bamboozled him finely, and

have made him so sweet on your pretty face that he’s going to throw

over marrying the Levinger girl in order to marry you, for that’s what

it comes to, and you may very well be proud of it. But don’t you be

carried away; you wouldn’t take my advice about Samuel Rock, and I

spoke to you rough that night on purpose, for I wanted you to make

sure of one or the other. Well, take my advice about Sir Henry.

Remember there is many a slip between the cup and the lip, and that

out of sight is apt to be out of mind. Don’t you keep out of sight too

long. You strike while the iron is hot, and marry him; on the quiet if

you like, but marry him. Of course there will be a row, but all the

rows under heaven can’t unmake a wife and a ladyship. Now listen to

me. I have gone out of my way to talk to you like this, because you

are a fine girl and I’m fond of you, which is more than you are of me,

and I should like to see you get on in the world; and perhaps when

you’re up you will not forget your old aunt who is down. I tell you I

have gone out of my way to give you this tip, for there’s some as

won’t be pleased to see you turned into Lady Graves. Yes, there’s some

who’d give a good deal to stop it: Samuel Rock, for instance; he don’t

like parting, but he’d lay down something handsome, and I doubt if

I’ll ever see the coin out of you that I might out of him and others,

for after all you won’t be a rich woman at best. However, we must

sacrifice ourselves at times,