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

much she might be ashamed of

herself, there were none to be ashamed of her, and therefore it was a

mere question of pounds, shillings, and pence. She could get these

from Mr. Levinger, or, failing him, from Henry. He would not leave her

to starve, or his child either—she knew him too well for that. What a

fool she had been! Had she not come to her senses, by now she would be

floating on that river or lying in the mud at the bottom of it. Well,

she had done with that, and so she might as well go home. The future

and the wrath of Heaven she must face, that was all; she had sown, and

she must reap—as we always do.

 

Accordingly she hailed a passing hansom and told the driver to take

her to the Marble Arch, for she was too weary to walk; moreover she

did not know the road.

 

It was ten o’clock when she reached Kent Street. “My dear,” said Mrs.

Bird, “how flushed you look! Where have you been? We were all getting

quite anxious about you.”

 

“I have been walking,” answered Joan: “I could not stand the heat of

that shop any longer, and I felt as though I must get some exercise or

faint.”

 

“I do not think that young women ought to walk about the streets by

themselves at night,” said Mrs. Bird, reprovingly. “If you were so

very anxious for exercise I dare say that I could have managed to

accompany you. Have you had supper?”

 

“No, and I don’t want any. I think that I will go to bed. I am tired.”

 

“You will certainly not go to bed, Joan, until you have had something

to eat. I don’t know what has come to you—I don’t indeed.”

 

So Joan was forced to sit down and go through the farce of swallowing

some food, while Sally ministered to her, and Jim, perceiving that

something was wrong, smiled sympathetically across the table. How she

got through the meal she never quite knew, for her mind was somewhat

of a blank; though she could not help wondering vaguely what these

good people would say, could they become aware that within the last

hour she had been leaning on the parapet of Westminster Bridge

purposing to cast herself into the Thames.

 

Next morning Joan went to her work as usual. All day long she stood in

the shop attending to her duties, but it seemed to her as though she

had changed her identity, as though she were not Joan Haste, but a

different woman, whom as yet she could not understand. Once before she

had suffered this fancied change of self: on that night when she lay

in the churchyard clasping Henry’s shattered body to her breast; and

now again it was with her. That was the hour when she had passed from

the regions of her careless girlhood into love’s field of thorns and

flowers—the hour of dim and happy dream. This, the second and

completer change, came upon her in the hour of awakening; and though

the thorns still pierced her soul, behold, the red bloom she had

gathered was become a bitter fruit, a very apple of Sodom, a fruit of

the tree of sinful knowledge that she must taste of in the wilderness

which she had won. Love had been with her in the field, and still he

was with her in the desert; but oh! how different his aspect! Then he

was bright and winged and beautiful, with lips of honey, and a voice

of promise murmuring many a new and happy word; now he appeared

terrible and stern, and spoke of sin, of sorrow, and of shame. Then

also her lover had been at her side, now she was utterly alone, alone

with the accusing angel of her conscience, and in this solitude she

must suffer, with no voice to cheer her and no hand to help.

 

From the hour of their parting she had longed for him, and desired the

comfort of his presence. How much more, then, did she long for him

now! Soon indeed this craving swallowed up every other need of her

nature, and became a physical anguish that, like some deadly sickness,

ended in the conquest of her mind and body. Joan fought against it

bravely, for she knew what submission meant. It meant that she would

involve Henry in her own ruin. She remembered well what he had said

about marrying her, and the tale which she had heard as to his

refusing to become engaged to Miss Levinger on the ground that he

considered himself to be already bound to her. If she told him of her

sore distress, would he not act upon these declarations? Would he not

insist upon making her his wife, and could she find the strength to

refuse his sacrifice? Beyond the barrier that she herself had built

between them were peace and love and honour for her. But what was

there for him? If once those bars were down—and she could break them

with a touch—she would be saved indeed, but Henry must be lost. She

was acquainted with the position of his affairs, and aware that the

question was not one of a mésalliance only. If he married her, he

would be ruined socially and financially in such a fashion that he

could never lift up his head again. Of course even in present

circumstances it was not necessary that he should marry her,

especially as she would never ask it of him; but if once they met, if

once they corresponded even, as she knew well, the whole trouble would

begin afresh, and at least there would be an end of his prospects with

Miss Levinger. No, no; whatever happened, however great her

sufferings, her first duty was silence.

 

Another week went by, leaving her resolution unchanged; but now her

health began to fail beneath the constant strain of her anxieties, and

a physical languor that rendered her unfit for long hours of work in a

heated shop. Now she lacked the energy to tramp about in the Park

before her early breakfast; indeed, the advance of autumn, with its

rain and fogs, made such exercise impossible. Her first despair, the

despair that suggested suicide, had gone by, but then so had the

half-defiant mood which followed it. Whatever may have been her

faults, Joan was a decent-minded woman, and one who felt her position

bitterly. Never for one moment of the day or night could she be free

from remorse and care, and the weight of apprehension that seemed to

crush all courage out of her. Even if from time to time she could

succeed in putting aside her mental troubles, their place was taken by

anxieties for the future. Soon she must leave the home that sheltered

her, and then where was she to go?

 

One afternoon, about half-past three o’clock, Joan was standing in the

mantle department of Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment awaiting

customers. The morning had been a heavy one, for town was filling

rapidly, and she felt very tired. There was, it is true, no fixed rule

to prevent Messrs. Black and Parker’s employés from from seating

themselves when not actually at work; but since a pique had begun

between herself and Mr. Waters, in practice Joan found few

opportunities of so doing. On two occasions when she ventured to rest

thus for a minute, the manager had rated her harshly for indolence,

and she did not care to expose herself to another such experience. Now

she was standing, the very picture of weariness and melancholy,

leaning upon a chair, when of a sudden she looked up and saw before

her—Ellen Graves and Emma Levinger. They were speaking.

 

“Very well, dear,” said Ellen, “you go and buy the gloves while I try

on the mantles. I will meet you presently in the doorway.”

 

“Yes,” said Emma, and went.

 

Joan’s first impulse was to fly; but flight was impossible, for with

Ellen, rubbing his white hands and bowing at intervals, was Mr.

Waters.

 

“I think you asked for velvet mantles, madam, did you not? Now, miss,

the velvet mantles—quick, please—those new shapes from Paris.”

 

Almost automatically, Joan obeyed, reaching down cloak after cloak to

be submitted to Miss Graves’s critical examination. Three or four of

them she put by as unsuitable, but at last one was produced that

seemed to take her fancy.

 

“I should like the young person to try on this one, please,” she said.

 

“Certainly, madam. Now, miss: no, not that, the other. Where are your

wits this afternoon?”

 

Joan put on the garment in silence, turning herself round to display

its perfections, with the vain hope that Ellen’s preoccupation and the

gathering gloom in the shop would prevent her from being recognised.

 

“It’s very dark here,” Ellen said presently.

 

“Yes, madam; but I have ordered them to turn on the electric light.

Will you be seated for a moment, madam?”

 

Ellen took a chair, and began chatting with the manager about the

advantages of the employment of electricity in preference to gas in

shops, while Joan, with the cloak still on her shoulders, stood before

them in the shadow.

 

Just then she heard a footstep, the footstep of a lame man who was

advancing towards them from the stairs, and the sound set her

wondering if Henry had recovered from his lameness. Next moment she

was clinging to the back of a chair to save herself from falling

headlong to the floor, for the man was speaking.

 

“Are you here, Ellen?” he said: “it is so infernally dark in this

place. Oh! there you are. I met Miss Levinger below, and she told me

that I should find you upstairs trying on bodices or something.”

 

“One does not generally try on bodices in public, Henry. What is the

matter?”

 

“Nothing more than usual, only I have made up my mind to go back to

Rosham by the five o’clock train, and thought that I would come to see

whether you had any message for my mother.”

 

“Oh! I understood that you were not going till Wednesday, when you

could have escorted us home. No, I have no particular message, beyond

my love. You may tell her that I am getting on very well with my

trousseau, and that Edward has given me the loveliest bangle.”

 

“I have to go,” answered Henry: “those confounded farms, as usual,”

and he sighed.

 

“Oh! farms,” said Ellen—“I am sick of farms. I wish that the art of

agriculture had never been invented. Thank goodness”—as the electric

light sprang out with a sudden glare—“we can see at last. If you have

a minute, stop and give me your opinion of this cloak. Taste is one of

your redeeming virtues, you know.”

 

“Well, it is about all the time I have,” he said, glancing at his

watch. “Where’s the article?”

 

“There, before you, on that young woman.”

 

“Oh!” said Henry, “I see. Charming, I think; but a little long, isn’t

it? Now I’m off.”

 

At this moment for the first time Ellen saw Joan’s face. She

recognised her instantly—there was no possibility of mistake in that

brilliant and merciless light. And what a despairing face it was! so

much so, indeed, that it touched even Ellen’s imagination and moved

her to pity. The great brown eyes were opened wide, the lips were set

apart and pale, the head was bent forward, and from beneath the rich

folds of the velvet cloak the hands were a little lifted, as though in

entreaty.

 

In an instant Ellen grasped the facts: Joan Haste had seen Henry, and

was about to speak to him.