Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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herself its mistress, as she had need to do, for an instinct warned
her that if once these two recognised each other incalculable trouble
must result. With a sudden movement she threw herself between them.
“Very well, dear,” she said: “good-bye. You had better be going, or
you will miss the train.”
“All right,” answered Henry, “there is no such desperate hurry; let me
have another look at the cloak.”
“You will have plenty of opportunities of doing that,” Ellen said
carelessly; “I have settled to buy it. Why, here comes Emma; I suppose
that she is tired of waiting.”
Henry turned and began to walk down the stairs. Joan saw that he was
going, and made an involuntary movement as though to follow him, but
Ellen was too quick for her. Stepping swiftly to one side, she spoke,
or rather whispered into her ear:
“Go back: I forbid you!”
Joan stopped bewildered, and in another moment Henry had spoken some
civil words to Emma and was gone.
“Will you be so good as to send the cloak with the other things?” said
Ellen to Mr. Waters. “Come, Emma, we must be going, or we shall be
late for the ‘at home,’” and, followed by the bowing manager, she
left.
“Oh, my God!” murmured Joan, putting her hands to her face—“oh, my
God! my God!”
A LOVE LETTER
Joan never knew how she got through the rest of that afternoon. She
did not faint, but she was so utterly overcome and bewildered that she
could do nothing right. Three times Mr. Waters spoke to her, with
ever-increasing harshness, and on the third occasion she answered him
saying—
“I am very sorry, but it is not my fault. I feel ill: let me go home.”
“Yes, you’d better go, miss,” he said, “and so far as I am concerned
you can stop there. I shall report your conduct to the proprietors, so
you need not trouble to return unless you hear from me again.”
Joan went without a word; and so ended her life as a show-woman, for
never again did she set eyes upon the establishment of Messrs. Black
and Parker, or upon their estimable manager, Mr. Waters.
The raw damp of the October evening revived her somewhat, but before
she reached Kent Street she knew that she had not exaggerated when she
said that she was ill—very ill, in body as well as in mind. The long
anxiety and mental torture, culminating in the scene of that
afternoon, together with confinement in the close atmosphere of the
shop and other exciting causes, had broken down her health at last.
Sharp pains shot through her head and limbs; she felt fever burning in
her blood, and at times she trembled so violently that she could
scarcely keep her feet. Sally opened the door to her with an
affectionate smile, for the dumb girl had learned to worship her; but
Joan went straight to her room without noticing her, and threw herself
upon the bed. Presently Mrs. Bird, learning from the girl that
something was wrong, came upstairs bringing a cup of tea.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Joan; “I feel very bad in my head and all
over me.”
“Influenza, I expect,” said Mrs. Bird; “there is so much of it about
now. Let me help you off with your cloak and things, then drink this
tea and try to go to sleep. If you are not better to-morrow morning,
we shall have to send for the doctor.”
Joan obeyed listlessly, swallowing the tea with an effort.
“Are you sure that you have nothing on your mind, my dear?” asked Mrs.
Bird. “I have been watching you for a long while, and I find a great
change in you. You never did seem happy from the hour that you came
here, but of late you have been downright miserable.”
Joan laughed: the sound of that laugh gave Mrs. Bird “the creeps,” as
she afterwards expressed it.
“Anything on my mind? Yes, I have everything on my mind, enough to
drive me mad twice over. You’ve been very kind to me, Mrs. Bird, and I
shall never forget your goodness; but I am going to leave you
to-morrow—they have dismissed me from the shop already—so before I
go I may as well tell you what I am. To begin with, I am a liar; and
I’m more than that, I am–- Listen!” and she bent her head forward
and whispered into the little woman’s ear. “Now,” she added, “I don’t
know if you will let me stop the night in the house after that. If
not, say so, and I’ll be off at once. I dare say that they would take
me in at a hospital, or a home, or if not there is always the Thames.
I nearly threw myself into it the other day, and this time I should
not change my mind.” And again she laughed.
“My poor child! my poor, poor child!” said Mrs. Bird, wiping her eyes,
“please don’t talk like that. Who am I, that I should judge
you?—though it is true that I do like young women to be respectable;
and so they would be if it wasn’t for the men, the villains! I’d just
like to tear the eyes out of this wicked one, I would, who first of
all leads you into trouble and then deserts you.”
“Don’t speak of him like that,” said Joan: “he didn’t lead me—if
anything, I led him; and he didn’t desert me, I ran away from him. I
think that he would have married me if I had asked him, but I will
have nothing to do with him.”
“Why, the girl must be mad!” said Mrs. Bird blankly. “Is he a
gentleman?”
“Yes, if ever there was one; and I’m not mad, only can’t you
understand that one may love a man so much that one would die rather
than bring him into difficulties? There, it’s a long story, but he
would be ruined were he to marry me. There’s another girl whom he
ought to marry—a lady.”
“He would be ruined, indeed! And what will you be, pray?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care: dead, I hope, before long. Oh!” and
she wrung her hands piteously, “I saw him in the shop this afternoon;
he was quite close to me. Yes, he looked at a cloak that I was
showing, and never knew me who wore it. That’s what has broken me
down: so long as I did not see him I could bear it, but now my heart
feels as though it would burst. To think that he should have been so
close to me and not have known me, oh! it is cruel, cruel!”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bird, “really I feel quite upset, I am not
accustomed to this sort of thing. If you will excuse me I will go and
look for my salts. And now you get into bed like a good girl, and stop
there.”
“Am I not to go away, then?” asked Joan.
“Certainly not—at any rate not for the present. You are much too ill
to go anywhere. And now there is just one thing that I should like to
know, and you may as well tell it me as you have told me so much. What
is this gentleman’s name?”
“I’ll not tell you,” answered Joan sullenly: “if I told you, you would
be troubling him; besides, I have no right to give away his secrets,
whatever I do with my own.”
“Perhaps it is no such great secret after all, my dear. Say now, isn’t
his name Henry Graves, and doesn’t he live at a place called Rosham?”
“Who told you that?” asked Joan, springing up and standing over her.
Then she remembered herself, and sat down again on the bed. “No,
that’s not the name,” she said; “I never heard that name.”
“Nobody told me,” answered Mrs. Bird quietly, ignoring Joan’s denial.
“I saw the name in those poetry books that you are so fond of, and
which you lent me to read; and I saw one or two notes that you had
made in them also, that’s all. I’ve had to watch deaf-and-dumb people
for many years, my dear, and there’s nothing like it for sharpening
the wits and teaching one how to put two and two together. Also you
could never hear the name of Henry without staring round and blushing,
though perhaps you didn’t know it yourself. Bless you, I guessed it
all a month ago, though I didn’t think that it was so bad as this.”
“Oh! it’s mean of you to have spied on me like that, Mrs. Bird,” said
Joan, giving in; “but it’s my fault, like everything else.”
“Don’t you fret about your faults, but just go to bed, there’s a good
girl. I will come back in half an hour, and if I don’t find you fast
asleep I shall be very angry.” And she put her arms about her and
kissed her on the forehead, as a mother might kiss her child.
“You are too kind to me, a great deal too kind,” said Joan, with a
sob. “Nobody ever was kind to me before, except him, and that’s why I
feel it.”
When Mrs. Bird had gone, Joan undressed herself and put on a wrapper,
but she did not get into bed. For a while she wandered aimlessly
backwards and forwards through the doors between the two rooms,
apparently without much knowledge of what she was doing. Some
note-paper was lying on the table in the sitting-room, where the gas
was burning, and it caught her eye.
“Why shouldn’t I write?” she said aloud; “not to him, no, but just to
put down what I feel; it will be a comfort to play at writing to him,
and I can tear it up afterwards.”
The fancy seemed to please her excited brain; at any rate she sat down
and began to write rapidly, never pausing for a thought or words. She
wrote:—
“My Darling,—
“Of course I have no business to call you that, but then you see
this is not a real letter, and you will never get it, for I shall
post it presently in the fire: I am only playing at writing to
you. Henry, my darling, my lover, my husband—you can see now that
I am playing, or I shouldn’t call you that, should I?—I am very
ill, I think that I am going to die, and I hope that I shall die
quickly, quickly, and melt away into nothingness, to be blown
about the world with the wind, or perhaps to bloom in a flower on
my own grave, a flower for you to pick, my own. Henry, I saw you
this afternoon; I wore that cloak your sister was choosing, and I
think that I should have spoken to you, only she forbade me, and
looked so fierce that she frightened me. Wasn’t it strange—it
makes me laugh now, though I could have cried then—to think of my
standing there before you with that mantle on my shoulders, and of
your looking at it, and taking no more notice of me than if I were
a dressmaker’s shape? Perhaps that is what you took me for; and
oh! I wish I was, for then I couldn’t feel. But I haven’t told you
my secret yet, and perhaps you would like to know it. I am going
to have a child, Henry—a child with
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