Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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these matters. I can only say, sir, that I am deeply interested in the
case, and will do my utmost to pull her through. I would rather that
she had been at the hospital; but, on the whole, she is not badly off
here, especially as I have succeeded in getting the best nurse for her
that I know anywhere. Good night.”
“Good night, Doctor, and whatever the issue, pray accept my thanks in
advance, and remember that you need not spare money.”
“Don’t be afraid, sir—I sha’n’t. I’ll spend a thousand pounds over
her, if necessary; and save your thanks at present—three weeks hence
it may be another matter, or there may be only the bill to pay. Well,
I must be off. Good night. Perhaps, Mrs. Bird, you will send out for
the things the nurse wants,” and he went.
“That seems a capable man,” said Mr. Levinger; “I like the look of
him. And now, madam, you will need some cash in hand. I have brought
twenty pounds with me, which I suppose will be enough to go on with,
without touching Joan’s money,” and he placed that sum upon the table.
“By the way, Mrs. Bird,” he added, “perhaps you will be good enough to
send me a note or a telegram every day informing me of your patient’s
progress—here is my address—also to keep an account of all sums
expended, in which you can include an extra allowance of a pound a
week to yourself, to compensate you for the trouble and anxiety to
which this illness must put you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered, curtseying—“I call that very liberal;
though, to tell you the truth, I am so fond of Joan that I would not
take a farthing if I could afford it. But, what between two
deaf-and-dumb people to look after and her on my mind, it is no use
pretending that I can get through as much dressmaking work as I ought;
and so, as you seem well able to pay, I will put my pride in my
pocket, and the money along with it. Also I will keep you informed
daily, as you ask.”
“Two deaf-and-dumb people?”
“Yes, sir,”—and she told him about her husband and Sally.
“Really,” he said, when she had finished, surveying the frail little
woman with admiration, “you seem to have more than your share of this
world’s burden, and I respect you, madam, for the way in which you
bear it.”
“Not a bit, sir,” she answered cheerily; “while it pleases God to give
me my health, I wouldn’t change places with the Queen of England and
all her glory.”
“I admire you still more, Mrs. Bird,” he answered, as he bowed himself
out politely; “I wish that everybody could face their trials so
cheerfully.” But within himself he said, “Poor Joan! no wonder she was
wretched, shut up in this dreadful little house with deaf-and-dumb
folk for companions. Well, I have done all I can for her now, but I
wish that I had begun earlier. Oh! if I could have the last
twenty-five years over again, things would be very different to-day.”
Mrs. Bird was delighted with Mr. Levinger. Never before, as she
explained presently with much gesticulation to Jim, had she met so
charming, so handsome, so thoughtful, and so liberal an elderly
gentleman.
“But,” gesticulated Jim back, “if he is all this, why didn’t he look
after Joan better before?”—a question that his wife felt herself
unable to answer, beyond saying that Joan and all connected with her
were “most mysterious, my dear, and quite beyond me.”
Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she saw that whereas she had
given Mr. Levinger every information in her power, he had imported
none to her. To this moment she did not know what was the exact
relationship in which he stood towards Joan. Though there were many
dissimilarities between them, it had struck her, observing him, that
his eyes and voice were not unlike Joan’s. Could he be her father?
And, if so, how did it come about that he had allowed her to wander to
London and to live there unprotected? Like the rest, it was a mystery,
and one that after much cogitation Mrs. Bird was forced to give up as
insoluble, though on the whole she came to the conclusion that her
visitor was not a blood relation of Joan.
Mr. Levinger duly carried out his programme, and on the morrow
escorted his daughter and Ellen back to Bradmouth. He did not,
however, think fit to tell them the true cause of his visit to London,
which he accounted for by saying that he had come up to bargain with a
dealer in curiosities about some ancient British ornaments that were
on the market. Nor, oddly enough, did Ellen chance to mention that she
had seen Joan selling mantles at Messrs. Black and Parker’s; the fact
being that, as regards this young woman, there reigned a conspiracy of
silence. Neither at Rosham nor at Monk’s Lodge was her name ever
mentioned, and yet she was seldom out of the minds of the members of
either of those households. Ellen, when the preparations for her
approaching marriage allowed her time for thought, never ceased to
congratulate herself upon her presence of mind in preventing the
recognition of Joan by Henry. It was clear to her that her obstinate
brother had begun to settle down and to see matters in a truer light,
especially as regarded Emma; but it was also clear that had he once
found the missing Joan there would have been new troubles. Well, he
had not found her, so that danger was gone by. And Ellen rejoiced
accordingly.
Mrs. Bird kept her promise, writing and telegraphing regularly to Mr.
Levinger to inform him of Joan’s progress. Indeed, for some time the
messenger from the Bradmouth post-office arrived almost daily with a
yellow envelope at Monk’s Lodge. One of these telegrams Emma opened by
chance, as her father happened to be out and the boy said that it
required an answer. It ran: “Patient had serious relapse last night.
Doctor proposes to call in–-” [here followed the name of a very
eminent authority on such ceases]—“do you sanction expense? Reply,
Bird.” Emma was naturally quite unable to reply, and so soon as he
came in she handed the telegram to Mr. Levinger, explaining why she
had opened it. He read it, then said, with as much severity as he ever
showed towards his daughter:—
“I wish, my dear Emma, that in future you would be so kind as to leave
my letters and telegrams alone. As you have opened it, however, and
your curiosity is doubtless excited, I may as well tell you that this
is a business cypher, and has to do with nothing more romantic than
the Stock Exchange.”
“I am very sorry, father,” she answered coldly—for, trusting as she
was by nature, she did not believe him—“I will be more careful in the
future.”
Then she left the room, feeling that another enigma had been added to
the growing stock of family mysteries.
Slowly the days went by, till at length it became clear to those who
tended her that Joan would recover from her illness.
The last and greatest crisis had come and gone, the fever had left
her, and she no longer wandered in her mind, but lay upon the bed a
shadow of her former self, so weak that she could scarcely speak above
a whisper. All day long she lay thus, staring at the dingy ceiling
above her with her brown eyes, which, always large, now looked
positively unnatural in her wasted face—a very pathetic sight to see.
At times the eyes would fill with tears, and at times she would sigh a
little, but she never smiled, except in acknowledgment of some service
of the sick room. Once she asked Mrs. Bird if any one had discovered
that she was ill, or come to see her, and on receiving a reply in the
affirmative, asked eagerly—
“Who? What was his name?”
“Mr. Levinger,” the little woman answered.
“It is very kind of him,” Joan murmured, and turned her head upon the
pillow, where presently Mrs. Bird saw such a mark as might have been
left by the falling of a heavy raindrop.
Then it was that Mrs. Bird’s doubts and difficulties began afresh.
From what she had heard while attending on Joan in her delirium, she
was now convinced that the poor girl’s story was true, and that the
letter which she had written was addressed not to any imaginary
person, but to a living man who had worked her bitter wrong. This view
indeed was confirmed by the doctor, who added, curiously enough, that
had it not been for her condition he did not believe that she would
have lived. In these circumstances the question that tormented Mrs.
Bird was whether or no she would do right to post that letter. At one
time she thought of laying the matter before Mr. Levinger, but upon
consideration she refrained from so doing. He was the girl’s guardian,
and doubtless he knew nothing of her disgrace. Why, then, should she
expose it, unless such a step became absolutely necessary? Ultimately
he would have to be told, but there seemed no need to tell him until
an appeal to the man’s honour and pity had failed. After much thought
Mrs. Bird adopted a third course, and took the doctor into her
confidence. He was a man of rough manners, plain speech, and good
heart, and her story did not in the least surprise him.
“There’s nothing wonderful about this, Mrs. Bird,” he said. “I have
seen the same thing with variations dozens of times in my twenty years
of experience. It’s no use your starting off to call this man a
scoundrel and a brute. It’s fashionable, I know, but it does not
follow that it is accurate: you see it is just possible that the girl
may have been to blame herself, poor dear. However, she is in a mess,
and the thing is to get her out of it, at the expense of the man if
necessary, for we are interested in her and not in him. That letter of
hers is a beautiful production in a queer kind of way, and ought to
have an effect on the individual, if he is not already married, or a
bad lot—both of which things are probable. I tell you what, I will
make a few inquiries to-morrow. What did you say his name was? Henry
Graves? Thanks; good-bye. No, no opiate to-night, I think.”
On the following day the doctor returned, and having visited Joan and
reported favourably of her progress, he descended to the front
parlour, where Mrs. Bird was waiting for him.
“She’s getting on well,” he said—“a good deal better than I expected,
indeed. Well, I have looked up Sir Henry Graves, for he’s a baronet.
As it chanced, I came across a man at the hospital last night who used
to stay with his father down at Rosham. The old man, Sir Reginald,
died a few months ago; and Henry, the second son—for his elder
brother broke his neck in a steeplechase—succeeded him. He is, or
was, a captain in the Navy, rather a distinguished man in a small way;
and not long ago he met with an accident, broke his leg or something
of that sort, and was laid up at an inn in a place called Bradmouth.
It seems that he is a good sort of fellow, though rather taciturn.
That’s all I could find out about him.”
“Joan comes from Bradmouth, and
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