Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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Mrs. Bird.
“Oh! did she? Well, then there you have the whole thing; nothing could
be more natural and proper, or rather improper.”
“Perhaps so, sir,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly; “though, begging your
pardon, I cannot see that this is a matter to joke about. What I want
to know now is—shall I send the gentleman that letter?”
The doctor rubbed his nose reflectively and answered, “If you do he
will probably put it at the back of the fire; but so far as I can
judge, being of course totally unacquainted with the details, it can’t
hurt anybody much, and it may have a good effect. She has forgotten
that she ever wrote it, and you may be sure that unless he acts on it
he won’t show it about the neighbourhood. Yes, on the whole I think
that you may as well send it, though I dare say that it will put him
in a tight place.”
“That is where I should like to see him,” she answered, pursing up her
lips.
“I dare say. You’re down on the man, are you not, Mrs. Bird? And so am
I, speaking in a blessed ignorance of the facts. By all means let him
be put into a tight place, or ruined, for anything I care. He may be
comparatively innocent, but my sympathies are with the lady, whom I
chance to know, and who is very good looking. Mind you let me know
what happens—that is, if anything does happen.”
That afternoon Mrs. Bird wrote her letter, or rather she wrote several
letters, for never before did the composition of an epistle give her
so much thought and trouble. In the end it ran as follows:—
“Sir,—
“I am venturing to take what I dare say you will thing a great
liberty, and a liberty it is, indeed, that only duty drives me to.
For several months a girl called Joan Haste has been staying in my
house as a lodger. Some weeks ago she was taken seriously ill with
a brain fever, from which she has nearly died; but it pleased God
to spare her life, and now, though she is weak as water, the
doctor thinks that she will recover. On the night that she became
ill she returned home not at all herself, and made a confession to
me, about which I need say nothing. Afterwards she wrote what I
enclose to you. You will see from the wording of it that she was
off her head when she did it, and now I am sure that she remembers
nothing of it. I found the letter and kept it; and partly from
what fell from her lips while she was delirious, partly because of
other circumstances, I became sure that you are the man to whom
that letter is addressed. If I have made any mistake you must
forgive me, and I beg that you will then return the enclosed and
destroy my letter. If, sir, I have not made a mistake, then I hope
that you will see fit to act like an honest man towards poor Joan,
who, whatever her faults may be—and such as they are you are the
cause of them—is as good-hearted as she is sweet and beautiful.
It is not for me to judge you or reproach you: but if you can, I
do pray you to act right by this poor girl, who otherwise must be
ruined, and may perhaps drift into a life of sin and misery, the
responsibility of which will be upon your hands.
“Sir, I have nothing more to say: the paper I enclose explains
everything.
“I am, sir,
“Your humble servant,
“Jane Bird.
“P.S.—Sir, I may say that there is no need for you to hurry to
answer this, since, even if you wished to do so, I do not think
that it would be safe for you to see Joan, or even to write
anything that would excite her, for ten days at least.”
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
The day that Mrs. Bird wrote her letter to Henry was the day of
Ellen’s marriage with Mr. Edward Milward. It was settled that the
ceremony should be a quiet one, because of the recent death of the
bride’s father—an arrangement which suited Lady Graves and her
daughter very well, seeing that it was necessary to cut down the
expenses to the last farthing. Indeed, the possibility of a financial
esclandre at Rosham before she was safely married and independent of
such misfortunes, haunted Ellen like a nightmare. Edward, it is true,
was now perfectly in hand, and showed no further symptoms of
backsliding. Still, slips between the cup and the lip are many, and in
the event of a public scandal anything might happen. However private
the marriage, it proved, in fact, impossible to dispense with a
certain amount of the hospitality usual upon these occasions: thus a
dinner must be given to the tenants, and a reception held after the
wedding to which all the neighbouring families were invited. In these
preparations Henry took but a small part, though, as head of the
family, it would be his duty to give away the bride and to receive the
guests. This marriage, and everything connected with it, was hateful
to him, but not the less on that account must he keep up appearances
before the world. There had been no reconciliation between himself and
his sister, though outwardly they were polite and even affectionate to
each other; and he had scarcely exchanged a word in private with his
future brother-in-law since the day when Edward read him a lecture
upon morals and conduct.
Thus it came about that not even Ellen herself was more anxious that
the marriage should be over and done with. As it chanced, the bride’s
good luck did not desert her, and everything went smoothly. At the
last moment, indeed, Edward showed some disposition to jib at the
settlements, which, considering that the lady brought him nothing,
were disproportionate and unfair; but Ellen’s lawyers, assisted by a
judicious letter from herself, were equal to the emergency, and he
grumbled and signed.
At length, to everybody’s relief, the day came—one of those rare and
beautiful November days when the falling leaves dropped silently as
snowflakes through the crisp and sunlit air to the frosted grass
beneath. Rosham church was full, and when the bride, looking very
stately and handsome in her wedding robes, swept up the aisle on her
brother’s arm, followed by her two bridesmaids, Emma Levinger and an
aristocratic cousin of Mr. Milward’s, a low hum of admiration ran
round the crowded pews. Then Edward, exceedingly uncomfortable in the
newest of coats and the shiniest of boots, took his place by her side;
the service began, Henry, wearing anything but an amiable expression
of countenance, gave his sister away, and presently Mr. and Mrs.
Milward were receiving the congratulations of their relatives and
friends.
The wedding took place at two o’clock, so that there were no speeches
or breakfast, only a glorified tea with champagne, at which the rector
of the parish, vice Sir Henry Graves, who declared himself quite
incapable of public speaking, proposed the bride and bridegroom’s
health in a few well-chosen words and a Latin quotation. Edward
responded, stuttering horribly, saying with much truth, but by
inadvertence, “that this was the proudest moment of his wife’s life,”
whereat Henry smiled grimly and everybody else tittered. Then the
company wandered off to inspect the marriage offerings, which were
“numerous and costly”; the newly married pair vanished, and reappeared
in appropriate travelling costume, to be driven away amid showers of
slippers and rice, and after a little feeble and flickering
conversation the proceedings terminated.
Mr. Levinger and Emma were the last to go.
“You look tired, Graves,” said the former, as his trap came round.
“Yes,” he answered, “I never was more tired in my life. Thank Heaven
that it is done with!”
“Well, it is a good business well over, and, even if you don’t quite
like the man, one that has many advantages.”
“I dare say,” Henry replied briefly. “Good-bye, Miss Levinger; many
thanks for coming. If you will allow me to say so, I think that dress
of yours is charming, with those shimmering ornaments—moonstones, are
they not?”
“I am glad you like it, Sir Henry,” she answered, looking pleased.
“By the way, Graves,” broke in Mr. Levinger, “can you come over next
Friday week and stop till Tuesday? You know that old donkey Bowles
rears a few pheasants in the intervals of attending the public-house.
There ought to be three or four hundred to shoot, and they fly high on
those hillside covers—too high for me, anyway. If you can come, I’ll
get another gun or two—there’s a parson near who has a couple of
pupils, very decent shots—and we’ll shoot on Saturday and Monday, and
Tuesday too if you care for driven partridge, resting the Sabbath.”
“I shall be delighted,” answered Henry sincerely. “I don’t think that
I have any engagement; in fact, I am sure that I have none,” and he
looked at Emma and, for the first time that day, smiled genially.
Emma saw the look and smile, and wondered in her heart whether it were
the prospect of shooting the three or four hundred pheasants that
“flew high” with which Henry was delighted, or that of visiting Monk’s
Lodge—and herself. On the whole she thought it was the pheasants;
still she smiled in answer, and said she was glad that he could come.
Then they drove off, and Henry, having changed his wedding garments
for a shooting coat, departed to the study, there to smoke the pipe of
peace.
That night he dined tête-à-tête with his mother. It was not a
cheerful meal, for the house was disorganised and vestiges of the
marriage feast were all about them. There had been no time even to
remove the extra leaves from the great oval dining-table, and as Henry
and his mother’s places were set at its opposite extremes,
conversation was, or seemed to be, impossible.
“I think that this is a little dismal, dear,” said Lady Graves,
speaking across the white expanse of cloth, when the butler had served
the dessert and gone.
“Yes,” answered Henry; “it reminds me of South Africa, where the
natives talk to each other across the kloofs. Suppose that we go into
the study—we sha’n’t want a speaking trumpet there.”
His mother nodded in assent, and they adjourned, Henry taking a
decanter of wine with him.
“I think that it went off very well,” she said presently, when he had
made up the fire.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. You don’t mind my smoking, do you, mother?”
“I know that you didn’t like the marriage, Henry,” she went on, “nor
do I altogether, for Edward is not—well, quite the class of man that
I should have selected. But different people have different tastes,
and I think that he will suit Ellen admirably. You see, she will rule
him, and she could never have got on with a man who tried to be her
master; also he is rich, and wealth is necessary to her comfort. I
shall be very much surprised if she does not make a great success of
her marriage.”
“Ellen would make a success of anything, mother—even of Edward
Milward. I have a great admiration for Ellen, but somehow I do not
envy my brother-in-law his bargain, though he has married a lady,
which, strictly speaking, is more than he deserves. However, I dare
say that he will find his place.”
“I have no doubt
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