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

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human affections as it is possible for a man to be; there was no one

creature for whom he cared, and, though he was naturally passionate,

his interest and his strict religious training had kept him from

giving way to the excesses that in secret he brooded over and desired.

During his early manhood all his energies had been devoted to

money-making, and in the joy of amassing wealth and of overreaching

his fellows in every kind of legitimate business he found consolation

for the absence of all that in the case of most men makes life worth

living. Then on one evil day he met Joan, grown from a child into a

most lovely woman; and that which he had hidden in his heart arose

suddenly and asserted itself, so that from this hour he became a slave

bound to the chariot-wheels of a passion over which he had lost

command. The rebuffs that he had received at her hands served only to

make the object of his affections dearer and more desirable in his

eyes, while the gnawing ache of jealousy and the daily torment of

long-continued disappointment drove him by slow degrees to the very

edge of madness. She hated him, he knew, as he knew that she loved his

rival; but if only he could see her, things might yet go well with

him, or if they did not, at least he would have seen her.

 

But of all this Lady Graves was ignorant, and, had she known it,

anxious though she was to win her end, it is probable that she would

have shrunk from an enterprise which, if successful, must expose Joan

Haste to the persecution of such a man as Samuel Rock, and might end

in delivering her into his hands.

 

On the following afternoon—it was Sunday—Lady Graves informed her

hostess that she was going to visit a friend, and, declining the offer

of the carriage, walked to the corner of the square, where she

chartered a four-wheeled cab, directing the driver to take her to Kent

Street. As they crawled up the Edgware Road she let down the window of

the cab and idly watched the stream of passers-by. Presently she

started, for among the hundreds of faces she caught sight of that of

Mr. Samuel Rock. It was pale, and she noticed that as he went the man

was muttering to himself and glancing at the corner of a street, as

though he were seeking some turn with which he was not familiar.

 

“I wonder what that person is doing here,” she thought to herself;

“positively he seems to haunt me.” Then the cab went on, and presently

drew up in front of No. 8, Kent Street.

 

“What a squalid-looking place!” Lady Graves reflected, while she paid

the man and rang the bell.

 

As it chanced, Mrs. Bird was out and the door was answered by the

little serving-girl, who, in reply to the question of whether Miss

Haste was in, said “Yes” without hesitation and led the way upstairs.

 

“Some one to see you,” she said, opening the door in front of Lady

Graves and almost simultaneously shutting it behind her.

 

Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to

read a book, rose instinctively at the words, and started at her

veiled and stately-looking visitor.

 

“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?”

 

“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of

coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.”

 

Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a

chair. At the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she

felt that the blow which she dreaded was about to fall, and that

Henry’s mother came as a messenger of ill.

 

Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence.

 

“I trust that you are better,” she said at length.

 

“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.”

 

“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you or

retard your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your

permission, upon a very delicate and important matter.”

 

Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on.

 

“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need

only allude to one—namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you

his wife, as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right

to expect,” and she paused.

 

“Please go on,” murmured Joan.

 

“I am here,” she continued hesitatingly, “to submit some questions to

your consideration; but pray understand that my son knows nothing of

this visit, and that I have not come to reproach you in any way. We

are all human and liable to fall into temptation, though our

temptations vary with age, disposition, and other circumstances: it is

quite possible, for instance, that in speaking to you thus I am at

this moment yielding to a temptation which I ought to resist. Perhaps

I am right in supposing that it is your intention to accept my son’s

offer of marriage?”

 

“I have not made up my mind, Lady Graves.”

 

“Well,” she answered, with a faint smile, “you will doubtless make it

up when you see him, if you do see him. I think that I may take it for

granted that, unless what I have to say to you should change your

views, you will very shortly be married to Sir Henry Graves.”

 

“I suppose you do not wish that,” said Joan: “indeed, how can you wish

it, seeing what I am, and his reason for asking me to marry him?”

 

“No, I do not wish it, though not altogether for these reasons. You

are a very beautiful woman and a sweet one, and I have no doubt but

that you could soon learn to fill any position which he might be able

to give you, with credit to yourself and to him. As for the rest, he

is as much to blame as you are, and therefore owes you reparation, so

I will say no more upon that point. My reasons are simple and to a

certain extent selfish, but I think that they will appeal to you. I

believe that you love Henry. Well, if you marry him you will bring

this man whom you love to the most irretrievable ruin. I do not know

if you have heard of it, but the place where he lives, and where his

ancestors have lived for three centuries before him, is deeply

encumbered. Should he marry a girl without means it must be sold,

leaving us all, not only beggars, but bankrupt. I will not insult you

by supposing that the fact that you would find yourself in the painful

position of the penniless wife of a person of nominal rank can

influence you one way or another, but I do hope that the thought of

the position in which he will find himself may influence you. He

would be driven from his home, his name would be tarnished, and he

would be left burdened with a wife and family, and without a

profession, to seek such a living as chance might offer to him.”

 

“I know all this,” said Joan quietly; “but have you quite considered

my side of the question, Lady Graves? You seem to have heard the

facts: have you thought, then, in what state I shall be left if I

refuse the offer that Sir Henry has so generously made to me?”

 

“Doubtless,” answered Lady Graves confusedly—“forgive me for speaking

of it—adequate provision, the best possible, would be made–-”

 

She stopped, for Joan held up her hand in warning, and said: “If you

are going to offer me money compensation, I may as well tell you at

once, it is the one thing that I shall not be able to forgive you.

Also, where is the provision to come from? Do you wish to endow me

with Miss Levinger’s money? I have not sunk to that, Lady Graves.”

 

“I ask your pardon,” she answered; “it is so terribly hard to deal

with such a subject without giving offence. Believe me, I have

considered your side of the question, and my heart bleeds for you, for

I am asking more of you than any one has a right to ask of a woman

placed in your position. Indeed, I come to you as a suppliant, not for

justice, but for pity; to implore you, in the name of the love which

you bear my son, to save him from himself—yes, even at the cost of

your own ruin.”

 

“You put things plainly, Lady Graves; but how if he loves me? In that

event will it be any real kindness to save him from himself? Naturally

I do not wish to sacrifice my life for nothing.”

 

“It will be a kindness, Miss Haste, if not to him, at any rate to his

family. To the chance that a man in after years might learn to

dislike, or even to hate the woman who has been forced upon him as a

wife under such painful circumstances, I will only allude; for,

although it is a common experience enough, it is possible, indeed I

think that it is probable, that such a thing would never arise in your

case. If he loves you, in my opinion he should sacrifice that love

upon the altar of his duty; he has sinned, and it is right that he

should suffer for his sin, as you have already suffered. Although I am

his mother, Miss Haste, for Henry I have little sympathy in this

matter; my sympathy is for you and you alone.”

 

“You spoke of his family, Lady Graves: a man is not his family. Surely

his duty is towards himself, and not towards the past and the future.”

 

“I cannot agree with you. The duty of a man placed as Henry is, is

chiefly owing to the house which for some few years he represents—in

which, indeed, he has but a brief life interest—and to the name that

has descended to him. The step which he contemplates would bring both

to destruction; also it would bring me, his mother, who have given my

all to bolster up the fortunes of his family, to utter penury in my

old age. But of that I do not complain; I am well schooled in trouble,

and it makes little difference to me in what fashion I drag out my

remaining years. I plead, Miss Haste, not for myself and not for my

son Henry, but for his forefathers and his descendants, and the home

that for three centuries has been theirs. Do you know how his father,

my beloved husband, died? He died broken-hearted, because in his last

moments he learned that his only surviving son purposed to sacrifice

all these on your account. Therefore although he is dead I plead for

him also. Putting Henry out of the account, this is the plain issue,

Miss Haste: are you to be deserted, or is Rosham to be sold and are

the members of the family into which I have married to be turned out

upon the world bankrupt and dishonoured?”

 

“Putting myself aside, Lady Graves, is your son to suffer for

difficulties that he did not create? Did he spent the money which if

not repaid will make him a bankrupt? Indeed, will he be made a

bankrupt at all? Was he not earning his living in a profession which

his family forced him to abandon, in order that he might take these

troubles upon his own shoulders, and