Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
- Performer: -
Book online «Joan Haste - H. Rider Haggard (fiction books to read .TXT) 📗». Author H. Rider Haggard
you think that you could care enough for me to marry me? I know very
well that I have little to recommend me, and there are circumstances
connected with my financial position which make it almost presumptuous
that I should ask you.”
“I think, Sir Henry,” she answered, speaking for the first time, “that
we may leave money matters out of the question. I have heard something
of the state of affairs at Rosham, and I know that you are not
responsible for it, though you are expected by others to remedy it.”
“It is very generous of you to speak like that, Miss Levinger; and it
helps me out of a great difficulty, for I could not see how I was to
explain all this business to you.”
“I think that it is only just, Sir Henry, not generous. Provided that
there is enough on one side or the other, money is not the principal
question to be considered.”
“No, Miss Levinger, I agree with you, though I have known others who
thought differently. The main thing is whether you can care enough
about me.”
“That is one thing, Sir Henry,” she answered in a low voice; “also
there are others.”
“I suppose that you mean whether or no I am worthy of you, Miss
Levinger. Well, even though it should destroy my chances with you, I
will tell you frankly that, in my judgment, I am not. Listen, Miss
Levinger: till within a few months ago I had never cared about any
woman; then I saw you for the second time, and thought you the
sweetest lady that I had ever met, for I understood how good and true
you are, and in my heart I hoped that a day would come when I might
venture to ask you what I am asking you now. Afterwards trouble arose
through my own weakness and folly—trouble between myself and another
woman. I am sure that you will not press me for details, because, in
order to give them, I must betray another person’s secret. To be
brief, I should probably have married this woman, but she threw me
over and chose another man.”
“What!” said Emma, startled out of her self-control, “is Joan Haste
married?”
“I see that you know more about me than I thought. She is married—to
Mr. Samuel Rock.”
“I cannot understand it at all; it is almost incredible.”
“Nor can I, but the fact remains. She wrote to tell me of it herself,
and, what is more, her husband showed me the marriage certificate. And
now I have made a clean breast of it, for I will not sail under false
colours, and you must judge me. If you choose to take me, I promise
you that no woman shall ever have a better husband than I will be to
you, for your happiness and welfare shall be the first objects of my
life. The question is, after what I have told you, can you care for
me?”
Emma stopped, for all this while they had been walking slowly, and
looked him full in the eyes, a last red ray of the dying light falling
on her sweet face.
“Sir Henry,” she said, “you have been frank with me, and I honour you
for it, none the less because I happen to know something of the story.
And now I will be equally frank with you, though to do so is humbling
to me. When I stayed in the same house with you more than two years
ago, you took little notice of me, but I grew fond of you, and I have
never changed my mind. Still I do not think that, as things are, I
should marry you on this account alone, seeing that a woman looks for
love in her marriage; and, Sir Henry, in all that you have said to me
you have spoken no word of love.”
“How could I, knowing what I had to tell you?” he broke in.
“I cannot say, but it is so; and therefore, speaking for myself alone,
I should be inclined to answer you that we had best go our separate
ways in life, though I am sure that, as you promise, you would be a
good and kind husband to me. But there are other people to be
considered; there is my father, who is most anxious that I should make
a satisfactory marriage—such as I know this would be for me, for I am
nobody and scarcely recognised in society here—and who has the
greatest respect and affection for you, as he had for your father
before you. Then there is your family: if I refuse you it would mean
that you would all be ruined, and though it may hurt your pride to
hear me say so, I shrink from such a thought–-”
“Oh! pray do not let that weigh with you,” he interrupted. “You know
well that, although much of what you say is unhappily true, I am not
seeking you that you may mend my broken fortunes, but because you are
what you are, and I desire above all things to make you my wife.”
“I am sorry, Sir Henry, but, though I believe every word you say, I
must let it weigh with me, for I wish to be a blessing to those about
me, and not a curse. Well, for all these reasons, and chiefly perhaps,
to be honest, because I am fond of you though you do not care very
much for me, I will be your wife, Sir Henry, as you are good enough to
wish it,” and she gave him her hand.
He took it and kissed it, and they walked on in silence till they were
near to the house. Then Henry spoke, and his voice betrayed more
emotion than he cared to show.
“How can I thank you, Emma!” he said; “and what am I to say to you? It
is useless to make protestations which you would not believe, though
perhaps they might have more truth in them than you imagine. But I am
sure of this, that if we live, a time will come soon when you will not
doubt me if I tell you that I love you.” And, drawing her to him, he
kissed her upon the forehead.
“I hope so, Henry,” she said, disengaging herself from his arms, and
they went together into the house.
Within ten weeks of this date Henry and Emma were spending a long
honeymoon among the ruined temples of the Nile.
THE DESIRE OF DEATH—AND THE FEAR OF HIM
Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the
first excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she
lapsed into a condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every
week brought her rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband,
most of which she threw into the fire half-read. At length there came
one that she perused eagerly enough, for it announced the approaching
marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss Levinger—tidings which were
confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr. Levinger himself,
enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she would take
nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a
copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the
dress and appearance “of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom,
Captain Sir Henry Graves, Bart., R.N.”
“At least I have not done all this for nothing,” said Joan, as she
threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon
her bed moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable
despair.
She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never
have found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did
she regret that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock
had been careful to inform her of his interview with Henry, putting
his own gloss upon what passed between them; and the knowledge that
her lover must hate and despise her was the sharpest arrow of the many
which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest she could bear, but
than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable was her
state!—scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother, but
who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a
man she hated, and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets,
however poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear
of it could avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right—as she had sown
so she must reap.
One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London
winter gave way to spring, and the time of her trial grew near. In
health she remained fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so
vigorous a constitution; but the end of each week found her sadder and
more broken in spirit than its beginning. She had no friends, and went
out but little—indeed, her only relaxations were found in reading,
with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry had once told
her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with Jim and
Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the
shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household.
Mrs. Bird’s eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom
she consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase.
“Oh! my dear,” she said to Joan, “what is to happen to us all if I go
blind? I have a little money put away—about a hundred and fifty
pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and
then I suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know,
my dear, they separate husband and wife in those places.” And, quite
broken down by such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep.
“At any rate, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at
present,” answered Joan gently, “since Sally helps, and I can do the
fine work that you cannot manage.”
“It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you
in out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me,
and how I should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to
repine, for God has always looked after us heretofore, and I do not
believe that He Who feeds the ravens will suffer us to starve, or to
be separated. So I will try to be brave and trust in Him.”
“Ah!” answered Joan, “I wish that I could have your faith; but I
suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let
me begin at once. No, don’t thank me any more; it will be a comfort;
besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you.”
Thenceforth Mrs. Bird’s orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever
they had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave
her some relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a
new desire entered into her mind—that most terrible of all desires,
the desire of Death! Of Death she became enamoured, and her daily
prayer to Heaven was that she might die, she and her child together,
since her imagination could picture no future in another world more
dreadful than that which awaited her in this.
Only once during these
Comments (0)