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

the noise,

started off, John hanging to the reins.

 

“There, Towser, good dog,” said Rock, with a brutal laugh, “that’s how

I treat them that try to interfere with my wife. Now come in, darling,

and see your pretty home.”

 

Joan, who had hidden her eyes that she might not witness the dying

struggles of the wretched dog, let fall her hand, and looked round

wildly for help. Seeing none, she took a few steps forward with the

idea of flying from this fiend.

 

“Where are you going, Joan?” he asked suspiciously. “Surely you are

never thinking of running away, are you? Because I tell you, you won’t

do that; so don’t you try it, my dear. If I’m to be a widower again,

it shall be a real one next time.” And he lifted the gun towards her

and grinned.

 

Then, the man John having vanished with the cart, Joan saw that her

only chance was to appear unconcerned, and watch for an opportunity to

escape later.

 

“Run away!” she said: “what are you thinking of? I only wanted to see

if the horse was safe,” and she turned and walked through the deserted

garden to the front door of the house, which she entered.

 

Rock followed her, locking the door behind her has he had done when

Mrs. Gillingwater came to visit him, and with much ceremonious

politeness ushered her into the sitting-room. This chamber had been

re-decorated with a flaring paper, that only served to make it even

more incongruous and unfit to be lived in by any sane person than

before; and noting its gloom, which by contrast with the brilliant

June sunshine without was almost startling, and the devilish faces of

carven stone that grinned down upon her from the walls, Joan crossed

its threshold with a shiver of fear.

 

“Here we are at last!” said Samuel. “Welcome to your home, Joan Rock!”

And he made a movement as though to embrace her, which she avoided by

walking straight past him to the farther side of the table.

 

“You’ll be wanting something to eat, Joan,” he went on. “There’s

plenty in the house if you don’t mind cooking it. You see I haven’t

got any servants here at present,” he added apologetically, “as you

weren’t expected so soon; and the old woman who comes in to do for me

is away sick.”

 

“Certainly I will cook the food,” Joan answered.

 

“That’s right, dear—I was afraid that you might be too grand but

perhaps you would like to wash your hands first while I light the fire

in the kitchen stove. Come here,” and he led the way through the door

near the fireplace to the foot of an oaken stair. “There,” he said,

“that’s our room, on the right. It’s no use trying any of the others,

because they’ll all locked up. I shall be just here in the kitchen, so

you will see me when you come down.”

 

Joan went upstairs to the room, which was large and well furnished,

though, like that downstairs, badly lighted by one window only, and

secured with iron bars, as though the place had been used as a prison

at some former time. Clearly it was Samuel’s own room, for his clothes

and hat were hung upon some pegs near the door, and other of his

possessions were arranged in cupboards and on the shelves.

 

Almost mechanically she washed her hands and tidied her hair with a

brush from her handbag. Then she sat down and tried to think, to find

only that her mind had become incapable, so numbed was it by all that

she had undergone, and with the terrors mental and bodily of her

present position. Nor indeed was much time allowed her for thought,

since presently she heard the hateful voice of her husband calling to

her that the fire was ready. At first she made no answer, whereon

Samuel spoke again from the foot of the stairs, saying,—

 

“If you won’t come down, dear, I must come up, as I can’t bear to lose

sight of you for so long at a time.”

 

Then Joan descended to the kitchen, where the fire burnt brightly and

a beef-steak was placed upon the table ready for cooking. She set to

work to fry the meat and to boil the kettle and the potatoes; while

Samuel, seated in a chair by the table, followed her every movement

with his eyes.

 

“Now, this is what I call real pleasant and homely,” he said, “and

I’ve been looking forward to it for many a month as I sat by myself at

night. Not that I want you to be a drudge, Joan—don’t you think it.

I’ve got lots of money, and you shall spend it: yes, you shall have

your carriage and pair if you like.”

 

“You are very kind,” she murmured, “but I don’t wish to live above my

station. Perhaps you will lay the table and bring me the teapot, as I

think that the steak is nearly done.”

 

He rose to obey with alacrity, but before he left the room Joan saw

with a fresh tremor that he was careful to lock the kitchen door and

to put the key into his pocket. Evidently he suspected her of a desire

to escape.

 

In a few more minutes the meal was ready, and they were seated

tête-à-tête in the parlour.

 

When he had helped her Joan asked him if she should pour out the tea.

 

“No, never mind that wash,” he said; “I’ve got something that I have

been keeping against this day.” And going to a cupboard he produced

glasses and two bottles, one of champagne and the other of brandy.

Opening the first, he filled two tumblers with the wine, giving her

one of them.

 

“Now, dear, you shall drink a toast,” he said. “Repeat it after me.

‘Your health, dearest husband, and long may we live together.’”

 

Having no option but to fall into his humour, or run the risk of worse

things, Joan murmured the words, although they almost choked her, and

drank the wine—for which she was very thankful, for by now it was

past seven o’clock, and she had touched nothing since the morning.

Then she made shift to swallow some food, washing it down with sips of

champagne. If she ate little, however, her husband ate less, though

she noticed with alarm that he did not spare the bottle.

 

“It is not often that I drink wine, Joan,” he said, “for I hold it

sinful waste—not but what there’ll always be wine for you if you want

it. But this is a night to make merry on, seeing that a man isn’t

married every day,” and he finished the last of the champagne. “Oh!

Joan,” he added, “it’s like a dream to think that you’ve come to me at

last. You don’t know how I’ve longed for you all these months; and now

you are mine, mine, my own beautiful Joan—for those whom God has

joined together no man can put asunder, however much they may try. I

kept my oath to you faithful, didn’t I, Joan? and now it’s your turn

to keep yours to me. You remember what you swore—that you would be a

true and good wife to me, and that you wouldn’t see nothing of that

villain who deceived you. I suppose that you haven’t seen him during

all these months, Joan?”

 

“If you mean Sir Henry Graves,” she answered, “I met him to-day as I

walked to Monk’s Vale station.”

 

“Did you now?” he said, with a curious writhing of the lips: “that’s

strange, isn’t it, that you should happen to go to Monk’s Lodge

without saying nothing to your husband about it, and that there you

should happen to meet him within a few hours of his getting back to

England? I suppose you didn’t speak to him, did you?”

 

“I spoke a few words.”

 

“Ah! a few words. Well, that was wrong of you, Joan, for it’s against

your oath; but I dare say that they were to tell him just to keep

clear in future?”

 

Joan nodded, for she dared not trust herself to speak.

 

“Well, then, that’s all right, and he’s done with. And now, Joan, as

we’ve finished supper, you come here like a good wife, and put your

arms round my neck and kiss me, and tell me that you love me, and that

you hate that man, and are glad that the brat is dead.”

 

Joan sat silent, making no answer. For a few moments he waited as

though expecting her to move, then he rose and came towards her with

outstretched arms.

 

Seeing his intention, she sprang from her chair and slipped to the

other side of the table.

 

“Come,” he said, “don’t run from me, for our courting days are over,

and it’s silly in a wife. Are you going to say what I asked you,

Joan?”

 

“No,” she answered in a quiet voice, for her instincts overcame her

fears; “I have promised to live with you, though you know why I

married you, and I’ll do it till it kills me, even if you are mad; but

I’ll not tell you a lie, for I never promised to love you, and I hate

you now more than ever I did.”

 

Samuel turned deadly white, then poured out a glass of neat brandy and

drank it before he answered.

 

“That’s straight, anyway, Joan. But it’s queer that while you won’t

lie to me of one thing you ain’t above doing it about another. P’raps

you didn’t know it, but I was there to-day when you had your ‘few

words’ with your lover. He never saw me, but I followed him from

Bradmouth step for step, though sometimes I had to hide behind trees

and hedges to do it. You see I thought he would lead me to you; and so

he did, for I saw you kissing and hugging—yes, you who belong to

me—I saw you holding that man in your arms. Mad, do you say I am?

Yes, I went mad then, though mayhap if you’d done that I asked you

just now I might have got over it, for I felt my brain coming right;

but now it is going again, going, going! And, Joan, since you hate me

so bad, there is only one thing left to do, and that is–-” And with

a wild laugh he dashed towards the mantelpiece to reach down the gun

which hung above it.

 

Then Joan’s nerve broke down, and she fled. From the house itself

there was no escape, for every door was locked; so, followed by the

madman, she ran panting with terror upstairs to the room where she had

washed her hands, and, shutting the door, shot the strong iron

bolt—not too soon, for next instant her husband was dashing his

weight against it. Very shortly he gave up the attempt, for he could

make no impression upon oak and iron; and she heard him lock the door

on the outside, raving the while. Then he tramped downstairs, and for

a time there was silence. Presently she became aware of a scraping

noise at the lattice; and, creeping along under shelter of the wall,

she peeped round the corner of the window place. Already the light was

low, but she could see the outlines of a white face glowering into the

room through the iron bars without. Next instant there was a crash,

and fragments of broken glass fell tinkling to the carpet. Then a

voice spoke, saying, “Listen to me, Joan: I am here, on a ladder. I

won’t hurt you, I swear it;