JOAN HASTE, H. RIDER HAGGARD [free ereaders TXT] 📗

When he had gone, Mr. Levinger rose from his chair and began to limp up and down the room, as was his custom when thinking deeply. To Samuel he had made light of the talk about Sir Henry Graves and Joan Haste, but he knew well that this was no light matter. He had been kept informed of the progress of their intimacy by his paid spy, Mrs. Gillingwater, but at the time he could find no pretext that would enable him to interfere without exposing himself to the risk of questions, which he preferred should be left unasked. On the previous day only, Mrs. Gillingwater had come to see him, and given him her version of the rumours which were flying about as to the scene that occurred at the death-bed of Sir Reginald. Discount these rumours as he would, he could not doubt but that they had a basis in fact. That Henry had declined to bind himself to marry his daughter Emma was clear; and it seemed probable that this refusal, made in so solemn an hour, had something to do with the girl Joan. And now, on top of it, came Samuel Rock with the story of his angry and ignominious rejection by this same Joan, a rejection that he unhesitatingly attributed to her intimacy or intrigue with Henry Graves.

The upshot of these reflections was the message received by Joan summoning her to Monk's Lodge.

Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover her equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr. Levinger. Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her straight to the study, where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook hands with her courteously, and invited her to be seated.

"You sent for me, sir," she began nervously.

"Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little matter." And he went to the window and stood with his face to the light, so that she could only see the back of his head.

"Yes, sir."

"I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not wish to pain you."

"I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir," answered Joan, with some warmth, "that it really cannot matter who speaks to me about them. I know what I am, though I don't know any particulars; and such people should have no feelings."

Mr. Levinger's shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still addressing the window-pane, "I fear I can give you no particulars now, Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people are responsible for your--unfortunate--position."

"The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children," answered Joan aptly enough. "Not that I have a right to judge anybody," and she sighed.

"As I have said," went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her interruption, "I am not in a position to give you any details about those circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so would be to violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise."

"What confidence and what promise, sir?"

Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, "Your dead father's confidence, and my promise to him."

"So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even after he was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think worse of him than ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have been a coward--yes, such a coward that I can hardly believe it."

"The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from the fact that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not have been difficult to invent a false name for your father."

"No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later I should have found out that it was false."

"Without entering into argument on the question of the morality of his decision, which is a matter for which he alone was responsible," said Mr. Levinger, in an irritated voice, "as I have told you, your father decided that it would be best that you should never know his name, or anything about him, except that he was of gentle birth. I believe that it was not cowardice, as you suggest, which made him take this course, but a regard for the rights and feelings of others whom he left behind him."

"And have I no rights and feelings, sir, and did he not leave me behind him?" Joan answered bitterly. "Is it wonderful that I, who have no mother, should wish to know who my father was? and could he not have foreseen that I should wish it? Was it not enough that he should desert me to be brought up in a public-house by a man who drinks, and a rough woman who hates me and would like to see me as bad as herself, with no one even to teach me my prayers when I was little, or to keep me from going to the bad when I grew older? Why should he also refuse to let me know his name, or the kin from which I come? Perhaps I am no judge of such matters, sir; but it seems to me that if ever a man behaved wickedly to a poor girl, my father has done so to me, and, dead or living, I believe that he will have to answer for it one day, since there is justice for us all somewhere."

Suddenly Mr. Levinger wheeled round, and Joan saw that his face was white, as though with fear or anger, and that his quick eyes gleamed.

"You wicked girl!" he said in a low voice, "are you not ashamed to call down curses upon your own father, your dead father? Do you not know that your words may be heard--yes, even outside this earth, and perhaps bring endless sorrow on him? If he has wronged you, you should still honour him, for he gave you life."

"Honour him, sir? Honour the man who deserted me and left me in the mud without a name? It isn't such fathers as this that the Prayer-book tells us to honour. He is dead, you say, and beyond me; and how can my words touch the dead? But even if they can, could they do him more harm, wherever he is, than he has done to me here? Oh! you do not understand. I could forgive him everything, but I can't forgive that he should make me go through my life without even knowing his name, or who he was. Had he only left me a kind word, or a letter, I dare say that I could even have loved him, though I never saw him. As it is, I think I hate him, and I hope that one day he will know it."

As she said these words, Mr. Levinger slowly turned his back upon her and began to look out of the window again, as though he felt himself unable to face the righteous indignation that shone in her splendid eyes.

"Joan Haste," he said, speaking quietly but with effort, "if you are going to talk in this way I think that we had better bring our interview to an end, as the conversation is painful to me. Once and for all I tell you, that if you are trying to get further information out of me you will fail."

"I have said my say, sir, and I shall ask you no more questions, except one; but none the less I believe that the truth will come out some time, for others must have known what you know, and perhaps after all my father had a conscience. I'm told that people often see things differently when they come to die, and /he/ may have done so. The question that I want to ask, sir, if you will be so kind as to answer it, is: You knew my father, so I suppose that you knew my mother also, though she's been dead these twenty years. How did she come by her death, sir? I have heard say that she was drowned, but nobody seems able to tell me any more about it."

"I believe that your mother was found dead beneath the cliff opposite the meres. How she came there is not known, but it is supposed that she missed her footing in the dark and fell over. The story of her drowning arose from her being found at high tide in the shallow water; but the medical evidence at the inquest showed that death had resulted from a fall, and not from suffocation."

"My poor mother!" said Joan, with a sigh. "She was unlucky all her life, it seems, so I dare say that she was well rid of it, and her death must have been good news to some. There's only one thing I'm sorry for--that I wasn't in her arms when she went over the edge of that cliff. And now, sir, about the business."

"Yes, about the business," replied Mr. Levinger, with a hard little laugh; "after so much sentiment it is quite refreshing to come to business, although unfortunately this has its sentimental side also. You must understand, Joan, that the parent whom you are so hard on, and whose agent I chanced to be in bygone years, left me more or less in a fiduciary position as regards yourself--that is to say, he entrusted me with a certain sum of money to be devoted to your education, and generally to your advancement in life, making the proviso that you were not to be brought up as a lady, since, rightly or wrongly, he did not think that this would conduce to your happiness. Well, I have strained the letter of my instructions, and you have had a kind of half-and-half education. Now I think that I should have done better to have held closer to them; for so far as I can judge, the result has been to make you dissatisfied with your position and surroundings. However, that is neither here nor there. You are now of age; the funds at my disposal are practically exhausted; and I desire to wind up my trust by settling you happily in life, if I can do so. You will wonder what I am driving at. I will tell you. I understand that a very worthy farmer, a tenant of mine, who is also a large freeholder--I mean Mr. Samuel Rock--wishes to make you his wife. Is this so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Don't think me rude; but I should be glad to know if you are inclined to fall in with his views."

"On the whole, sir," answered Joan composedly, "I think that I would rather follow my mother's example and walk over the cliff at high tide."

"That statement seems pretty comprehensive," said Mr. Levinger, after a pause; "and, to be frank, I don't see any way round it. I am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline to have anything to do with him?"

"Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any circumstances under which I would consent to marry him."

"Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity--a great pity--especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty roughly handled of late; in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring disgrace upon it."

"You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or leave undone, can matter to nobody.