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

and afraid of she knew not what. "Won't you come in and have some tea?" Emma asked kindly.

"No, thank you, miss; I have to walk home, and I must not stay any longer."

"It is a long way, and you look tired. Let me order the dogcart for you."

"Indeed no, thank you. I haven't been very well--that is why I am paler than usual. But I am quite strong again now," and Joan made a movement as though to start on her walk.

"If you will allow me, I will come a little way with you," said Emma timidly.

"I shall be very pleased, miss."

The two girls turned, and, for a while, walked side by side in silence, each of them wondering about the other and the man who was dear to both.

"Are you going to be a nurse?" asked Emma at length.

"Oh no! What made you think that?"

"Because you nursed Captain--I mean Sir Henry--Graves so wonderfully," Emma answered, colouring. "Dr. Childs told me he believed that you saved his life."

"Then I have done something in the world," said Joan, with a little laugh; "but it is the first that I have heard of it."

"Really! Haven't they thanked you?"

"Somebody offered to pay me, if you mean that, miss."

"No, no; I didn't mean it. I meant that we are all grateful to you, so very grateful--at least, his family are. Then what do you intend to do when you go away?" she asked, changing the subject suddenly.

"I don't know, miss. Earn my living as best I can--as a shop girl, probably."

"It seems rather terrible starting by oneself out into the unknown, like this. Does it not frighten you?"

"Perhaps it does," answered Joan; "but beggars cannot be choosers. I can't stop here, where I have nothing to do; and, you see, I am alone in the world."

Emma understood the allusion, and said hastily:

"I am very sorry for you--I am indeed, if you won't be angry with me for saying so. It is cruel that you should have to suffer like this for no fault of your own. It would kill me if I found myself in the same position--yes, I am sure that it would."

"Luckily, or unluckily, it doesn't kill me, miss, though sometimes it is hard enough to bear. You see that the burden is laid upon the broadest back, and I can carry what would crush you. Still, I thank you for your sympathy and the kind thought which made you speak it. I have very few memories of that sort, and I shall never forget this one."

For another five minutes or so they went on without speaking, since their fount of conversation seemed to have dried up. At length, beginning to feel the silence irksome, Emma stopped and held out her hand, saying that she would now return.

"Would you listen to a word or two from me before you go, miss? And would you promise not to repeat it--no, not to Mr. Levinger even?" said Joan suddenly.

"Certainly, if you wish it. What is it about?"

"About you and myself and another person. Miss Levinger, I am going away from here--I believe for good--and I think it likely that we shall not meet again. When I am gone you will hear all sorts of tales about me and Sir Henry."

"Really--really!" said Emma, in some distress.

"Listen to me, miss: there is nothing very dreadful, and I speak for your own good. While all this sickness was on I learned something--I learned that you are fond of Sir Henry, never mind how----"

"I know how," murmured Emma. "Oh! did you tell him?"

"I told him nothing; indeed, I had nothing to tell. I saw you faint, and guessed the rest. What I want to ask you is this: that you will believe no stories which may be told against Sir Henry, for he is quite blameless. Now I have only one thing more to say, and it is, that I have watched him and known him well; and, if you do not cling to him through good and through evil, you will be foolish indeed, for there is no better man, and you will never find such another for a husband. I wish that it may all come about, and that you may be happy with him through a long life, Miss Levinger."

Emma heard, and, though vaguely as yet, understood all the nobility and self-sacrifice of her rival. She also loved this man, and she renounced him for the sake of his own welfare. Otherwise she would never have spoken thus.

"I do not know what to answer you," she said. "I do not deny it is true that I am attached to Sir Henry, though I have no right to be. What am I to answer you?"

"Nothing, except this: that under any circumstances you will not believe a word against him."

"I can promise that, if it pleases you."

"It does please me; for, wherever I am, I should like to think of you and him as married and happy, for I know that he will make you a good husband, as you will make him a good wife. And now again, good-bye."

Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her.

"No," said Joan, holding her back; "do not kiss me, but remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can."

Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing bewildered upon the road.

"I have done it now," thought Joan to herself--"for good or evil I have done it, though I don't quite know what made me speak like that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake, I'd have acted very differently. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it seems I may ruin him, and that I'll never do; I'd rather make away with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent must suffer with the guilty, that's the truth of it, as I suffer to-day because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it is hard--very hard--to have to go away and give him up to her; to have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know that if it wasn't for my being nobody's child, and not fit to marry an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune, and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I were dead, I do--I do!"

Then the poor girl began to sob as she walked, and, thus sobbing and furtively wiping away the tears that would run from her eyes, she crept back to the inn in the twilight, thoroughly weary and broken in spirit.

 

When Emma reached Monk's Lodge she found her father leaning over the front gate, as though he were waiting for her.

"Where have you been, love?" he said, in that tone of tenderness which he always adopted when speaking to his daughter. "I thought that I saw you on the road with somebody, and began to wonder why you were so late."

"I have been walking with Joan Haste," she answered absently.

"Why have you been walking with her?" he asked, in a quick and suspicious voice. "She is very well in her way, but not altogether the sort of person for you to make a companion of."

"I don't know about that, father. I should say that she was quite my equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better educated."

"Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not become too intimate with her."

"There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from Bradmouth."

"Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else did she tell you?"

"A good deal about herself. Of course I knew something of her story before; but I did not know that she felt her position so bitterly. Poor girl! she has been cruelly treated."

"I really fail to see it, Emma. Considering the unfortunate circumstances connected with her, it seems to me that she has been very well treated."

"I don't think so, father, and you only believe it because you are not a woman and do not understand. Suppose, now, that I, your daughter whom you are fond of, were in her place to-day, without a friend or home, feeling myself a lady and yet obliged to mix with rough people and to be the mark of their sneers, jealousy and evil-speaking, should you say that I was well treated? Suppose that I was going to-morrow to be thrown, without help or experience, on to the world to earn my bread there, should you----"

"I absolutely decline to suppose anything of the sort, Emma," he answered passionately. "Bother the girl! Why does she put such ideas into your head?"

"Really, father," she said, opening her eyes wide, "there is no need for you to get angry with Joan Haste, especially as she told me that you had always been kind to her."

"I am not angry, Emma, but one way and another that girl gives me more trouble than enough. She might make a very good marriage, and settle herself in life out of reach of all these disagreeables, about which she seems to have been whining to you, but she is so pig-headed that she won't."

"But surely, father, you wouldn't expect her to marry a man she doesn't like, would you? Why, I have heard you say that you thought it better that a woman should never be born than that she should be forced into a distasteful marriage."

"Circumstances alter cases, and certainly it would have been better if /she/ had never been born," answered Mr. Levinger, who seemed quite beside himself with irritation. "However, there it is: she won't marry, she won't do anything except bring trouble upon others with her confounded beauty, and make herself the object of scandal."

"I think that it is time for me to go and dress," said Emma coldly.

"I forgot, my dear; I should not have spoken of that before you, but really I feel quite unhinged to-night. I suppose that you have no idea of what I am alluding to, but if not you soon will have, for some kind friend is sure to tell you."

"I--have an idea, father."

"Very well. Then I may as well tell you that it is all nonsense."

"I am not sure that it is all nonsense," she answered, in the same restrained voice; "but whether it is nonsense or no, it has nothing to do with me."

"Nothing to do with you, Emma! Do you mean that? Listen, my love: these are delicate matters, but if any one may speak to a woman about them, her father may. Do you remember that nearly two years ago, when you were more intimate and open with me than you are now, Emma, you told me that Henry Graves had--well, taken your fancy?"

"I remember. I told you because I did not think it likely that I should meet him again, and because you said something to me about marrying, and I wished to put a stop to the idea."

"Yes, I quite understand; but I gathered from what took place the other day, when poor Graves was so ill, that you still entertain an affection for him."

"Oh! pray do not speak of that," she murmured; "I cannot bear it even from you; it covers me with shame. I was