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

tongue in your head. I'm not the kind of person to be bullied, do you understand?"

Samuel looked at Henry's blue eyes, that shone somewhat ominously, and at his determined chin and mouth, and understood.

"I'm sure I meant no offence, sir," he replied, again becoming obsequious.

"Very well: then be careful to give none. It is quite easy to be polite when once you get used to it. Now I will answer your question. I have done nothing with Joan Haste--about whom, by the way, you have not the slightest right to question me. I don't know where she is, and I have neither seen nor heard of her for several weeks. Good morning!"

"That, sir, is a----"

"Now, pray be careful." And Henry turned to go.

"We don't part like that, sir," said Rock, following him and speaking to him over his shoulder. "I've got some more to say to you."

"Then say it to my face; don't keep sneaking behind me like an assassin. What is it?"

"This, sir: you have robbed me, sir; you have taken my ewe-lamb as David did to Nathan, and your reward shall be the reward of David."

"Oh, confound you and your ewe-lamb!" said Henry, who was fast getting beyond argument. "What do you want?"

"I want her back, sir. I don't care what's happened; I don't care if you have stolen her; I tell you I want her back."

"Very well, then, go and find her; but don't bother me."

"Oh yes, I'll find her in time; I'll marry her, never you fear; but I thought that you might be able to help me on with it, for she's nothing to you; but you see it's this way--I can't live without her."

"I have told you, Mr. Rock, that I don't know where Joan Haste is; and if I did, I may add that I would not help you to find her, as I believe she is hiding herself to keep out of your way. Now will you be so good as to go?"

Then Samuel burst into a flood of incoherent menaces and abuse, born of his raging hate and jealousy. Henry did not follow the torrent--he did not even attempt to do so, seeing that his whole energies were occupied in a supreme effort to prevent himself from knocking this creature down.

"She's mine, and not yours," he ended. "I'm an honest man, I am, and I mean to marry her like an honest man; and when I've married her, just you keep clear, Sir Henry Graves, or, by the God that made me, I'll cut your throat!"

"Really," ejaculated Henry, "this is too much! Here, Jeffries, and you, Bates," he called to two men in his employ who chanced to be walking by: "this person seems to be the worse for drink. Would you be so good as to take him off the premises? And look here--be careful that he never comes back again."

Messrs. Jeffries and Bates grinned and obeyed; for, as it happened, they both knew Samuel, and one of them had a grudge against him.

"You hear what Sir Henry says. Now come you on, master," said Jeffries. "Surely it is a scandal to see a man the worse for beer at this time of day. Come on, master."

By now Samuel's passion had spent itself, and he went quietly enough, followed by the two labourers. Henry watched him disappear towards the road, and then said aloud:--

"Upon my word, Joan Haste, fond as I am of you, had I known half the trouble and insult that I must suffer on your account, I would have chosen to go blind before ever I set eyes upon your face."

 

Within a week of this agreeable interview with Samuel Rock, Henry set out to pay his long-promised visit to Monk's Lodge. This time he drove thither, and no further accident befell him. But as he passed by Ramborough Abbey he reflected sadly enough on the strange imbroglio in which he had become involved since the day when he attempted to climb its ruined tower. At present things seemed to be straightening themselves out somewhat, it was true; but a warning sense told him that there were worse troubles to come than any which had gone before.

The woman who was at the root of these evils had vanished, indeed; but he knew well that all which is hidden is not necessarily lost, and absence did not avail to cure him of his longing for the sight of her dear face. He might wish that he had been stricken blind before his eyes beheld it; but he had looked upon it, alas! too long, nor could he blot out its memory. He tried to persuade himself that he did not care; he tried to believe that his sensations were merely the outcome of flattered vanity; he tried, even, to forbid his mind to think of her--only to experience the futility of one and all of these endeavours.

Whether or no he was "in love" with Joan, he did not know, since, never having fallen into that condition, he had no standard by which to measure his feelings. What he had good cause to know, however, was that she had taken possession of his waking thoughts in a way that annoyed and bewildered him--yes, and even of his dreams. The vision of her was all about him; most things recalled her to him, directly or indirectly, and he could scarcely listen to a casual conversation, or mix in the society of other women, without being reminded--by inference, contrast, or example--of something that she had said or done. His case was by no means helpless; for even now he knew that time would cure the trouble, or at least draw its sting. He was not a lad, to be carried away by the wild passion which is one of the insane privileges of youth; and he had many interests, ambitions, hopes and fears with which this woman was not connected, though, as it chanced at present, her subtle influence seemed to pervade them all.

Meanwhile his position towards her was most painful. She had gone, leaving him absolutely in the dark as to her wishes, motives, or whereabouts; leaving him also to suffer many things on her account, not the least of them being the haunting knowledge of what, in her silence and solitude, she must be suffering upon his.

Well, he had debated the matter till his mind grew weary, chiefly with the object of discovering which among so many conflicting duties were specious and which were sacred, and now he was inclined to give up the problem as insoluble, and to allow things to take their chance.

"By George!" he thought to himself, glancing at the old tower, "this is the kind of thing that they call romance: well, I call it hell. No more romance for me if I can avoid it. And now I am going to stay with old Levinger, and, as I suppose that I shall not be expected to make love to his daughter--at any rate, at present--I'll try to enjoy myself, and forget for a few days that there is such a thing as a woman in the world."

Henry reached Monk's Lodge in time to dress for dinner, and was at once shown by Mr. Levinger, who greeted him with cordiality and evident pleasure, to his room--a low and many-cornered apartment commanding a delightful view of the sea. Having changed, he found his way to the drawing-room, where Emma was waiting to receive him, which she did very courteously, and with more self-possession than might have been expected of her. It struck Henry, as he stood by the window and chatted to her on indifferent subjects in the pearly light of the September evening, that he had never seen her look so charming. Perhaps it was that her secret troubles had added dignity to her delicate face and form, or that the dress she wore became her, or that the old-fashioned surroundings of the place among which she had grown up, and that doubtless had exercised their influence upon her character, seemed to combine with and to set off her quaint and somewhat formal grace of mien and movement. At least it seemed to him that she was almost beautiful that night, not with the rich and human loveliness of a woman like Joan, but in a certain spiritual fashion which was peculiar to her.

Presently they went in to dinner. It was a pleasant meal enough, and Henry enjoyed the change from the cold-looking Rosham dining-room, with its pillars and its dingy old masters, even more than he had hoped to do. Here there were no old masters and no marble, but walls wainscoted with a dado of black oak, and hung with quaint Flemish pictures painted on panels or on copper, such as are still to be picked up by the discerning at sales in the Eastern counties. Here also were no melancholy cedars shutting off the light, but open windows wreathed about with ivy, through which floated the murmur of the sea. The dinner was excellent, moreover, as was Mr. Levinger's champagne; and by the time that they reached the dessert Henry found himself in a better mood than he had known for many a long week.

Abandoning his reserve, he fell into some harmless snare that was set by his host, and began to speak of himself and his experiences--a thing that he very rarely did. Though for the most part he was a somewhat silent man, and at his best could not be called a brilliant conversationalist, Henry could talk well when he chose, in a certain plain and forcible manner that attracted by its complete absence of exaggeration or of straining after effect. He told them tales of wars in Ashantee and Egypt; he described to them a great hurricane off the coast of Madagascar, when the captain and first lieutenant of the ship in which he was serving were swept overboard by a single sea, leaving him in command of her; and several other adventures, such as befall Englishmen who for twenty years or more have served their country in every quarter of the globe. By now the coffee and cigarettes had been brought in; but Emma did not leave the room--indeed, it was not her custom to do so, and the presence of a guest at Monk's Lodge was so rare an event that it never occurred to her to vary it. She sat, her face hidden in the shadow, listening with wide-opened eyes to Henry's "moving accidents by flood and field"; and yet she grew sad as she listened, feeling that his talk was inspired by a vain regret which was almost pitiful. He was speaking as old men speak of their past, of events that are gone by, of things in which they have no longer any share.

Evidently Mr. Levinger felt this also, for he said, "It is unfortunate, Graves, that prospects like yours should have been snapped short. What do you mean to do with yourself now?"

"Yes," answered Henry, "it is very unfortunate; but these things will happen. As for the future it must look after itself. Ninety-nine naval officers out of a hundred have no future. They live--or rather starve--upon their half-pay in some remote village, and become churchwardens--that is, if they do not quarrel with the parson."

"I hope that you will do something more than this," said Mr. Levinger. "I look forward to seeing you member for our division if I live long enough. You might do more good for the Navy in the house than ever you could have done at sea."

"That's just what a man told me at the Admiralty, and I think I answered him that I preferred a command at sea. Not but that I should like the other thing very well, if it came in my way. However, as both careers are as much beyond my reach as the moon, it is no use talking of them, is it?"

"I don't agree