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

I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can't nest with crows. It seems, from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me. I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon as I can get about. Thanking you again,

"Believe me "Your affectionate "Joan.

"P.S.--You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is very romantic. I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were to take you at your word. Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a shop-girl!"

Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle, with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art--indeed, just the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished to see no more.

"There," she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy, "if that does not disgust him with me, I don't know what will. Bah! It makes me sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have to write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep up for long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till you are married, dear." And she rested her head, that now was clustered over with little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept bitterly, till she heard the girl coming up with her tea, when she dried her eyes and sent her letter to the post.

Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise.

CHAPTER XXXIII(THE GATE OF HELL)

 

On the afternoon of the day following the interview between Lady Graves and Joan, it occurred to Henry, who chanced to be in Bradmouth, that he might as well call at the post-office to get any letters which had been despatched from London on the Sunday. There was but one, and, recognising the handwriting on the envelope, he read it eagerly as he sat upon his horse.

Twice did he read it, then he put it in his pocket and rode homewards wondering, for as yet he could scarcely believe that it had been written by Joan Haste. There was nothing in the letter itself that he could find fault with, yet the tone of it disgusted him. It was vulgar and flippant. Could the same hand have written these words and those other words, incoherent and yet so touching, that had stirred his nature to its depths? and if so, which of them reflected the true mind of the writer? The first letter was mad, but beautiful; the second sane, but to his sense shocking. If it was genuine, he must conclude that the person who penned it, desired to have done with him: but was it genuine? He could not account for the letter, and yet he could not believe in it; for if Joan wrote it of her own free will, then indeed he had misinterpreted her character and thrown his pearls, such as they were, before the feet of swine. She had been ill, she might have fallen under other influences; he would not accept his dismissal without further proof, at any rate until he had seen her and was in a position to judge for himself. And yet he must send an answer of some sort. In the end he wrote thus:--

"Dear Joan,--

"I have received your note, and I tell you frankly that I cannot understand it. You say that you do not wish to marry me, which, unless I have altogether misunderstood the situation (as may be the case), seems incomprehensible to me. I still purpose to come to town on Friday, when I hope that you will be well enough to see me and to talk this matter over.

"Affectionately yours, "Henry Graves."

Joan received this note in due course of post.

"Just what I expected," she thought: "how good he is! Most people would have had nothing more to do with me after that horrid, common letter. How am I to meet him if he comes? I cannot--simply I cannot. I should tell him all the truth, and where would my promise be then! If I see him I shall marry him--that is, if he wishes it. I must not see him, I must go away; but where can I go? Oh! Heaven help me, for I cannot help myself."

 

The journey to London had not changed Mr. Samuel Rock's habits, which it will be remembered were of a furtive nature. When Lady Graves saw him on the Sunday, he was employed in verifying the information as to Joan's address that he had obtained from Mrs. Gillingwater. Any other man would have settled the matter by inquiring at No. 8 as to whether or not she lived there, but he preferred to prowl up and down in the neighbourhood of the house till chance assured him of the fact.

As it happened, Fortune favoured him from the outset, for if Lady Graves saw him, he also saw her as she left the house, and was not slow to draw conclusions from her visit, though what its exact object might be he could not imagine. One thing was clear, however: Mrs. Gillingwater had not lied, since to suppose that by the merest coincidence Lady Graves was calling at this particular house for some purpose unconnected with Joan Haste, was an idea too improbable to be entertained. Still his suspicious mind was not altogether satisfied: for aught he knew Joan had left the place, or possibly she might be dead. In his desire to solve his doubts on these points before he committed himself to any overt act, Samuel returned on the Monday morning to Kent Street from the hotel where he had taken a room, and set himself to watch the windows of No. 8; but without results, for the fog was so thick that he could see nothing distinctly. In the afternoon, when the fog lifted, he was more successful, for, just as the November evening was closing in, the gas was lit in the front room on the first floor, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of Joan herself drawing down a blind. The sight of her filled him with a strange rapture, and he hesitated a while as to whether he should seek an interview with her at once, or wait until the morrow. In the end he decided upon the latter course, both because his courage failed him at the moment, and because he wished to think over his plan of action.

On the Tuesday morning he returned about ten o'clock, and with many inward tremblings rang the bell of No. 8. The door was answered by Mrs. Bird, whom he saluted with the utmost politeness, standing on the step with his hat off.

"Pray, ma'am, is Miss Haste within?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, being so ill, she has not been out for many weeks."

"So I have heard, ma'am; and I think that you are the lady who has nursed her so kindly."

"I have done my best, sir: but what might be your errand?"

"I wish to see her, ma'am."

Mrs. Bird looked at him doubtfully, and shook her head, "I don't think that she can see any one at present--unless, indeed, you are the gentleman from Bradmouth whom she expects."

An inspiration flashed into Samuel's mind. "I am the gentleman from Bradmouth," he answered.

Again Mrs. Bird scanned him curiously. To her knowledge she had never set eyes upon a baronet, but somehow Samuel did not fulfil her idea of a person of that class. He seemed too humble, and she felt that there was something wrong about the red tie and the broad black hat. "Perhaps he is disguising himself," she thought; "baronets and earls often do that in books"; then added aloud, "Are you Sir Henry Graves?"

By now Samuel understood that to hesitate was to lose all chance of seeing Joan. His aim was to obtain access to the house; once there, it would be difficult to force him to leave until he had spoken to her. After all he could only be found out, and if he waited for another opportunity, it was obvious that his rival, who was expected at any moment, would be beforehand with him. Therefore he lied boldly, answering,--

"That is my name, ma'am. Sir Henry Graves of Rosham."

Mrs. Bird asked him into the passage and shut the door.

"I didn't think you would be here till Friday, sir," she said, "but I dare say that you are a little impatient, and that your mother told you that Joan is well enough to see you now"; for Mrs. Bird had heard of Lady Graves's visit, though Joan had not spoken to her of its object.

"Yes, ma'am, you are right: I am impatient--very impatient."

"That is at it should be, sir, seeing all the lost time you have to make up for. Well, the past is the past, and you are acting like a gentleman now, which can never be a sorrow to you, come what may."

"Quite so, ma'am: but where is Joan?"

"She is in that room at the top of the stairs, sir. Perhaps you would like to go to her now. I know that she is up and dressed, for I have just left her. I do not think that I will come with you, seeing that you might feel it awkward, both of you, if a third party was present at such a meeting. You can tell me how you got on when you come down."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Samuel again. And then he crept up the stairs, his heart filled with fear, hope, and raging jealousy of the man he was personating. Arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with a trembling hand. Joan, who was reading Henry's note for the tenth time, heard the knock, and having hastily hidden the paper in her pocket, said "Come in," thinking that it was her friend the doctor, for she had caught the sound of a man's voice in the passage. In another moment the door had opened and shut again, and she was on her feet staring at her visitor with angry, frightened eyes.

"How did you come here, Mr. Rock?" she said in a choked voice: "how dare you come here?"

"I dare to come here, Joan," he answered, with some show of dignity, "because I love you. Oh! I beg of you, do not drive me away until you have heard me; and indeed, it would be useless, for I shall only wait in the street till I can speak to you."

"You know that I