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

near to the house. Then Henry spoke, and his voice betrayed more emotion than he cared to show.

"How can I thank you, Emma!" he said; "and what am I to say to you? It is useless to make protestations which you would not believe, though perhaps they might have more truth in them than you imagine. But I am sure of this, that if we live, a time will come soon when you will not doubt me if I tell you that I love you." And, drawing her to him, he kissed her upon the forehead.

"I hope so, Henry," she said, disengaging herself from his arms, and they went together into the house.

 

Within ten weeks of this date Henry and Emma were spending a long honeymoon among the ruined temples of the Nile.

 

CHAPTER XXXVI(THE DESIRE OF DEATH--AND THE FEAR OF HIM)

 

Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the first excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she lapsed into a condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every week brought her rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband, most of which she threw into the fire half-read. At length there came one that she perused eagerly enough, for it announced the approaching marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss Levinger--tidings which were confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr. Levinger himself, enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she would take nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the dress and appearance "of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom, Captain Sir Henry Graves, Bart., R.N."

"At least I have not done all this for nothing," said Joan, as she threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon her bed moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable despair.

She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never have found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did she regret that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock had been careful to inform her of his interview with Henry, putting his own gloss upon what passed between them; and the knowledge that her lover must hate and despise her was the sharpest arrow of the many which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest she could bear, but than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable was her state!--scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother, but who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a man she hated, and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets, however poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear of it could avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right--as she had sown so she must reap.

One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London winter gave way to spring, and the time of her trial grew near. In health she remained fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so vigorous a constitution; but the end of each week found her sadder and more broken in spirit than its beginning. She had no friends, and went out but little--indeed, her only relaxations were found in reading, with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry had once told her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with Jim and Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household. Mrs. Bird's eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom she consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase.

"Oh! my dear," she said to Joan, "what is to happen to us all if I go blind? I have a little money put away--about a hundred and fifty pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and then I suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know, my dear, they separate husband and wife in those places." And, quite broken down by such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep.

"At any rate, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at present," answered Joan gently, "since Sally helps, and I can do the fine work that you cannot manage."

"It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you in out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me, and how I should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to repine, for God has always looked after us heretofore, and I do not believe that He Who feeds the ravens will suffer us to starve, or to be separated. So I will try to be brave and trust in Him."

"Ah!" answered Joan, "I wish that I could have your faith; but I suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let me begin at once. No, don't thank me any more; it will be a comfort; besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you."

Thenceforth Mrs. Bird's orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever they had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave her some relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a new desire entered into her mind--that most terrible of all desires, the desire of Death! Of Death she became enamoured, and her daily prayer to Heaven was that she might die, she and her child together, since her imagination could picture no future in another world more dreadful than that which awaited her in this.

Only once during these months did she hear anything of Henry; and then it was through the columns of a penny paper, where, under the heading of "Society Jottings," she read that "Sir Henry Graves, Bart., R.N., and his beautiful young bride were staying at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo, where the gallant Captain was very popular and Lady Graves was much admired." The paragraph added that they were going to travel in the Holy Land, and expected to return to their seat at Rosham towards the end of May.

It was shortly after she read this that Joan, who from constantly thinking about death, had convinced herself that she would die, went through the formality of making a will on a sixpenny form which she bought for that purpose.

To Sir Henry Graves she left the books that he had given her, and a long letter, which she was at much trouble to compose, and placed carefully in the same envelope with the will. All the rest of her property, of any sort whatsoever, whereof she might die possessed--it amounted to about thirty pounds and some clothes--she devised to Mrs. Bird for the use of her unborn child, should it live, and, failing that, to Mrs. Bird absolutely.

At last the inevitable hour of her trouble came upon her, and left her pale and weak, but holding a little daughter in her arms. From the first the child was sickly, for the long illness of the mother had affected its constitution; and within three weeks from the day of its birth it was laid to rest in a London cemetery, leaving Joan to drink the cup of a new and a deeper agony than any that it had been her lot to taste.

Yet, when her first days of grief and prostration had gone by, almost could she find it in her heart to rejoice that the child had been taken from her and placed beyond the possibilities of such a life as she had led; for, otherwise, how would things have gone with it when she, its mother, passed into the power of Samuel Rock? Surely he would have hated and maltreated it, and, if fate had left it without the protection of her love in the hands of such a guardian, its existence might have been made a misery. Still, after the death of that infant those about her never saw a smile upon Joan's face, however closely they might watch for it. Perhaps she was more beautiful now than she had ever been, for the chestnut hair that clustered in short curls upon her shapely head, and her great sorrowful eyes shining in the pallor of her sweet face, refined and made strange her loveliness; moreover, if the grace of girlhood had left her, it was replaced by another and a truer dignity--the dignity of a woman who has loved and suffered and lost.

 

One morning, it was on the ninth of June, Joan received a letter from her husband, who now wrote to her every two or three days. Before she opened it she knew well from past experience what would be the tenor of its contents: an appeal to her, more or less impassioned, to shorten the year of separation for which she had stipulated, and come to live with him as his wife. She was not mistaken, for the letter ended thus:--

"Oh! Joan, have pity on me and come to me, for if you don't I think that I shall go crazed. I have kept my promise to you faithful so far, so if you are made of flesh and blood, show mercy before you drive me to something desperate. It's all over now; the child's dead, you tell me, and the man's married, so let's turn a new leaf and begin afresh. After all, Joan, you are my wife before God and man, and it is to me that your duty lies, not to anybody else. Even if you haven't any fondness for me, I ask you in the name of that duty to listen to me, and I tell you that if I don't I believe that I shall go mad with the longing to see your face, and the sin if it will be upon you. I've done up the house comfortable for you, Joan; no money has been spared, and if you want anything more you shall have it. Then don't go on hiding yourself away from me, but come and take the home that waits you."

"I suppose he is right, and that it is my duty," said Joan to herself with a sigh, as she laid down the letter. "Love and hope and happiness have gone from me, nothing is left except duty, so I had better hold fast to it. I will write and say that I will go soon--within a few days; though what the Birds will do without me I do not know, unless he will let me give them some of my allowance."

Having come to this determination, Joan wrote her letter and posted it, fearing lest, should she delay, her virtuous resolution might fail her. As she returned from the pillar box, a messenger, who was standing on the steps of No. 8, handed her a telegram addressed to herself. Wondering what it might be, she opened it, to read this message:--

"Come