Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗

But then the majority of young English women,

even of those who belong to the humbler walks of life, do not stand by

their own strength alone. Either they have an inherited sense of the

proprieties that amounts almost to an instinct, or they possess strong

religious principles, or there are those about them who guide and

restrain any dangerous tendency in their natures. At the very least

they are afraid of losing the respect and affection of their friends

and relatives, and of becoming a mark for the sneers and scandal of

the world in which they move.

 

In Joan’s case these influences were for the most part lacking. From

childhood she had lived beneath the shadow of a shame that, in some

degree, had withered her moral sense; no father or mother gave her

their tender guidance, and of religion she had been taught so little

that, though she conformed to its outward ceremonies, it could not be

said to have any real part in her life. Relatives she had none except

her harsh and coarse-minded aunt; her few friends made at a

middle-class school were now lost to her, for with the girls of her

own rank in the village she would not associate, and those of better

standing either did, or affected to look down upon her. In short, her

character was compounded of potentialities for good and evil; she was

sweet and strong-natured and faithful, but she had not learned that

these qualities are of little avail to bring about the happiness or

moral well-being of her who owns them, unless they are dominated by a

sense of duty. Having such a sense, the best of us are liable to error

in this direction or in that; wanting it, we must indeed be favoured

if we escape disaster among the many temptations of life. It was

Joan’s misfortune rather than her fault, for she was the victim of her

circumstances and not of any innate depravity, that she lacked this

controlling power, and in this defenceless state found herself

suddenly exposed to the fiercest temptation that can assail a woman of

her character and gifts, the temptation to give way to a love which,

if it did not end in empty misery, could only bring shame upon herself

and ceaseless trouble and remorse to its object.

 

Thus it came about that during these weeks Joan lived in a wild and

fevered dream, lived for the hour only, thinking little and caring

less of what the future might bring forth. Her purpose, so far as she

can be said to have had one, was to make Henry love her, and to the

consummation of this end she brought to bear all her beauty and every

power of her mind. That success must mean sorrow to her and to him did

not affect her, though in her wildest moments she never dreamed of

Henry as her husband. She loved him to-day, and to-day he was there

for her to love: let the morrow look to itself, and the griefs that it

might bring.

 

If such was Joan’s attitude towards Henry, it may be asked what was

Henry’s towards Joan. The girl attracted him strangely, after a

fashion in which he had never been attracted by a woman before. Her

fresh and ever-varying loveliness was a continual source of delight to

him, as it must have been to any man; but by degrees he became

conscious that it was not her beauty alone which moved him. Perhaps it

was her tenderness—a tenderness apparent in every word and gesture;

or more probably it may have been the atmosphere of love that

surrounded her, of love directed towards himself, which gradually

conquered him mind and body, and broke down the barrier of his

self-control. Hitherto Henry had never cared for any woman, and if

women had cared for him he had not understood it. Now he was weak and

he was worried, and in his way he also was rebellious, and fighting

against a marriage that men and circumstances combined to thrust upon

him. Under such conditions it was not perhaps unnatural that he should

shrink back from the strict path of interest, and follow that of a

spontaneous affection. Joan had taken his fancy from the first moment

that he saw her, she had won his gratitude by her bravery and her

gentle devotion, and she was a young and beautiful woman. Making some

slight allowances for the frailties of human nature, perhaps we need

not seek for any further explanation of his future conduct.

 

For a week or more nothing of importance occurred between them.

Indeed, they were very seldom alone together, for whenever Joan’s duty

took her to the sick room Mrs. Gillingwater, whom Henry detested, made

a point of being present, or did she chance to be called away, his

sister Ellen would be certain to appear to take her place, accompanied

at times by Edward Milward.

 

At length, on a certain afternoon, Mrs. Gillingwater ordered Joan to

go out walking. Joan did not wish to go out, for the weather

threatened rain, also for her own reasons she preferred to remain

where she was. But her aunt was peremptory, and Joan started, setting

her face towards Ramborough Abbey. Very soon it came on to rain and

she had no umbrella, but this accident did not deter her. She had been

sent out to walk, and walk she would. To tell the truth, she was

thinking little of the weather, for her mind was filled with

resentment against her aunt. It was unbearable that she should be

interfered with and ordered about like a child. There were a hundred

things that she wished to do in the house. Who would give Captain

Graves his tea? And she was sure that he would never remember about

the medicine unless she was there to remind him.

 

As Joan proceeded on her walk along the edge of the cliff, she noticed

the figure of a man, standing about a quarter of a mile to her right

on the crest or hog’s back of land, beyond which lay the chain of

melancholy meres, and wondered vaguely what he could be doing there in

such weather. At length it occurred to her that it was time to return,

for now she was near to Ramborough Abbey. She was weary of the sight

of the sea, that moaned sullenly beneath her, half hidden by the

curtain of the rain; so she struck across the ridge of land, heedless

of the wet saline grasses that swept against her skirt, purposing to

walk home by the little sheep-track which follows the edge of the

meres in the valley. As she was crossing the highest point of the

ridge she saw the man’s figure again. Suddenly it disappeared, and the

thought struck her that he might have been following her, keeping

parallel to her path. For a moment Joan hesitated, for the country

here was very lonely, especially in such weather; but the next she

dismissed her fears, being courageous by nature, and passed on towards

the first mere. Doubtless this person was a shepherd looking for a

lost sheep, or perhaps a gamekeeper.

 

The aspect of the lakes was so dreary, and the path so sopping wet,

that soon Joan began to wish that she had remained upon the cliff.

However, she trudged on bravely, the rain beating in her face till her

thin dress was soaked and clung to her shape in a manner that was

picturesque but uncomfortable. At the head of the second mere the

sheep-walk ran past some clumps of high reeds; and as she approached

them Joan, whose eye for natural objects was quick, observed that

something had disturbed the wild fowl which haunted the place, for a

heron and a mallard rose and circled high in the air, and a brace of

curlew zigzagged away against the wind, uttering plaintive cries that

reached her for long after they vanished into the mist. Now she had

come to the first clump of reeds, when she heard a stir behind them,

and a man stepped forward and stood in the middle of the path within

three paces of her.

 

The man was Samuel Rock, clad in a long cloak; and, recognising him,

Joan understood that she had been waylaid. She halted and said

angrily—for her first feeling was one of indignation:

 

“What are you doing here, Mr. Rock?”

 

“Walking, Miss Haste,” he answered nervously; “the same as you.”

 

“That is not true, Mr. Rock: you were hiding behind those reeds.”

 

“I took shelter there against the rain.”

 

“I see; you took shelter from the rain, and on the weather side of the

reeds,” she said contemptuously. “Well, do not let me keep you

standing in this wet.” And she attempted to pass him.

 

“It is no use telling you lies,” he muttered sullenly: “I came here to

speak to you, where there ain’t none to disturb us.” And as he spoke

Samuel Rock placed himself in such a position that it was impossible

for her to escape him without actually breaking into a run.

 

“Why do you follow me,” she said in an indignant voice—“after what

you promised, too? Stand aside and let me go home.”

 

Samuel made no move, but a curious light came into his blue eyes, a

light that was not pleasant to see.

 

“I am thinking I’ve stood aside enough, Joan,” he answered, “and I

ain’t a-going to stand aside till all the mischief is done and I am

ruined. As for promises, they may go hang: I can’t keep no more of

them. So please, you’ll just stand for once, and listen to what I

have to say to you. If you are wet you can take my cloak. I don’t mind

the rain, and I seem to want some cooling.”

 

“I’d rather drown than touch anything that belongs to you,” she

replied, for her hatred of the man mastered her courtesy and reason.

“Say what you’ve got to say and let me go on.”

 

The remark was an unfortunate one, for it awoke in Samuel’s breast the

fury that accompanied and underlay his passion, that fury which had

astonished Mr. Levinger.

 

“Would you, now!” he broke out, his lips turning white with rage.

“Well, if half I hear is true, there’s others whose things you don’t

mind touching.”

 

“What do you mean, Mr. Rock?”

 

“I mean that Captain whom you’re not ashamed to be hanging after all

day long. Oh, I know about you. I heard how you were found holding him

in your arms, the first day that you met him by the tower yonder,

after you’d been flirting with him like any street girl, till you

brought him to break his leg. Yes, holding him in those arms of

yours—nothing less.”

 

“Oh! how dare you! How dare you!” she murmured, for no other words

would come to her.

 

“Dare? I dare anything. You’ve worked me up to that, my beauty. Now I

dare ask you when you’ll let me make an honest woman of you, if it

isn’t too late.”

 

By this time Joan was positively speechless, so great were the rage

and loathing with which this man and his words filled her.

 

“Oh! Joan,” he went on, with a sudden change of tone, “do you forgive

me if I have said sharp things, for it’s you that drives me to them

with your cruelty; and I’m ready to forgive you all yours—ay! I’d

bear to hear them again, for you look so beautiful when you are like

that.”

 

“Forgive you!” gasped Joan.

 

But he did not seem to hear. “Let’s have done with this cat-and-dog

quarrelling,” he went on; “let’s make it