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

up and get married, the

sooner the better—to-morrow if you like. You will never regret it;

you’ll be happier then than with that Captain who loves Miss Levinger,

not you; and I, I shall be happy too—happy, happy!” And he flung his

arms wide, in a kind of ecstasy.

 

Of all this speech only one sentence seemed to reach Joan’s

understanding at any rate at the time: “who loves Miss Levinger, not

you.” Oh! was it true? Did Captain Graves really love Miss Levinger as

she knew that Emma loved him? The man spoke certainly, as though he

had knowledge. Even in the midst of her unspeakable anger, the thought

pierced her like a spear and caused her face to soften and her eyes to

grow troubled.

 

Samuel saw these signs, and misinterpreted them, thinking that her

resentment was yielding beneath his entreaties. For a moment he stood

searching his mind for more words, but unable to find them; then

suddenly he sought to clinch the matter in another fashion, for,

following the promptings of an instinct that was natural enough under

the circumstances, however ill-advised it might be, suddenly he caught

Joan in his long arms, and drawing her to him, kissed her twice

passionately upon the face. At first Joan scarcely seemed to

understand what had happened—indeed, it was not until Samuel,

encouraged by his success, was about to renew his embraces that she

awoke to the situation. Then her action was prompt enough. She was a

strong woman, and the emergency doubled her strength. With a quick

twisting movement of her form and a push of her hands, she shook off

Samuel so effectively, that in staggering back his foot slipped in the

greasy soil and he fell upon his side, clutching in his hand a broad

fragment from the bosom of Joan’s dress, at which he had caught to

save himself.

 

“Now,” she said, as Samuel rose slowly from the mire, “listen to me.

You have had your say, and I will have mine. First understand this: if

ever you try to kiss me again it will be the worse for you; for your

own sake I advise you not, for I think that I should kill you if I

could. I hate you, Samuel Rock, for you have lied to me, and you have

insulted me in a way that no woman can forgive. I will never marry

you—I had rather beg my bread; so if you are wise, you will forget

all about me, or at the least keep out of my way.”

 

Samuel faced the beautiful woman, who, notwithstanding her torn and

draggled dress, looked royal in her scorn and anger. He was very

white, but his passion seemed to have left him, and he spoke in a

quiet voice.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “I’m not going to try and kiss you again.

I have kissed you twice; that is enough for me at present. And what’s

more, though you may rub your face, you can’t rub it out of your mind.

But you are wrong when you say that you won’t marry me, because you

will. I know it. And the first time I kiss you after we are married, I

will remind you of this, Joan Haste. I am not going to ask you to have

me again. I shall wait till you ask me to take you, and then I shall

be revenged upon you. That day will come, the day of your shame and

need, the day of my reward, when, as I have lain in the dirt before

you, you will lie in the dirt before me. That is all I have to say.

Good-bye.” And he walked past her, vanishing behind the reeds.

 

Now it was for the first time that Joan felt afraid. The insult and

danger had gone by, yet she was frightened, horribly frightened; for

though the thing seemed impossible, it was borne in upon her mind that

Samuel Rock’s presentiment was true, and that an hour might come when,

in some sense, she would lie in the mire before him and seek a refuge

as his wife. She could not conceive any circumstances in which a thing

so horrible might happen, for however sore her necessity, though she

shrank from death, it seemed to her that it would be better to die

rather than to suffer such a fate. Yet so deeply did this terror shake

her, that she turned and looked upon the black waters of the mere,

wondering if it would not be better to give it the lie once and for

all. Then she thought of Henry, and her mood changed, for her mind and

body were too healthy to allow her to submit herself indefinitely to

such forebodings. Like many women, Joan was an opportunist, and lived

very much in the day and for it. These things might be true, but at

least they were not yet; if she was destined to be the wife of Samuel

Rock in the future, she was her own mistress in the present, and the

shadow of sorrow and bonds to come, so she argued, suggested the

strongest possible reasons for rejoicing in the light and liberty of

the fleeting hour. If she was doomed to an earthly hell, if her hands

must be torn by thorns and her eyes grow blind with tears, at least

she was minded to be able to remember that once she had walked in

Paradise, gathering flowers there, and beholding her heart’s desire.

 

Thus she reasoned in her folly, as she tramped homewards through the

rain, heedless of the fact that no logic could be more fatal, and none

more pleasing to that tempter who as of old lurks in paradises such as

her fancy painted.

 

When she reached home Joan found her aunt awaiting her in the bar

parlour.

 

“Who has been keeping you all this time in the wet, Joan?” she asked

in a half expectant voice.

 

Joan lit a candle before she answered, for the place was gloomy.

 

“Do you wish to know?” she said: “then I will tell you. Your friend,

Mr. Samuel Rock, whom you set after me.”

 

“My friend? And what if he is my friend? I’d be glad if I had a few

more such.” By this time the light had burnt up, and Mrs. Gillingwater

saw the condition of her niece’s attire. “Good gracious! girl, what

have you been doing?” she asked. “Ain’t you ashamed to walk about half

stripped like that?”

 

“People must do what they can’t help, aunt. That’s the work of the

friend you are so proud of. I may as well tell you at once, for if I

don’t, he will. He came making love to me again, as he has before, and

finished up by kissing me, the coward, and when I threw him off he

tore my dress.”

 

“And why couldn’t you have let him kiss you quietly, you silly girl?”

asked her aunt with indignation. “Now I dare say that you have

offended him so that he won’t come forward again, to say nothing of

spoiling your new dress. It ain’t a crime for a man to kiss the girl

he wants to marry, is it?”

 

“Why? Because I would rather kiss a rat—that’s all. I hate the very

sight of him; and as for coming forward again, I only hope that he

won’t, for my sake and for his too.”

 

Now Mrs. Gillingwater arose in her wrath; her coarse face became red

and her voice grew shrill.

 

“You good-for-nothing baggage!” she said; “so that is your game, is

it? To go turning up your nose and chucking your impudence in the face

of a man like Mr. Rock, who is worth twenty of you, and does you

honour by wishing to make a wife of you, you that haven’t a decent

name to your back, and he rich enough to marry a lady if he liked, or

half a dozen of them for the matter of that. Well, I tell you that you

shall have him, or I will know the reason why—ay, and so will others

too.”

 

“I can’t be violent, like you, aunt,” answered Joan, who began to feel

as though this second scene would be too much for her; “it isn’t in my

nature, and I hate it. But whether I have a name or not—and it is no

fault of mine if I have none, though folk don’t seem inclined to let

me forget it—I say that I will not marry Samuel Rock. I am a woman

full grown and of age; and I know this, that there is no law in the

land which can force me to take a husband whom I don’t want. And so

perhaps, as we have got to live together, you’ll stop talking about

him.”

 

“Stop talking about him? Never for one hour, till I see you signing

your name in the book with him, miss. And as for living together, it

won’t be long that we shall do that, unless you drop these tantrums

and become sensible. Else you may just tramp it for your living, or go

and slave as a housemaid if any one will take you, which I doubt they

won’t without a character, for nobody here will say a good word for

you, you wilful, stuck-up thing, for all your fine looks that you are

so proud of, and that’ll be the ruin of you yet if you’re not careful,

as they were of your mother before you.”

 

Joan sank into a chair and made no answer. The woman’s violence beat

her down and was hateful to her. Almost rather would she have faced

Samuel Rock, for with him her sex gave her certain advantages.

 

“I know what you are after,” went on Mrs. Gillingwater, with gathering

vehemence. “Do you suppose that I have not seen through you all these

weeks, though you are so cunning? You are making up to him, you are;

not that I have a word to say against him, for he is a nice gentleman

enough, only, like the rest of them, so soft that he’ll let a pretty

face fool him for all his seafaring in foreign parts. Well, look here,

Joan: I’ll speak to you plain and plump. We never were mother and

daughter, so it is no use pretending what we don’t feel, and I won’t

put up with that from you which I might perhaps from my own child, if

I had one. You’ve given me lots of ‘truck,’ with your contrary ways,

ever since you were a little one, and I’m not minded to stand much

more of it, for the profit don’t run to the worry. What I want you to

understand is, that I am set on your pulling it off with Samuel Rock

like a broody hen on a nest egg, and I mean to see that chick hatch

out; never you mind for why—that’s my affair. If you can’t see your

way to that, then off you go, and pretty sharp too. There, I have said

my say, and you can think it over. Now you had best change your

clothes and go and look after the Captain, for I have got business

abroad to-night. If you don’t mend your manners, it will be for the

last time, I can tell you.”

 

Joan rose and obeyed without a word.

 

Mrs. Gillingwater watched her pass, and fell into a reflective mood.

 

“She is a beauty and no mistake,” she thought to herself; “I never saw

such another in all my born days. Her mother was well enough, but she

wasn’t in it with Joan; and what’s more, I like her pride. Why should

she take that canting