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

Reginald’s funeral Mr. Samuel Rock presented

himself at Monk’s Lodge, and was shown into the study. As he entered

Mr. Levinger noticed that his mien was morose, and that dejection

beamed from his pale blue eyes, if indeed dejection can be said to

beam.

 

“I fancy that my friend’s love affairs have gone wrong,” he thought to

himself; “he would scarcely look so sulky about a cow shed.” Yet it

was of this useful building that he began to speak.

 

“Well, Mr. Rock,” he said cheerfully, “have they dug out the

foundations of that shed yet?”

 

“Shed, sir?” answered Samuel (he pronounced it shodd): “I haven’t

come to speak to you about no sheds. I have come to speak to you about

the advice you gave me as to Joan Haste.”

 

“Oh! yes, I remember: you wanted to marry her, didn’t you? Well, did

you take it?”

 

“I took it, sir, to my sorrow, for she wouldn’t have nothing to do

with me. I went so far as to try and kiss her.”

 

“Yes. And then?”

 

“And then, sir, she pushed me off, that’s all, and stood there saying

things that I would rather forget. But here’s the story, sir.” And

with a certain amount of glozing and omission, he told the tale of his

repulse.

 

“Your case does not seem very promising,” said Mr. Levinger lightly,

for he did not wish to show his vexation; “but perhaps the lady will

change her mind. As you know, it is often darkest before the dawn.”

 

“Oh yes, sir,” answered Samuel, with a kind of sullen confidence,

“sooner or later she will change her mind, never fear, and I shall

marry her, I am sure of it; but she won’t change her heart, that’s the

point, for she’s given that to another.”

 

“Well, perhaps, if you get the rest of her, Mr. Rock, you may leave

the heart to the other, for that organ is not of very much practical

use by itself, is it? Might I ask who the other is?”

 

Samuel shook his head gloomily, and answered:

 

“It’s all very well for you to joke about hearts, sir, as haven’t got

one—I mean, as don’t take no interest in them; but they’re everything

to me—at least Joan’s is. And as for who it is, sir, if half I hear

is true, it’s that Captain, I mean Sir Henry Graves. You warned me

against him, you remember, and you spoke strong because I grew angry.

Well, sir, I did right to be angry, for it’s him she loves, Mr.

Levinger, and that’s why she hates me. They’re talking about them all

over Bradmouth.”

 

“Indeed. Well, Bradmouth always was a great place for scandal, and I

should not pay much attention to their tongues, were I you, Mr. Rock.

Girls will have their fancies, you know, and I do not think it is

necessary to hunt round for explanations because this one happens to

flout you. I dare say it will all come right in time, if you have a

little patience. Anyway there will be no more gossip about Joan Haste

and Sir Henry Graves, for he has gone home, where he will find plenty

of other things to occupy him, poor fellow. And now I have a plan of

the shed here: perhaps you can explain it to me.”

 

Samuel expounded his plan and went away, this time without the offer

of any port wine, for it seemed to his host that he was already quite

sufficiently excited.

 

When he had gone, Mr. Levinger rose from his chair and began to limp

up and down the room, as was his custom when thinking deeply. To

Samuel he had made light of the talk about Sir Henry Graves and Joan

Haste, but he knew well that this was no light matter. He had been

kept informed of the progress of their intimacy by his paid spy, Mrs.

Gillingwater, but at the time he could find no pretext that would

enable him to interfere without exposing himself to the risk of

questions, which he preferred should be left unasked. On the previous

day only, Mrs. Gillingwater had come to see him, and given him her

version of the rumours which were flying about as to the scene that

occurred at the death-bed of Sir Reginald. Discount these rumours as

he would, he could not doubt but that they had a basis in fact. That

Henry had declined to bind himself to marry his daughter Emma was

clear; and it seemed probable that this refusal, made in so solemn an

hour, had something to do with the girl Joan. And now, on top of it,

came Samuel Rock with the story of his angry and ignominious rejection

by this same Joan, a rejection that he unhesitatingly attributed to

her intimacy or intrigue with Henry Graves.

 

The upshot of these reflections was the message received by Joan

summoning her to Monk’s Lodge.

 

Having escaped from Willie Hood, Joan paused for a minute to recover

her equanimity, then she rang the back-door bell and asked for Mr.

Levinger. Apparently she was expected, for the servant showed her

straight to the study, where she found Mr. Levinger, who rose, shook

hands with her courteously, and invited her to be seated.

 

“You sent for me, sir,” she began nervously.

 

“Yes: thank you for coming. I wanted to speak to you about a little

matter.” And he went to the window and stood with his face to the

light, so that she could only see the back of his head.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I trust that you will not be pained, my dear girl, if I begin by

alluding to the circumstances of your birth; for, believe me, I do not

wish to pain you.”

 

“I so often hear them alluded to, in one way or another, sir,”

answered Joan, with some warmth, “that it really cannot matter who

speaks to me about them. I know what I am, though I don’t know any

particulars; and such people should have no feelings.”

 

Mr. Levinger’s shoulders moved uneasily, and he answered, still

addressing the window-pane, “I fear I can give you no particulars now,

Joan; but pray do not distress yourself, for you least of all people

are responsible for your—unfortunate—position.”

 

“The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,” answered

Joan aptly enough. “Not that I have a right to judge anybody,” and she

sighed.

 

“As I have said,” went on Mr. Levinger, taking no notice of her

interruption, “I am not in a position to give you any details about

those circumstances, or even the name of your father, since to do so

would be to violate a sacred confidence and a solemn promise.”

 

“What confidence and what promise, sir?”

 

Mr. Levinger hesitated a little, then answered, “Your dead father’s

confidence, and my promise to him.”

 

“So, sir, the father who brought me into the world to be the mock of

every one made you promise that you would never tell me his name, even

after he was dead? I am sorry to hear it, sir, for it makes me think

worse of him than ever I did before. Father or no father, he must have

been a coward—yes, such a coward that I can hardly believe it.”

 

“The case was a very peculiar one, Joan; but if you require any such

assurance, that I am telling you nothing but the truth is evident from

the fact that it would be very easy to tell you a lie. It would not

have been difficult to invent a false name for your father.”

 

“No, sir; but it would have been awkward, seeing that sooner or later

I should have found out that it was false.”

 

“Without entering into argument on the question of the morality of his

decision, which is a matter for which he alone was responsible,” said

Mr. Levinger, in an irritated voice, “as I have told you, your father

decided that it would be best that you should never know his name, or

anything about him, except that he was of gentle birth. I believe that

it was not cowardice, as you suggest, which made him take this course,

but a regard for the rights and feelings of others whom he left behind

him.”

 

“And have I no rights and feelings, sir, and did he not leave me

behind him?” Joan answered bitterly. “Is it wonderful that I, who have

no mother, should wish to know who my father was? and could he not

have foreseen that I should wish it? Was it not enough that he should

desert me to be brought up in a public-house by a man who drinks, and

a rough woman who hates me and would like to see me as bad as herself,

with no one even to teach me my prayers when I was little, or to keep

me from going to the bad when I grew older? Why should he also refuse

to let me know his name, or the kin from which I come? Perhaps I am no

judge of such matters, sir; but it seems to me that if ever a man

behaved wickedly to a poor girl, my father has done so to me, and,

dead or living, I believe that he will have to answer for it one day,

since there is justice for us all somewhere.”

 

Suddenly Mr. Levinger wheeled round, and Joan saw that his face was

white, as though with fear or anger, and that his quick eyes gleamed.

 

“You wicked girl!” he said in a low voice, “are you not ashamed to

call down curses upon your own father, your dead father? Do you not

know that your words may be heard—yes, even outside this earth, and

perhaps bring endless sorrow on him? If he has wronged you, you should

still honour him, for he gave you life.”

 

“Honour him, sir? Honour the man who deserted me and left me in the

mud without a name? It isn’t such fathers as this that the Prayer-book

tells us to honour. He is dead, you say, and beyond me; and how can my

words touch the dead? But even if they can, could they do him more

harm, wherever he is, than he has done to me here? Oh! you do not

understand. I could forgive him everything, but I can’t forgive that

he should make me go through my life without even knowing his name, or

who he was. Had he only left me a kind word, or a letter, I dare say

that I could even have loved him, though I never saw him. As it is, I

think I hate him, and I hope that one day he will know it.”

 

As she said these words, Mr. Levinger slowly turned his back upon her

and began to look out of the window again, as though he felt himself

unable to face the righteous indignation that shone in her splendid

eyes.

 

“Joan Haste,” he said, speaking quietly but with effort, “if you are

going to talk in this way I think that we had better bring our

interview to an end, as the conversation is painful to me. Once and

for all I tell you, that if you are trying to get further information

out of me you will fail.”

 

“I have said my say, sir, and I shall ask you no more questions,

except one; but none the less I believe that the truth will come out

some time, for others must have known what you know, and perhaps after

all my father had a conscience. I’m told that people often see things

differently when they come to