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

voice. “She is very well in her way, but not altogether the

sort of person for you to make a companion of.”

 

“I don’t know about that, father. I should say that she was quite my

equal, if not my superior, except that I have been a little better

educated.”

 

“Well, well, perhaps so, Emma; but I should prefer that you did not

become too intimate with her.”

 

“There is no need to fear that, father, as she is going away from

Bradmouth.”

 

“Oh! she told you that she was leaving here, did she? And what else

did she tell you?”

 

“A good deal about herself. Of course I knew something of her story

before; but I did not know that she felt her position so bitterly.

Poor girl! she has been cruelly treated.”

 

“I really fail to see it, Emma. Considering the unfortunate

circumstances connected with her, it seems to me that she has been

very well treated.”

 

“I don’t think so, father, and you only believe it because you are not

a woman and do not understand. Suppose, now, that I, your daughter

whom you are fond of, were in her place to-day, without a friend or

home, feeling myself a lady and yet obliged to mix with rough people

and to be the mark of their sneers, jealousy and evil-speaking, should

you say that I was well treated? Suppose that I was going to-morrow to

be thrown, without help or experience, on to the world to earn my

bread there, should you–-”

 

“I absolutely decline to suppose anything of the sort, Emma,” he

answered passionately. “Bother the girl! Why does she put such ideas

into your head?”

 

“Really, father,” she said, opening her eyes wide, “there is no need

for you to get angry with Joan Haste, especially as she told me that

you had always been kind to her.”

 

“I am not angry, Emma, but one way and another that girl gives me more

trouble than enough. She might make a very good marriage, and settle

herself in life out of reach of all these disagreeables, about which

she seems to have been whining to you, but she is so pig-headed that

she won’t.”

 

“But surely, father, you wouldn’t expect her to marry a man she

doesn’t like, would you? Why, I have heard you say that you thought it

better that a woman should never be born than that she should be

forced into a distasteful marriage.”

 

“Circumstances alter cases, and certainly it would have been better if

she had never been born,” answered Mr. Levinger, who seemed quite

beside himself with irritation. “However, there it is: she won’t

marry, she won’t do anything except bring trouble upon others with her

confounded beauty, and make herself the object of scandal.”

 

“I think that it is time for me to go and dress,” said Emma coldly.

 

“I forgot, my dear; I should not have spoken of that before you, but

really I feel quite unhinged to-night. I suppose that you have no idea

of what I am alluding to, but if not you soon will have, for some kind

friend is sure to tell you.”

 

“I—have an idea, father.”

 

“Very well. Then I may as well tell you that it is all nonsense.”

 

“I am not sure that it is all nonsense,” she answered, in the same

restrained voice; “but whether it is nonsense or no, it has nothing to

do with me.”

 

“Nothing to do with you, Emma! Do you mean that? Listen, my love:

these are delicate matters, but if any one may speak to a woman about

them, her father may. Do you remember that nearly two years ago, when

you were more intimate and open with me than you are now, Emma, you

told me that Henry Graves had—well, taken your fancy?”

 

“I remember. I told you because I did not think it likely that I

should meet him again, and because you said something to me about

marrying, and I wished to put a stop to the idea.”

 

“Yes, I quite understand; but I gathered from what took place the

other day, when poor Graves was so ill, that you still entertain an

affection for him.”

 

“Oh! pray do not speak of that,” she murmured; “I cannot bear it even

from you; it covers me with shame. I was mad, and you should have paid

no attention to it.”

 

“I am sorry to give you pain or to press you, Emma, but I should be

deeply grateful if you would make matters a little clearer. Never mind

about Henry Graves and his attitude towards you: I want to understand

yours towards him. As you know, or if you do not know I beg you to

believe it, your happiness is the chief object of my life, and to

secure that happiness to you I have planned and striven for years.

What I wish to learn now is: do you desire to have done with Henry

Graves? If so, tell me at once. It will be a great blow to me, for he

is the man of all others to whom, for many reasons, I should like to

see you married, and doubtless if matters are left alone he will marry

you. But in this affair your wish is my law, and if you would prefer

it I will wind up the mortgage business, cut the connection to-morrow,

and then we can travel for a year in Egypt, or wherever you like.

Sometimes I think that this would be the best course. But it is for

you to choose, not for me. You are a woman full grown, and must know

your own mind. Now, Emma.”

 

“What do you mean by winding up the mortgage business, father?”

 

“Oh! the Graves’s owe us some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and it

is not a paying investment, that is all. But don’t you bother about

that, Emma: confine yourself to the personal aspect of the question,

please.”

 

“It is very hard to have to decide so quickly. Can I not give you an

answer in a few days, father?”

 

“No, Emma, you can’t. I will not be kept halting between two opinions

any longer. I want to know what line to take at once.”

 

“Well, then, on the whole I think that perhaps you had better not

‘wind up the business.’ I very much doubt if anything will come of

this. I am by no means certain that I wish anything to come of it, but

we will let it remain open.”

 

“In making that answer, Emma, I suppose that you are bearing in mind

that, though I believe it to be all nonsense, the fact is not to be

concealed that there is some talk about Graves and Joan Haste.”

 

“I am bearing it in mind, father. The talk has nothing to do with me.

I do not wish to know even whether it is false or true, at any rate at

present. True or false, there will be an end of it now, as the girl is

going away. I hope that I have made myself clear. I understand that,

for reasons of your own, you are very anxious that I should marry Sir

Henry Graves, should it come in my way to do so; and I know that his

family desire this also, because it would be a road out of their money

difficulties. What Sir Henry wishes himself I do not know, nor can I

say what I wish. But I think that if I stood alone, and had only

myself to consider, I should never see him again. Still I say, let it

remain open, although I decline to bind myself to anything definite.

And now I must really go and dress.”

 

“I do not know that I am much ‘for’arder,’ after all, as Samuel Rock

says,” thought Mr. Levinger, looking after her. “Oh, Joan Haste! you

have a deal to answer for.” Then he also went to dress.

 

The two interviews in which Emma had taken part this afternoon—that

with Joan and that with her father—had, as it were, unsealed her eyes

and opened her ears. Now she saw the significance of many a hint of

Ellen’s and her father’s which hitherto had conveyed no meaning to

her, and now she understood what it was that occasioned the forced

manner which had struck her as curious in Henry’s bearing towards

herself, even when he had seemed most at his ease and pleased with

her. Doubtless the knowledge that he was expected to marry a

particular girl, in order that by so doing he might release debts to

the amount of fifty thousand pounds, was calculated to cause the

manner of any man towards that girl to become harsh and suspicious,

and even to lead him to regard her with dislike. This was why he had

been forced to leave the Service, for this reason “his family had

desired his presence,” and the opening in life, the only one that

remained to him, to which he had alluded so bitterly, but

significantly enough avoided specifying, was to marry a girl with

fortune, to marry her—Emma Levinger.

 

It was a humiliating revelation, and though perhaps Emma had less

pride than most women, she felt it sorely. She was deeply attached to

this man; her heart had gone out to him when she first saw him, after

the unaccountable fashion that hearts sometimes affect. Still, having

learned the truth, she was quite in earnest when she told her father

that, were she alone concerned, she would meet him no more. But she

was not alone in the matter, and it was this knowledge that made her

pause. To begin with, there was Henry himself to be considered, for it

seemed that if he did not marry her he would be ruined or something

very like it; and, regarding him as she did, it became a question

whether she ought not to outrage her pride in order to save him if he

would be saved. Also she knew that her father wished for this marriage

above all things—that it was, indeed, one of the chief objects of his

life; though it was true that in an inexplicable fit of irritation

with everything and everybody, he had but now offered to bring the

affair to nothing. Why he should be so set upon it she could not

understand, any more than she could understand why he should have been

so vexed when she illustrated her sense of the hardship of Joan’s

position by supposing herself to be similarly placed. These were some

of the mysteries by which their life was surrounded, mysteries that

seemed to thicken daily. After what she had seen and heard this

afternoon she began to believe that Joan Haste herself was another of

them. Joan had told her that her father had always been kind to her.

Taken by itself there was nothing strange about this, for Emma knew

him to be charitable to many people, but it was strange that he should

have practically denied all knowledge of the girl some few weeks

before. Perhaps he knew more about her than he chose to say—even who

she was and where she came from.

 

Now it appeared that her presentiment was coming true, and that Joan

herself was playing some obscure and undefined part in the romance or

intrigue in which she, Emma, was the principal though innocent actor.

In effect, Joan had given her to understand that she was in love with

Henry, and yet she had implored her to marry Henry. Why, if Joan was

in love with him, should she desire another woman to marry him? It was

positively bewildering, also it