Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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woman? How could you continue to love her when you remembered in what
fashion your affection had begun; when for her sake you found yourself
a social outcast, and when, every time that you beheld her face, you
were constrained to recollect that it was the wrecker’s light which
lured you, and through you all whom you hold dear, to utter and
irretrievable disaster? I tell you that I have seen such cases, and I
have seen their miserable ends; and I implore you, Henry Graves, to
pause before you give another and a signal example of them.”
“You speak very feelingly,” said Henry, “and no doubt there is a great
deal of truth in what you say. I had two messmates who made
mésalliances, and certainly it didn’t answer with them, for they
have both gone to the dogs—indeed, one poor fellow committed suicide.
However, it is very difficult to argue on such matters, and still more
difficult to take warning from the fate of others, since the
circumstances are never similar. But I promise you this, Levinger,
that I will do nothing in a hurry—for two or three months,
indeed—and that I will take no step in the matter without informing
you fully of my intentions, for I think that this is due to you.
Meanwhile, if you are good enough to allow me to remain upon friendly
terms with your daughter and yourself, I shall be glad, though I am
sure I do not know how she will receive me. Within a few months I
shall finally have decided upon my course of action, and if I then
come to the conclusion that I am not bound in honour elsewhere,
perhaps I may ask you to allow me to try my fortune with Miss
Levinger, unworthy of her as I am and always shall be.”
“I can find no fault with that arrangement, Graves. You have set out
your mind like an honest man, and I respect you for it. It will make
me the more anxious to learn, when the three months are up, that you
have decided to forget all this folly and to begin afresh. Now I have
something to ask you: it is that, so soon as you can get about again,
you will pay us the visit which was so unfortunately postponed. Please
understand I do not mean that I wish you to make advances to my
daughter, but I should like you to grow to know each other better in
an ordinary and friendly fashion. Will you come?”
Henry reflected, and answered, “Thank you, yes, I will.”
At this moment the door was opened, and the butler, Thomson, announced
that lunch was ready, adding, “Shall I wheel you in, Sir Henry? Her
ladyship bids me say she hopes that you will come.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “Here, give me a hand into the
chair.”
In another minute they were advancing in solemn procession across the
hall, Mr. Levinger walking first, leaning on his stick, and Henry
following after in the invalid chair propelled by Thomson. So agitated
was he at the thought of meeting Emma, and by a secret fear, born of a
guilty conscience that she should know what he and her father had been
employing the last hour in discussing her, that he forgot to guide the
chair properly, and despite Thomson’s warning, “To the right, Sir
Henry,” he contrived to strike the jamb of the door so sharply that he
must have overturned had not Emma, who was standing close by, sprung
forward and seized the wheel.
In one way this accident was fortunate, for it lessened the
awkwardness of their meeting. Henry apologised and she laughed; and
presently they were seated side by side at table, discussing the
eccentricities of invalid chairs with somewhat unnecessary persistence
and fervour.
After this the lunch went off well enough. It was not an altogether
cheerful meal, indeed; but then nothing at Rosham was ever quite
cheerful, and probably nothing had been for generations. The
atmosphere of the place, like its architecture, was oppressive, even
lugubrious, and the circumstances in which the present company were
assembled did not tend towards unrestrained gaiety. Ellen talked
energetically of matters connected with dress, in which Emma did not
seem to take any vivid interest; Lady Graves threw in an occasional
remark about the drought and the prevalence of blight upon the roses;
while Henry for the most part preserved a discreet, or rather an
embarrassed, silence; and Mr. Levinger discoursed sweetly upon the
remote and impersonal subject of British coins, of a whole potful of
which it appeared that he had recently become the proud possessor.
“Sir Henry has promised to come and see them, my dear,” he said to
Emma pointedly, after he had at length succeeded in stirring his
audience into a flabby and intermittent interest in the crown that
Caractacus wore, or was supposed to wear, upon a certain piece of
money.
“Indeed,” she answered quickly, bending her head as though to examine
the pattern of her plate.
“Your father has been so kind as to ask me for the second time, Miss
Levinger,” Henry remarked uneasily, “and I propose to avail myself of
his invitation so soon as I am well enough not to be a nuisance—that
is, if it is convenient.”
“Of course it will always be convenient to see you, Sir Henry Graves,”
Emma replied coldly, “or indeed anybody whom my father likes to ask.”
“That’s one for Henry,” reflected Ellen. “Serves him right too.” Then
she added aloud: “A few days at Monk’s Lodge will be a very nice
change for you, dear, and I hope that you may arrive safely this time.
Would you like to take a walk round the garden, Emma, while your
father smokes a cigarette?”
Emma rose gladly, for she felt the moral atmosphere of the dining-room
to be in a somewhat volcanic state, and was terribly afraid lest a few
more sparks of Ellen’s sarcastic wit should produce an explosion. For
half an hour or so they sauntered through the old-fashioned
shrubberies and pleasure grounds, the charms of which their overrun
and neglected condition seemed to enhance, at least at this season of
the year. Then it was that Ellen confided to her companion that she
expected to be married about the middle of November, and that she
hoped that Emma would come to town with her some time in October to
assist in completing her trousseau. Emma hesitated for a moment, for
she could not disguise from herself the fact that her friendship for
Ellen, at no time a very deep one, had cooled; indeed, she was not
sure whether she quite trusted her. In the end, however, she assented,
subject to her father’s consent, for she had very rarely been in
London, and she felt that a change of scene and ideas would do her
good. Then they turned back to the house, to find that the dogcart
was standing at the door.
“One word, my dear,” said Ellen, halting: “I am so glad that Henry
is going to stop at Monk’s Lodge. He is a most curious creature, and I
hope that you will be patient with him, and forgive him all his
oddities.”
“Really, Ellen,” answered Emma, with suppressed irritation, “I have
nothing to forgive Sir Henry, and of course I shall be glad to see him
whenever he chooses to come.”
“I am by no means sure,” reflected Ellen, as she watched the Levingers
drive away, “but that this young lady has got more spirit than I gave
her credit for. Henry had better look out, or he will lose his chance,
for I fancy that she will become as difficult to deal with in the
future as he has been in the past.”
AN INTERLUDE
A month or five weeks went by at Rosham almost without incident. For
the moment money troubles were in abeyance, seeing that the payment of
the interest due on the mortgages was not pressed, and the sale of
Lady Graves’s jewels had provided sufficient funds to meet the most
immediate claims, to pay household expenses, and even to provide for
Ellen’s trousseau upon a moderate scale. By degrees Henry regained the
use of his injured limb, though it was now evident that he would carry
the traces of his accident to the grave in the shape of a pronounced
limp. In all other respects he was bodily as well as ever he had been,
though he remained much troubled in mind. Of Joan he had heard
nothing; and it appeared that nobody knew where she had gone, or what
she was doing, except possibly Mr. Levinger, whom he scarcely cared to
ask for tidings. That her aunt did not know was evident from the fact
that one morning she arrived at the Hall and, adopting a tone in which
obsequiousness and violence were curiously mixed, taxed him roundly
with having spirited her niece away. In vain did Henry assure her that
he knew no more of Joan’s whereabouts than she did herself; since she
either did not or would not believe him, and at length departed,
breathing threats that if the girl was not forthcoming shortly, she
would “make it hot for him, baronet or no baronet.” For his part Henry
was somewhat at a loss to understand Mrs. Gillingwater’s conduct,
since he knew well that she had no sort of affection for her niece,
and it was obvious from her words that she was rather proud than
otherwise of the gossip connecting Joan’s name with his own.
“I know all about your goings on,” she had said, “though I haven’t
come here to preach to you, for that’s your affair and hers; but I do
say that if you call yourself a gentleman you should do what is
handsome by the girl, seeing that you’ve stood in the way of her
making a good marriage; and, to put it plump, Sir Henry, I think that
you are in duty bound to do something for me too, bearing in mind all
the ‘truck’ that I’ve had about the two of you, and that one has been
taken away from me as was dearer than a daughter.”
The real explanation of this estimable person’s behaviour was twofold.
In the first place, Joan being gone, she had lost the monthly sum that
was paid for her board, and in the second she had been bribed by
Samuel Rock to win the secret of her hiding-place from Henry. In due
course Mrs. Gillingwater reported the failure of her mission to
Samuel, who, needless to say, did not believe a word of Henry’s
denial. Indeed, he accused Mrs. Gillingwater first of being a fool,
and next of taking money from the enemy as well as from himself, with
the result that a very pretty quarrel ensued between the pair of them.
After a few days’ reflection Samuel determined to take the matter into
his own hands. Already he had attempted to extract information about
Joan from Mr. Levinger, who, however, professed ignorance, and would
give him none. Having ascertained that the man was hateful to Joan,
Mr. Levinger had the good feeling to wish to protect her from his
advances; for he saw well that if once Rock learned her address he
would follow her like a shadow, and if necessary hunt her from place
to place, importuning her to marry him. The girl was out of the way,
which was much, though of course it would be better were she safely
married. But, greatly as he might desire such a thing, he would be no
party to her persecution. Joan, he felt, was doing
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