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

distinctly. In the

afternoon, when the fog lifted, he was more successful, for, just as

the November evening was closing in, the gas was lit in the front room

on the first floor, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of Joan

herself drawing down a blind. The sight of her filled him with a

strange rapture, and he hesitated a while as to whether he should seek

an interview with her at once, or wait until the morrow. In the end he

decided upon the latter course, both because his courage failed him at

the moment, and because he wished to think over his plan of action.

 

On the Tuesday morning he returned about ten o’clock, and with many

inward tremblings rang the bell of No. 8. The door was answered by

Mrs. Bird, whom he saluted with the utmost politeness, standing on the

step with his hat off.

 

“Pray, ma’am, is Miss Haste within?” he asked.

 

“Yes, sir, being so ill, she has not been out for many weeks.”

 

“So I have heard, ma’am; and I think that you are the lady who has

nursed her so kindly.”

 

“I have done my best, sir: but what might be your errand?”

 

“I wish to see her, ma’am.”

 

Mrs. Bird looked at him doubtfully, and shook her head, “I don’t think

that she can see any one at present—unless, indeed, you are the

gentleman from Bradmouth whom she expects.”

 

An inspiration flashed into Samuel’s mind. “I am the gentleman from

Bradmouth,” he answered.

 

Again Mrs. Bird scanned him curiously. To her knowledge she had never

set eyes upon a baronet, but somehow Samuel did not fulfil her idea of

a person of that class. He seemed too humble, and she felt that there

was something wrong about the red tie and the broad black hat.

“Perhaps he is disguising himself,” she thought; “baronets and earls

often do that in books”; then added aloud, “Are you Sir Henry Graves?”

 

By now Samuel understood that to hesitate was to lose all chance of

seeing Joan. His aim was to obtain access to the house; once there, it

would be difficult to force him to leave until he had spoken to her.

After all he could only be found out, and if he waited for another

opportunity, it was obvious that his rival, who was expected at any

moment, would be beforehand with him. Therefore he lied boldly,

answering,—

 

“That is my name, ma’am. Sir Henry Graves of Rosham.”

 

Mrs. Bird asked him into the passage and shut the door.

 

“I didn’t think you would be here till Friday, sir,” she said, “but I

dare say that you are a little impatient, and that your mother told

you that Joan is well enough to see you now”; for Mrs. Bird had heard

of Lady Graves’s visit, though Joan had not spoken to her of its

object.

 

“Yes, ma’am, you are right: I am impatient—very impatient.”

 

“That is at it should be, sir, seeing all the lost time you have to

make up for. Well, the past is the past, and you are acting like a

gentleman now, which can never be a sorrow to you, come what may.”

 

“Quite so, ma’am: but where is Joan?”

 

“She is in that room at the top of the stairs, sir. Perhaps you would

like to go to her now. I know that she is up and dressed, for I have

just left her. I do not think that I will come with you, seeing that

you might feel it awkward, both of you, if a third party was present

at such a meeting. You can tell me how you got on when you come down.”

 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Samuel again. And then he crept up the

stairs, his heart filled with fear, hope, and raging jealousy of the

man he was personating. Arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with

a trembling hand. Joan, who was reading Henry’s note for the tenth

time, heard the knock, and having hastily hidden the paper in her

pocket, said “Come in,” thinking that it was her friend the doctor,

for she had caught the sound of a man’s voice in the passage. In

another moment the door had opened and shut again, and she was on her

feet staring at her visitor with angry, frightened eyes.

 

“How did you come here, Mr. Rock?” she said in a choked voice: “how

dare you come here?”

 

“I dare to come here, Joan,” he answered, with some show of dignity,

“because I love you. Oh! I beg of you, do not drive me away until you

have heard me; and indeed, it would be useless, for I shall only wait

in the street till I can speak to you.”

 

“You know that I do not wish to hear you,” she answered; “and it is

cowardly of you to hunt me down when I am weak and ill, as though I

were a wild beast.”

 

“I understand, Joan, that you are not too ill to see Sir Henry Graves;

surely, then, you can listen to me for a few minutes; and as for my

being cowardly, I do not care if I am—though why a man should be

called a coward because he comes to ask the woman he loves to marry

him, I can’t say.”

 

“To marry you!” exclaimed Joan, turning pale and sinking back into her

chair; “I thought that we had settled all that long ago, Mr. Rock, out

by the Bradmouth meres.”

 

“We spoke of it, Joan, but we did not settle it. We both grew angry,

and said and did things which had best be forgotten. You swore that

you would never marry me, and I swore that you should live to beg me

to marry you, for you drove me mad with your cruel words. We were

wrong, both of us; so let’s wipe all that out, for I believe I shall

marry you, Joan, and I know that you will never plead with me to do

it, nor would I wish it so. Oh! hear me, hear me. You don’t know that

I have been filled with all the tortures of hell; I have thought of

you by day and dreamed of you by night, till I began to believe my

brain would burst and that I must go mad, as I shall do if I lose you

altogether. At last I heard that you had been ill and got your

address, and now once more I come to pray you to take pity on me and

to promise to be my wife. If only you will do that, I swear to you I

will be the best husband that ever a woman had: yes, I will make

myself your slave, and you shall want for nothing which I can give

you. I do not ask your love, I do not even ask that you should treat

me kindly. Deal with me as you will, be bitter and scornful and

trample me in the dirt, and I will be content if only you will let me

live where I can see you day by day. This isn’t a new thing with me,

Joan—it has gone on for years; and now it has come to this, that

either I must get the promise of you or go mad. Then do not drive me

away, but have mercy as you hope for mercy. Pity me and consent.” And

with an inarticulate sound that was half a sob and half a groan, he

flung himself upon his knees and, clasping his hands, looked up at her

with a rapt face like that of a man lost in earnest prayer.

 

Joan listened, and as she listened a new and terrible idea crept into

her mind. Here, if she chose to take it—if she could bring herself to

take it—was an easy path out of her difficulty: here was that which

would effectually cure Henry of any desire to ruin himself by marrying

her, and would put her beyond the reach of temptation. The thought

made her faint and sick, but still she entertained it, so desperate

was the case between her love and what she conceived to be her duty.

If it could be done—with certain safeguards and reservations—why

should it not be done? This man was in a humour to consent to

anything; it was but a question of the sacrifice of her miserable

self, whereby, so they said and so she believed, she would save her

lover. In a minute she had made up her mind: at least she would sound

the man and put the matter to proof.

 

“Do not kneel to me,” she said, breaking the silence; “you do not know

what sort of woman it is to whom you are grovelling. Get up, and now

listen. I love another man; and if I love another man, what do you

think that my feelings are to you?”

 

“I think that you hate me, but I do not mind that—in time you would

come to care for me.”

 

“I doubt it, Mr. Rock; I cannot change my heart so easily. Do you know

what terms I stand on with this man?”

 

“If you mean Sir Henry Graves, I have heard plenty of all that, and I

am ready to forgive you.”

 

“You are very generous, Mr. Rock, but perhaps I had better explain a

little. I think it probable that, unless I change my mind, within a

week I shall be married to Sir Henry Graves.”

 

“Oh! my God!” he groaned; “I never thought that he would marry you.”

 

“Well, as it happens he will—that is, if I consent. And now do you

know why?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Then I will tell you, so that you may understand exactly about the

woman whom you wish to make your wife. Do not think that I am putting

myself in your power, for in the first place, if you use my words

against me I shall deny them, and in the second I shall be married to

Sir Henry and able to defy you. This is the reason, Mr. Rock:” and she

bent forward and told him all in a few words, speaking in a low, clear

voice.

 

Samuel’s face turned livid as he heard.

 

“The villain!” he muttered. “Oh! I should like to kill him. The

villain—the villain!”

 

“Don’t talk in that kind of way, Mr. Rock, or, if you wish to do so,

leave me. Why should you call him a villain, seeing that he loves me

as I love him, and is ready to marry me to-morrow? Are you prepared to

do as much—now? Stop before you answer: you have not heard all the

terms upon which, even if you should still wish it, I might possibly

consent to become your wife, or my reason for even considering the

matter. First as to the reason; it would be that I might protect Sir

Henry Graves from the results of his own good feeling, for it cannot

be to his advantage to burden his life with me, and unless I take some

such step, or die, I shall probably marry him. Now as to the condition

upon which I might consent to marry anybody else—you, for instance,

Mr. Rock: it is that I should be left alone to live here or wherever I

might select for a year from the present date, unless of my own free

will I chose to shorten the time. Do you think that you, or any other

man, Mr. Rock, could consent to take a woman upon such terms?”

 

“What would happen at the end of the year?” he