Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
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the man I loved from being disgraced and contaminated by me, I married
the man I hated—a man so base that, even when I had told him all, and
bargained that I should live apart from him for many months, he was
yet content to take me. I did more than this even: I wrote in such a
fashion to Sir Henry as I knew must shock and revolt him; and then I
married, leaving him to believe that I had thrown him over because the
husband whom I had chosen was richer than himself. Perhaps you cannot
guess why I should thus have dishonoured both of us, and subjected
myself to the horrible shame of making myself vile in Sir Henry’s
eyes. This was the reason: had I not done so, had he once suspected
the true motives of my sacrifice, the plot would have failed. I should
have sold myself for nothing, for then he would never have married
Emma Levinger. And now, that my cup may be full, my child is dead, and
to-morrow I must give myself over to my husband according to the terms
of my bond. This, sir, is the fruit of all your falsehoods; and I say,
Ask God to forgive you, but not the poor girl—your own daughter—whom
you have robbed of honour and happiness, and handed over to misery and
shame.”
Thus Joan spoke to him, in a quiet, almost mechanical voice indeed,
but standing on her feet above the dying man, and with eyes and
gestures that betrayed her absorbing indignation. When she had
finished, her father, who was crouched in the chair before her, let
fall his hands, wherewith he had hidden his face, and she saw that he
was gasping for breath and that his lips were blue.
“‘The way of transgressors is hard,’ as we both have learned,” he
muttered, with a deathly smile, “and I deserve it all. I am sorry for
you, Joan, but I cannot help you. If it consoles you, you may remember
that, whereas your sorrows and shame are but temporal, mine, as I
fear—will be eternal. And now, since you refuse to forgive me,
farewell; for I can talk no more, and must make ready, as best I can,
to take my evil doings hence before another, and, I trust, a more
merciful Judge.”
Joan turned to leave the room, but ere she reached the door the rage
died out of her heart and pity entered it.
“I forgive you, father,” she said, “for it is Heaven’s will that these
things should have happened, and by my own sin I have brought the
worst of them upon me. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. But
oh! I pray that my time here may be short.”
“God bless you for those words, Joan!” he murmured.
Then she was gone.
A GHOST OF THE PAST
Lady Graves sat at breakfast in the dining-room at Rosham, where she
had arrived from London on the previous evening, to welcome home her
son and her daughter-in-law. Just as she was rising from the table the
butler brought her a telegram.
“Your master and mistress will be here by half-past eleven, Thomson,”
she said. “This message is from Harwich, and they seem to have had a
very bad crossing.”
“Indeed, my lady!” answered the old man, whose face, like the house of
Graves, shone with a renewed prosperity; “then I had better give
orders about the carriage meeting them. It’s a pity we hadn’t a little
more notice, for there’s many in the village as would have liked to
give Sir Henry and her ladyship a bit of a welcome.”
“Yes, Thomson; but perhaps they can manage something of that sort in a
day or two. Everything is ready, I suppose? I have not had time to go
round yet.”
“Well, I can’t say that, my lady. I think that some of them there
workmen won’t have done till their dying day; and the smell of paint
upstairs is awful. But perhaps your ladyship would like to have a
look?”
“Yes, I should, Thomson, if you will give the orders about the
carriage and to have some breakfast ready.”
Thomson bowed and went, and, reappearing presently, led Lady Graves
from room to room, pointing out the repairs that had been done to
each. Emma’s money had fallen upon the nakedness of Rosham like spring
rains upon a desert land, with results that were eminently
satisfactory to Lady Graves, who for many years had been doomed to
mourn over threadbare carpets and shabby walls. At last they had
inspected everything, down to the new glass in the windows of the
servants’ bedrooms.
“I think, Thomson,” said Lady Graves, with a sigh of relief, “that,
taking everything into consideration, we have a great deal to be
thankful for.”
“That’s just what I says upon my knees every night, my lady. When I
remember that if it hadn’t been for the new mistress and her money
(bless her sweet face!) all of us might have been sold up and in the
workhouse by now, or near it, I feel downright sick.”
“Well, you can cheer up now, Thomson, for, although for his position
your master will not be a rich man, the bad times are done with.”
“Yes, my lady, they are done with; and please God they won’t come no
more in my day. If your ladyship is going to walk outside I’ll call
March, as I know he’s very anxious to show you the new vinery.”
“Thank you, Thomson, but I think I will sit quiet and enjoy myself
till Sir Henry comes, and then we can all go and see the gardens
together. Mr. and Mrs. Milward are coming over this afternoon, are
they not?”
“Yes, I believe so, my lady; that is, Miss Ellen—I mean Mrs.
Milward—drove round with her husband yesterday to look at the new
furniture in the drawing-room, and said that they should invite
themselves to dinner to-night to welcome the bride. He’s grown
wonderful pleasant of late, Mr. Milward has, and speaks quite civil to
the likes of us since Sir Henry’s marriage; though March, he do say
it’s because he wants our votes—for I suppose you’ve heard, my lady,
that he’s putting up for Parliament in this division—but then March
never was no believer in the human heart.”
“Yes, I have heard, and I am told that Miss Ellen will pull him
through. However, we need not think of that yet. By the way, Thomson,
tell March to cut a bowlful of sweet peas and have them put in your
mistress’s room. I remember that when she was here as a girl, nearly
three years ago, she said that they were her favourite flower.”
When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door
of the hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds
and the light shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond,
to read the morning psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon,
however, the book dropped from her hand and she fell to musing on the
past, and how strangely, after all its troubles, the family that she
loved, and with which her life was interwoven, had been guided back
into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than a year ago there had
been nothing before them but ruin and extinction—and now! It was not
for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were for
the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she
must follow them; but rather for her dead husband’s sake, and for the
sake of the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their
descendants.
Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her
knees when she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit
to Joan Haste, things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since
heard that this poor girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she
had seen in the train when she went to London; for Henry had told her
as much and spoken very bitterly of her conduct. The story seemed a
little curious, and she could not altogether understand it, but she
supposed that her son was right, and that on consideration the young
woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a wise marriage
with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a poor
gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue
was most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their
gratitude. Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little
doze, from which she was awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and
went to the front door to find Henry, looking very well and bronzed,
helping his wife out of the carriage.
“Why, mother, is that you?” he said, with a pleasant laugh. “This is
first-rate: I didn’t expect from your letter that you would be down
before to-morrow,” and he kissed her. “Look, here is my invalid; I
have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did not
imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don’t know how she
survived it.”
“Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way,
that I may say how you do to your mother.”
“Well, Emma,” said Lady Graves, “I must say that, notwithstanding your
bad crossing, you look very well—and happy.”
“Thank you, Lady Graves,” she answered, colouring slightly; “I am both
well and happy.”
“Welcome home, dear!” said Henry; and putting his arm round his wife,
he gave her a kiss, which she returned. “By the way,” he added, “I
wonder if there is any news of your father.”
“Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand,” answered Lady
Graves. “But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing; here
it is.”
Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It
said:—
“Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look
to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over
on the following morning?
“Yours affectionately,
“G. L.”
“He seems pretty well,” said Henry. “But I’ll drive to Bradmouth and
take the two o’clock train to Monk’s Vale, coming back to-night.”
“Ellen and her husband are going to be here to dinner,” said Lady
Graves.
“Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps you and Emma will look after them. I dare
say that I shall be home before they go. No, don’t bother about
meeting me. Probably I shall return by the last train and walk from
Bradmouth. I must go, as you remember I wrote to your father from
abroad saying that I would come and see him to-day, and he will have
the letter this morning.”
After her interview with Mr. Levinger, for the first time in her life
Joan slept beneath her father’s roof—or rather she lay down to sleep,
since, notwithstanding her weariness, the scene through which she had
passed, together with the aching of her heart for all that she had
lost, and its rebellion against the fate which was in store for her on
the morrow, made it impossible that she should rest. Once towards
morning she did doze off indeed, and dreamed.
She dreamt that she stood alone upon a point of rock, out of all sight
or hope of shore, while round her raged a sea of troubles.
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