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

had intended. He might have hired a cart

and driven, but being the bearer of this heavy news, naturally enough

he had no wish to hurry; moreover he was glad of the space of quiet

that a lonely walk by night afforded him, for he had much to think of

and to grieve over. It was, he felt, a good thing that the old man

should have died before he spoke with him; for though certainly he

would have done it, there was little use in reproaching him with

falsehoods and treachery the results of which could not now be

remedied.

 

Poor Joan! Hers was indeed a hard lot—harder even than his own! It

was a year this day, he remembered, since first he had met her yonder

by the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. Who could know all that she had

suffered during this eventful year, or measure what was left for her

to suffer in the time to come? Alas! he could see no escape for her;

she had entered on an unnatural marriage, but still it was a marriage,

and she must abide by her bargain, from which nothing could free her

except the death of her husband or of herself. And this she had done

for his sake, to safeguard him: ah! there was the bitterest part of

it.

 

While Henry walked on, chewing the cud of these unhappy reflections,

suddenly from the direction of Ramborough Abbey, that was a quarter of

a mile or more away, there floated to his ear the sound of a single

cry—far off, indeed, but strangely piercing, followed almost

instantly by the report of a gun loaded with black powder. He halted

and listened, trying to persuade himself that the cry was that of some

curlew which a poacher had shot out of season; only to abandon the

theory so soon as he conceived it, for something in his heart told him

that this scream was uttered by mortal lips—by the lips of a woman in

despair or agony. A few seconds passed, and he heard other sounds,

those of short, sharp yells uttered in quick succession, but of so

inhuman a note that he was unable to decide if they proceeded from a

man or from some wounded animal.

 

He started forward at a run to solve the mystery, and as he went on

the yells grew louder and came nearer. Presently he halted, for there,

from over the crest of a little rise in the road, and not fifteen

paces away, appeared the figure of a man running with extraordinary

swiftness. His hat had fallen from him, his long hair seemed to stand

up upon his head, his eyes stared white in terror and were ablaze with

the fire of madness, his face was contorted and ashy white, and from

his open mouth issued hideous and unearthly sounds. So shocking was

his aspect in the moonlight that Henry sprang to one side and

bethought him of the tale of the Ramborough goblin. Now the man was

level with him, and as he went by he turned his head to look at him,

and Henry knew the face for that of Samuel Rock.

 

“Dead!” shrieked the madman, wringing his hands, “dead, dead!” and

he was gone.

 

Henry gasped, for his heart grew cold with fear. Joan had left him to

join her husband; and now, what had happened? That cry, the gunshot,

and the sight that he had seen, all seemed to tell of suicide or

murder. No, no, he would not believe it! On he went again, till

presently he saw a lad running towards him who called to him to stop.

 

“Who are you?” he gasped, “and what is the matter here?”

 

“I’m Willie Hood, and that’s just what I should like to know, Sir

Henry,” was the answer, “more especial as not five minutes since I

thought that I saw you walking up to the Abbey yonder.”

 

“You saw me walking there! Rubbish! I have just come from Bradmouth.

Did you see that man, Rock, run by?”

 

“Yes, I see’d him fast enough. I should say by the looks of him that

he has been doing murder and gone mad. Half an hour ago, before you

came along, or begging your pardon, some one as limped like you, he

had a gun in his hand, but that’s gone now.”

 

“Look here, young man,” said Henry, as they went forward, “what are

you doing here, that you come to see all these things?”

 

“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I was driving my donkeys to feed on

Rock’s land, and when I saw him coming along with a gun I hid in the

bracken; for we had words about my taking his feed this very morning,

and he swore then that if he caught me at it again he’d shoot me and

the dickies too; so I lay pretty close till I saw the other man go by

and heard the shriek and the shot.”

 

“Come along, for Heaven’s sake!” said Henry: “that devil must have

killed some one.”

 

Now they were near to the Abbey wall, and Willie, catching his

companion by the arm, pointed to a dark shape which lay in the white

dust of the roadway, and in a terrified whisper said, “Look there!

what’s that?”

 

Henry dashed forward and knelt down beside the shape, peering at its

face. Then of a sudden he groaned aloud and said, “It is Joan Haste,

and he has shot her!”

 

“Look at her breast!” whispered Willie, peeping over his shoulder. “I

told her how it would be. It was I who found you both a year ago just

here and looking like that, and now you see we have all come together

again. I told her it was a bad beginning, and would come to a bad

end.”

 

“Be silent, and help me to lift her,” said Henry in a hollow voice;

“perhaps she still lives.”

 

Then together they raised her, and at that moment Joan opened her

eyes.

 

“Listen, you!” Henry said: “she is alive. Now run as you never ran

before, to Dr. Childs at Bradmouth, to the police, and anybody else

you can think of. Tell them what has happened, and bid them come here

as fast as horses can bring them. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Then go.”

 

Willie sprang forward like an arrow, and presently the sound of his

footsteps beating on the road grew faint and faded away.

 

“Oh! Joan, Joan, my darling,” Henry whispered as he leant over her,

pressing her cold hands. “Cannot you speak to me, Joan?”

 

At the sound of his voice the great empty eyes began to grow

intelligent, and the pale lips to move, faintly at first, then more

strongly.

 

“Is that you, Henry?” she said in a whisper: “I cannot see.”

 

“Yes. How did you come thus?”

 

“He was going to murder you. I—I passed myself off for you—at least,

I tried to—but grew afraid, and—was running away when he—shot me.”

 

“Oh! my God, my God!” groaned Henry: “to think that such a thing

should have been allowed to be!”

 

“It is best,” she answered, with a faint smile; “and I do not

suffer—much.”

 

Then he knelt down beside her and held her in his arms, as once on a

bygone day she had held him. The thought seemed to strike her, for she

said:—

 

“A year ago, to-night; do you remember? Oh! Henry, if I have sinned,

it has been paid back to me to the uttermost. Surely there can be

nothing more to suffer. And I am happy because—I think that you will

love me better dead than ever you did alive. ‘The way of

transgressors—the way of–-’” and she ceased, exhausted.

 

“I shall love you now, and then, and always—that I swear before God,”

he answered. “Forgive me, Joan, that I should ever have doubted you

for a moment. I was deceived, and did not understand you.”

 

Again she smiled and said, “Then I have done well to die, for in death

I find my victories—the only ones. But you must love the child

also—our child—Henry, since we shall wait for you together in the

place—of peace.”

 

A while went by, and she spoke again, but not of herself or him:—

 

“I have left Mrs. Bird in London—some money. When Mr. Levinger is

dead—there will be a good deal; see that—she gets it, for they were

kind to me. And, Henry, try to shield my husband—for I have sinned

against him—in hating him so much. Also tell your wife nothing—or

you will make her wretched—as I have been.”

 

“Yes,” he answered, “and your father is dead; he died some hours ago.”

 

After this Joan closed her eyes, and, bleeding inwardly from her

pierced lungs, grew so cold and pulseless that Henry thought she must

be gone. But it was not so, for when half an hour or more had passed

she spoke, with a great effort, and in so low a whisper that he could

scarcely hear her words, though his ear was at her mouth.

 

“Pray God to show me mercy, Henry—pray now and always. Oh, one hour

of love—and life and soul to pay!” she gasped, word by word. Then the

change came upon her face, and she added in a stronger voice, “Kiss

me: I am dying!”

 

So he pressed his lips on hers; and presently, in the midst of the

great silence, Joan Haste’s last sobbing breath beat upon them in a

sigh, and the agony was over.

 

Two hours later Henry arrived at Rosham, to find his mother and Mr.

and Mrs. Milward waiting to receive him.

 

“My dear Henry, where have you been?” said Lady Graves, “It is twelve

o’clock, and we were beginning to fear that something had gone wrong

at Monk’s Lodge.”

 

“Or that you had met with another accident, dear,” put in Ellen. “But

I haven’t given you a kiss yet, to welcome you home. Why, how pale you

look! and what is the matter with your coat?”

 

“Where is Emma?” he asked, waving her back.

 

“She was so dreadfully tired, dear,” said Lady Graves, “that I

insisted upon her going to bed. But has anything happened, Henry?”

 

“Yes, a great deal. Mr. Levinger is dead: he died in his sleep this

evening.”

 

Lady Graves sank back shocked; and Ellen exclaimed, “How dreadfully

sad! However, his health was very bad, poor man, so it is something of

a release. Also, though you won’t care to think of such things now,

there will be advantage for Emma–-”

 

“Be silent, Ellen. I have something more to tell you. Joan Haste, or

rather Joan Rock, is dead also.”

 

“Dead!” they both exclaimed.

 

“Yes, dead,—or, to be more accurate, murdered.”

 

“Who murdered her?” asked Milward.

 

“Her husband. I was walking back from Bradmouth, and found her dying

in the road. But there is no need to tell you the story now—you will

hear plenty of it; and I have something else to say. Do you mind

leaving the room for a moment, Mr. Milward? I wish to speak to my

mother and sister.”

 

“Edward is my husband, Henry, and a member of the family.”

 

“No doubt, Ellen, but I do not desire that he should hear what I have

to say. If you feel strongly about the matter I will go into the

library with my mother.”

 

“Oh! pray don’t trouble about me,” answered Edward; “I am accustomed

to this sort of thing here, and I shall only be too glad to smoke a

cigar in the hall, if Sir Henry