[Illustration]
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
CETYWAYO AND HIS WHITE NEIGHBOURS
DAWN
THE WITCH’S HEAD
KING SOLOMON’S MINES
SHE
JESS
ALLAN QUATERMAIN
MAIWA’S REVENGE
MR. MEESON’S WILL
COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C.
CLEOPATRA
ALLAN’S WIFE
BEATRICE
ERIC BRIGHTEYES
NADA THE LILY
MONTEZUMA’S DAUGHTER
THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST
JOAN HASTE
THE WORLD’S DESIRE (IN COLLABORATION WITH ANDREW LANG)
JOAN HASTE
by H. Rider Haggard
AUTHOR OF ‘KING SOLOMON’S MINES,’ ‘SHE,
’
‘ALLAN QUATERMAIN,’ ETC.
‘Il y a une page effrayante dans le livre des destinées
humaines; on y lit en tête ces mots “les désirs
accomplis.”’—GEORGES SAND
WITH 20 ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. S. WILSON
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1895
All rights reserved
To
I. H.
[Illustration: ]
‘Indeed, in that moment she was lovely.’
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. JOAN HASTE.
CHAPTER II. SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF.
CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE.
CHAPTER IV. THE HOME-COMING OF HENRY GRAVES.
CHAPTER V. THE LEVINGERS VISIT ROSHAM.
CHAPTER VI. MR. LEVINGER PUTS A CASE.
CHAPTER VII. A PROPOSAL AND A DIFFERENCE.
CHAPTER VIII. TWO CONVERSATIONS.
CHAPTER IX. MUTUAL ADMIRATION.
CHAPTER X. AZRAEL’S WING
CHAPTER XI. ELLEN GROWS ALARMED.
CHAPTER XII. ELLEN FINDS A REMEDY.
CHAPTER XIII. A MEETING BY THE MERE.
CHAPTER XIV. SOWING THE WIND.
CHAPTER XV. THE FIRSTFRUITS.
CHAPTER XVI. FORTITER IN RE.
CHAPTER XVII. BETWEEN DUTY AND DUTY.
CHAPTER XVIII. CONGRATULATIONS.
CHAPTER XIX. RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.
CHAPTER XX. “LET IT REMAIN OPEN.”
CHAPTER XXI. A LUNCHEON PARTY.
CHAPTER XXII. AN INTERLUDE.
CHAPTER XXIII. A NEW DEPARTURE.
CHAPTER XXIV. MESSRS. BLACK AND PARKER.
CHAPTER XXV. “I FORBID YOU.”
CHAPTER XXVI. A LOVE LETTER.
CHAPTER XXVII. LUCK AT LAST.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PRICE OF INNOCENT BLOOD.
CHAPTER XXIX. THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
CHAPTER XXX. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE GATE OF PARADISE.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GATE OF HELL.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE OPENING OF THE GATE.
CHAPTER XXXV. DISENCHANTMENT.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DESIRE OF DEATH— AND THE FEAR OF HIM.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. A GHOST OF THE PAST.
CHAPTER XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
CHAPTER XL. FULL MEASURE, PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
INDEED, IN THAT MOMENT SHE WAS LOVELY
SAMUEL ROCK
AND THESE TWO LAY SILENT
I’D MARRY A RUSSIAN JEW RATHER THAN SEE THE OLD PLACE GO TO THE DOGS
SO WE MEET AT LAST
FORGIVE ME, MR. LEVINGER, THERE IS ANOTHER SIDE TO THE QUESTION
A VIVID SUNBEAM FELL UPON THE GIRL’S PALE COUNTENANCE
THEY SET OUT UPON THE LONG TRUDGE BACK TO BRADMOUTH
MY NAME? OH! MY NAME! GASPED JOAN
HER FEW BOOKS WITH WHICH SHE COULD NOT MAKE UP HER MIND TO PART
“THERE, MY DEAR, YOU ARE INTRODUCED,” SAID MRS. BIRD. “THIS IS MY FAMILY”
GO BACK: I FORBID YOU!
YOU REMEMBER MY WORDS WHEN YOU LIE A-DYING
SAMUEL PICKED UP THE BOOK, AND SWORE THUS AT HER DICTATION
AND NOW ... GET OUT OF MY WAY BEFORE I FORGET MYSELF
YOUR DAUGHTER!
I HAVE WAITED FOR YOU HERE BECAUSE I HAVE THINGS THAT I MUST TELL YOU IN PRIVATE
COME ON, SIR HENRY—COME ON!
A WHITE FACE GLOWERING INTO THE ROOM
IT IS JOAN HASTE
CHAPTER I.
JOAN HASTE.
Alone and desolate, within hearing of the thunder of the waters of the North
Sea, but not upon them, stand the ruins of Ramborough Abbey. Once there was a
city at their feet, now the city has gone; nothing is left of its greatness
save the stone skeleton of the fabric of the Abbey above and the skeletons of
the men who built it mouldering in the earth below. To the east, across a waste
of uncultivated heath, lies the wide ocean; and, following the trend of the
coast northward, the eye falls upon the red roofs of the fishing village of
Bradmouth. When Ramborough was a town, this village was a great port; but the
sea, advancing remorselessly, has choked its harbour and swallowed up the
ancient borough which to-day lies beneath the waters.
With that of Ramborough the glory of Bradmouth is departed, and of its priory
and churches there remains but one lovely and dilapidated fane, the largest
perhaps in the east of England—that of Yarmouth alone excepted—and,
as many think, the most beautiful. At the back of Bradmouth church, which,
standing upon a knoll at some distance from the cliff, has escaped the fate of
the city that once nestled beneath it, stretch rich marsh meadows, ribbed with
raised lines of roadway. But these do not make up all the landscape, for
between Bradmouth and the ruins of Ramborough, following the indentations of
the sea coast and set back in a fold or depression of the ground, lie a chain
of small and melancholy meres, whose brackish waters, devoid of sparkle even on
the brightest day, are surrounded by coarse and worthless grass land, the haunt
of the shore-shooter, and a favourite feeding-place of curlews, gulls, coots
and other wild-fowl. Beyond these meres the ground rises rapidly, and is
clothed in gorse and bracken, interspersed with patches of heather, till it
culminates in the crest of a bank that marks doubtless the boundary of some
primeval fiord or lake, where, standing in a ragged line, are groups of
wind-torn Scotch fir trees, surrounding a grey and solitary house known as Moor
Farm.
The dwellers in these parts—that is, those of them who are alive to such
matters,—think that there are few more beautiful spots than this slope of
barren land pitted with sullen meres and bordered by the sea. Indeed, it has
attractions in every season: even in winter, when the snow lies in drifts upon
the dead fern, and the frost-browned gorse shivers in the east wind leaping on
it from the ocean. It is always beautiful, and yet there is truth in the old
doggerel verse that is written in a quaint Elizabethan hand upon the fly-leaf
of one of the Bradmouth parish registers,—
‘Of Rambro’, north and west and south,
Man’s eyes can never see enough;
Yet winter’s gloom or summer’s light,
Wide England hath no sadder sight.’
And so it is; even in the glory of June, when lizards run across the grey
stonework and the gorse shows its blaze of gold, there is a stamp of native
sadness on the landscape which lies between Bradmouth and Ramborough, that
neither the hanging woodlands to the north, nor the distant glitter of the sea,
on which boats move to and fro, can altogether conquer. Nature set that seal
upon the district in the beginning, and the lost labours of the generations now
sleeping round its rotting churches have but accentuated the primal impress of
her hand.
Though on the day in that June when this story opens, the sea shone like a
mirror beneath her, and the bees hummed in the flowers growing on the ancient
graves, and the larks sang sweetly above her head, Joan felt this sadness
strike her heart like the chill of an autumn night. Even in the midst of life
everything about her seemed to speak of death and oblivion: the ruined church,
the long neglected graves, the barren landscape, all cried to her with one
voice, seeming to say, “Our troubles are done with, yours lie before you.
Be like us, be like us.”
It was no high-born lady to whom these voices spoke in that appropriate spot,
nor were the sorrows which opened her ears to them either deep or poetical. To
tell the truth, Joan Haste was but a village girl, or, to be more accurate, a
girl who had spent most of her life in a village. She was lovely in her own
fashion, it is true,—but of this presently; and, through circumstances
that shall be explained, she chanced to have enjoyed a certain measure of
education, enough to awaken longings and to call forth visions that perhaps she
would have been happier without. Moreover, although Fate had placed her humbly,
Nature gave to her, together with the beauty of her face and form, a mind
which, if a little narrow, certainly did not lack for depth, a considerable
power of will, and more than her share of that noble dissatisfaction without
which no human creature can rise in things spiritual or temporal, and having
which, no human creature can be happy.
Her troubles were vulgar enough, poor girl: a scolding and coarse-minded aunt,
a suitor toward whom she had no longings, the constant jar of the talk and jest
of the ale-house where she lived, and the irk of some vague and half-understood
shame that clung to her closely as the ivy clung to the ruined tower above her.
Common though such woes be, they were yet sufficiently real to Joan—in
truth, their somewhat sordid atmosphere pressed with added weight upon a mind
which was not sordid. Those misfortunes that are proper to our station and
inherent to our fate we can bear, if not readily, at least with some show of
resignation: those that fall upon us from a sphere of which we lack experience,
or arise out of a temperament unsuited to its surroundings, are harder to
endure. To be different from our fellows, to look upwards where they look down,
to live inwardly at a mental level higher than our circumstances warrant, to
desire that which is too far from us, are miseries petty in themselves, but
gifted with Protean reproductiveness.
Put briefly, this was Joan’s position. Her parentage was a mystery, at
least so far as her father was concerned. Her mother was her aunt’s
younger sister; but she had never known this mother, whose short life closed
within two years of Joan’s birth. Indeed, the only tokens left to link
their existences together were a lock of soft brown hair and a faded photograph
of a girl not unlike herself, who seemed to have been beautiful. Her aunt, Mrs.
Gillingwater, gave her these mementos of the dead some years ago, saying, with
the brutal frankness of her class, that they were almost the only property that
her mother had left behind her, so she, the daughter, might as well take
possession of them.
Of this mother, however, there remained one other memento— a mound in the
churchyard of the Abbey, where until quite recently the inhabitants of
Ramborough had been wont to be laid to sleep beside their ancestors. This mound
Joan knew, for, upon her earnest entreaty, Mr. Gillingwater, her uncle by
marriage, pointed it out to her: indeed, she was sitting by it now. It had no
headstone, and when Joan asked him why, he replied that those who were neither
wife nor maid had best take their names with them six feet underground.
The poor girl shrank back abashed at this rough answer, nor did she ever return
to the subject. But from this moment she knew that she had been unlucky in her
birth, and though such an accident is by no means unusual in country villages,
the sense of it galled her, lowering her in her own esteem. Still she bore no
resentment against this dead and erring mother, but rather loved her with a
strange and wondering love than which there could be nothing more pathetic. The
woman who bore her, but whom she had never seen with remembering eyes, was
often in her thoughts; and once, when some slight illness had affected the
balance of her mind, Joan believed that she came and kissed her on the
brow—a vision whereof the memory was sweet to her, though she knew it to
be but a dream. Perhaps it was because she had nothing else to love that she
clung thus to the impalpable, making a companion of the outcast dead whose
blood ran in her veins. At the least this is sure, that when her worries
overcame her, or the sense of incongruity in her life grew too strong, she was
accustomed to seek this lowly mound, and, seated by it, heedless of the
weather, she would fix her eyes upon the sea and soothe herself with a sadness
that seemed deeper than her own.
Her aunt, indeed, was left to her, but from this relation she won no comfort.
From many incidents trifling in themselves, but in the mass irresistible, Joan
gathered that there had been little sympathy between her mother and Mrs.
Gillingwater—if, in truth, their attitude was not one of mutual dislike.
It would appear also that in her own case this want of affection was an
hereditary quality, seeing that she found it difficult to regard her aunt with
any feeling warmer than tolerance, and was in turn held in an open aversion,
which to Joan’s mind, was scarcely mitigated by the very obvious pride
Mrs. Gillingwater took in her beauty. In these circumstances Joan had often
wondered why she was not dismissed to seek her fortune. More than once, when
after some quarrel she sought leave to go, she found that there was no surer
path to reconciliation than to proffer this request; and speeches of apology,
which, as she knew well, were not due to any softening of Mrs.
Gillingwater’s temper, or regret for hasty misbehaviour, were at once
showered upon her.
To what, then, were they due? The question was one that Joan took some years to
answer satisfactorily. Clearly not to love, and almost as clearly to no desire
to retain her services, since, beyond attending to her own room, she did but
little work in the way of ministering to the wants and comforts of the few
customers of the Crown and Mitre, nor was she ever asked to interest herself in
such duties.
Gradually a solution to the riddle forced itself into Joan’s
intelligence—namely, that in some mysterious way her aunt and uncle lived
on her, not she on them. If this were not so, it certainly became difficult to
understand how they did live, in view of the fact that Mr. Gillingwater
steadily consumed the profits of the tap-room, if any, and that they had no
other visible means of subsistence. Yet money never seemed to be wanting; and
did Joan need a new dress, or any other luxury, it was given to her without
demur. More, when some years since she had expressed a sudden and spontaneous
desire for education; after a few days’ interval, which, it seemed to
her, might well have been employed in reference to superior powers in the
background, she was informed that arrangements had been made for her to be sent
to a boarding school in the capital of the county. She went, to find that her
fellow-pupils were for the most part the daughters of shop-keepers and large
farmers, and that in consequence the establishment was looked down upon by the
students of similar, but higher-class institutions in the same town, and by all
who belonged to them. Joan being sensitive and ambitious, resented this state
of affairs, though she had small enough right to do so, and on her return home
informed her aunt that she wished to be taken away from that school and sent to
another of a better sort. The request was received without surprise, and again
there was a pause as though to allow of reference to others. Then she was told
that if she did not like her school she could leave it, but that she was not to
be educated above her station in life.
So Joan returned to the middle-class establishment, where she remained till she
was over nineteen years of age. On the whole she was very happy there, for she
felt that she was acquiring useful knowledge which she could not have obtained
at home. Moreover, among her schoolfellows were certain girls, the daughters of
poor clergymen and widows, ladies by birth, with whom she consorted
instinctively, and who did not repel her advances.
At the age of nineteen she was informed suddenly that she must leave her
school, though no hint of this determination had been previously conveyed to
her. Indeed, but a day or two before her aunt had spoken of her return thither
as if it were a settled thing. Pondering over this decision in much grief, Joan
wondered why it had been arrived at, and more especially whether the visit that
morning of her uncle’s landlord, Mr. Levinger, who came, she understood,
to see about some repairs to the house, had anything to do with it. To Mr.
Levinger himself she had scarcely spoken half a dozen times in her life, and
yet it seemed to her that whenever they met he regarded her with the keenest
interest. Also on this particular occasion Joan chanced to pass the bar-parlour
where Mr. Levinger was closeted with her aunt, and to overhear his parting
words, or rather the tag of them which was “too much of a lady,” a
remark that she could not help thinking had to do with herself. Seeing her go
by, he stopped her, keeping her in conversation for some minutes, then abruptly
turned upon his heel and left the house with the air of a man who is determined
not to say too much.
Then it was that Joan’s life became insupportable to her. Accustomed as
she had become to more refined associations, from which henceforth she was cut
off, the Crown and Mitre, and most of those connected with it, grew hateful in
her sight. In her disgust she racked her brain to find some means of escape,
and could think of none other than the time-honoured expedient of “going
as a governess.” This she asked leave to do, and the permission was
accorded after the usual pause; but here again she was destined to meet with
disappointment. Her surroundings and her attainments were too humble to admit
of her finding a footing in that overcrowded profession. Moreover, as one lady
whom she saw told her frankly, she was far too pretty for this walk of life. At
length she did obtain a situation, however, a modest one enough, that of
nursery governess to the children of the rector of Bradmouth, Mr. Biggen. This
post she held for nine months, till Mr. Biggen, a kind-hearted and scholarly
man, noting her beauty and intelligence, began to take more interest in her
than pleased his wife—a state of affairs that resulted in Joan’s
abrupt dismissal on the day previous to the beginning of this history.
To come to the last and greatest of her troubles: it will be obvious that such
a woman would not lack for admirers. Joan had several, all of whom she
disliked; but chiefly did she detest the most ardent and persistent of them,
the favoured of her aunt, Mr. Samuel Rock. Samuel Rock was a Dissenter, and the
best-to-do agriculturist in the neighbourhood, farming some five hundred acres,
most of them rich marsh-lands, of which three hundred or more were his own
property inherited and acquired. Clearly, therefore, he was an excellent match
for a girl in the position of Joan Haste, and when it is added that he had
conceived a sincere admiration for her, and that to make her his wife was the
principal desire of his life, it becomes evident that in the nature of things
the sole object of hers ought to have been to meet his advances half-way.
Unfortunately this was not the case. For reasons which to herself were good and
valid, however insufficient they may have appeared to others, Joan would have
nothing to do with Samuel Rock. It was to escape from him that she had fled
this day to Ramborough Abbey, whither she fondly hoped he would not follow her.
It was the thought of him that made life seem so hateful to her even in the
golden afternoon; it was terror of him that caused her to search out every
possible avenue of retreat from the neighbourhood of Bradmouth.
She might have spared herself the trouble, for even as she sighed and sought, a
shadow fell upon her, and looking up she saw Samuel Rock standing before her,
hat in hand and smiling his most obsequious smile.
[Illustration: ]
Samuel Rock.