SAMUEL ROCK DECLARES HIMSELF.
Mr. Samuel Rock was young-looking rather than young in years, of which he might
have seen some thirty-five, and, on the whole, not uncomely in appearance. His
build was slender for his height, his eyes were blue and somewhat shifty, his
features sharp and regular except the chin, which was prominent, massive, and
developed almost to deformity. Perhaps it was to hide this blemish that he wore
a brown beard, very long, but thin and straggling. His greatest peculiarity,
however, was his hands, which were shaped like those of a woman, were long,
white notwithstanding their exposure to the weather, and adorned with
almond-shaped nails that any lady might have envied. These hands were never
still; moreover, there was something furtive and unpleasant about them, capable
as they were of the strangest contortions. Mr. Rock’s garments suggested
a compromise between the dress affected by Dissenters who are pillars of their
local chapel and anxious to proclaim the fact, and those worn by the ordinary
farmer, consisting as they did of a long-tailed black coat rather the worse for
wear, a black felt wide-awake, and a pair of cord breeches and stout riding
boots.
“How do you do, Miss Haste?” said Samuel Rock, in his soft,
melodious voice, but not offering to shake hands, perhaps because his fingers
were engaged in nervously crushing the crown of his hat.
“How do you do?” answered Joan, starting violently. “How did
you——” (‘find me here,’ she was about to add;
then, remembering that such a remark would show a guilty knowledge of being
sought after, substituted) “get here?”
“I—I walked, Miss Haste,” he replied, looking at his legs and
blushing, as though there were something improper about the fact; then added,
“You are quite close to my house, Moor Farm, you know, and I was told
that—I thought that I should find you here.”
“I suppose you mean that you asked my aunt, and she sent you after
me?” said Joan bluntly.
Samuel smiled evasively, but made no other reply to this remark.
Then came a pause, while, with a growing irritation, Joan watched the long
white fingers squeezing at the black wide-awake.
“You had better put your hat on, or you will catch cold,” she
suggested, presently.
“Thank you, Miss Haste, it is not what I am liable to, not but what I
take it kindly that you should think of my health;” and he carefully
replaced the hat upon his head in such a fashion that the long brown hair
showed beneath it in a ragged fringe.
“Oh, please don’t thank me,” said Joan rudely, dreading lest
her remark should be taken as a sign of encouragement.
Then came another pause, while Samuel searched the heavens with his wandering
blue eyes, as though to find inspiration there.
“You are very fond of graves, Miss Haste,” he said at length.
“Yes, Mr. Rock; they are comfortable to sit on,—and I don’t
doubt very good beds to sleep in,” she added, with a touch of grim humour.
Samuel gave a slight but perceptible shiver. He was a highly strung man, and,
his piety notwithstanding, he did not appreciate the allusion. When you wish to
make love to a young woman, to say the least of it, it is disagreeable if she
begins to talk of that place whither no earthly love can follow.
“You shouldn’t think of such things at your age—you should
not indeed, Miss Haste,” he replied; “there are many things you
have got to think of before you think of them.”
“What things?” asked Joan rashly.
Again Samuel blushed.
“Well—husbands, and—cradles and such-like,” he answered
vaguely.
“Thank you, I prefer graves,” Joan replied with tartness.
By this time it had dawned upon Samuel that he was “getting no
forwarder.” For a moment he thought of retreat; then the native
determination that underlay his soft voice and timid manner came to his aid.
“Miss Haste—Joan,” he said huskily, “I want to speak to
you.”
Joan felt that the hour of trial had come, but still sought a feeble refuge in
flippancy.
“You have been doing that for the last five minutes, Mr. Rock,” she
said; “and I should like to go home.”
“No, no, not yet—not till you have heard what I have to say.”
And he made a movement as though to cut off her retreat.
“Well, be quick then,” she answered, in a voice in which vexation
and fear struggled for the mastery.
Twice Samuel strove to speak, and twice words failed him, for his agitation was
very real. At last they came.
“I love you,” he said, in an intense whisper. “By the God
above you and the dead beneath your feet, I love you, Joan, as you have never
been loved before and never will be loved again!”
She threw her head back and looked at him, frightened by his passion. The
realities of his declaration were worse than she had anticipated. His thin face
was fierce with emotion, his sensitive lips quivered, and the long lithe
fingers of his right hand played with his beard as though he were plaiting it.
Joan grew seriously alarmed: she had never seen Samuel Rock look like this
before.
“I am sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be sorry,” he broke in; “why should you be
sorry? It is a great thing to be loved as I love you, Joan, a thing that does
not often come in the way of a woman, as you will find out before you die. Look
here: do you suppose that I have not fought against this? Do you suppose that I
wanted to fall into the power of a girl without a sixpence, without even an
honest name? I tell you, Joan, I have fought against it and I have prayed
against it since you were a chit of sixteen. Chance after chance have I let
slip through my fingers for your sake. There was Mrs. Morton yonder, a handsome
body as a man need wish for a wife, with six thousand pounds invested and house
property into the bargain, who as good as told me that she would marry me, and
I gave her the go-by for you. There was the minister’s widow, a lady
born, and a holy woman, who would have had me fast enough, and I gave her the
go-by for you. I love you, Joan—I tell you that I love you more than land
or goods, more than my own soul, more than anything that is. I think of you all
day, I dream of you all night. I love you, and I want you, and if I don’t
get you then I may as well die for all the world is worth to me.” And he
ceased, trembling with passion.
If Joan had been alarmed before, now she was terrified. The man’s
earnestness impressed her artistic sense—in a certain rude way there was
something fine about it but it awoke no answer within her heart. His passion
repelled her; she had always disliked him, now she loathed him. Swiftly she
reviewed the position in her mind, searching a way of escape. She knew well
enough that he had not meant to affront her by his references to her poverty
and the stain upon her birth—that these truths had broken from him
together with that great truth which animated his life; nevertheless, with a
woman’s wit putting the rest aside, it was on these unlucky sayings that
she pounced in her emergency.
“How, Mr. Rock,” she asked, rising and standing before him,
“how can you ask me to marry you, for I suppose that is what you mean,
when you throw my poverty—and the rest—in my teeth? I think, Mr.
Rock, that you would do well to go back to Mrs. Morton, or the minister’s
widow who was born a lady, and to leave me in peace.”
“Oh, don’t be angry with me,” he said, with something like a
groan; “you know that I did not mean to offend you. Why should I offend
you when I love you so, and want to win you? I wish that I had bitten out my
tongue before I said that, but it slipped in with the rest. Will you have me,
Joan? Look here: you are the first that ever I said a sweet word to, and that
ought to go some way with a woman; and I would make you a good husband. There
isn’t much that you shall want for if you marry me, Joan. If any one had
told me when I was a youngster that I should live to go begging and craving
after a woman in this fashion, I’d have said he lied; but you have put me
off, and pushed me aside, and given me the slip, till at length you have worked
me up to this, and I can’t live without you—I can’t live
without you, that’s the truth.”
“But I am afraid you will have to, Mr. Rock,” said Joan more
gently, for the tears which trembled in Samuel’s light blue eyes touched
her somewhat; and after all, although he repelled her, it was flattering that
any man should value her so highly: “I do not love you.”
His chin dropped upon his breast dejectedly. Presently he looked up and spoke
again.
“I did not expect that you would,” he said: “it had been too
much luck for a miserable sinner. But be honest with me, Joan—if a woman
can—and tell me, do you love anybody else?”
“Not a soul,” she answered, opening her brown eyes wide. “Who
is there that I should love here?”
“Ah! that’s it,” he answered, with a sigh of relief:
“there is nobody good enough for you in these parts. You are a lady,
however you were born, and you want to mate with your own sort. It is no use
denying it: I have watched you, and I’ve seen how you look down upon us;
and all I’ve got to say is:—Be careful that it does not bring you
into trouble. Still, while you don’t love anybody else—and the man
you do love had better keep out of my way, curse him!—there is hope for
me. Look here, Joan: I don’t want to press you—take time to think
it over. I’m in no hurry. I could wait five years if I were sure of
getting you at last. I dare say I frightened you by my roughness: I was a fool;
I should have remembered that it is all new to you, though it is old enough for
me. Listen, Joan: tell me that I may wait awhile and come again,—though,
whether you tell me or not, I shall wait and I shall come, while there is
breath in my body and I can find you out.”
“What’s the use?” said Joan. “I don’t love you,
and love does not grow with waiting; and if I do not love you, how can I marry
you? We had better make an end of the business once and for all. I am very
sorry, but it has not been my fault.”
“What’s the use? Why, all in the world! In time you will come to
think differently; in time you will learn that a Christian man’s honest
love and all that goes with it isn’t a thing to be chucked away like
dirty water; in time, perhaps, your aunt and uncle will teach you reason about
it, though you do despise me since you went away for your fine
schooling——”
“Oh, don’t tell them!” broke in Joan imploringly.
“Why, I have told them. I spoke to your aunt this very day about it, and
she wished me God-speed with all her heart, and I am sure she will be vexed
enough when she learns the truth.”
As Joan heard these words her face betrayed the perturbation of her mind. Her
aunt’s fury when she understood that she, Joan, had rejected Samuel Rock
would indeed be hard to bear. Samuel, watching, read her thoughts, and, growing
cunning in his despair, was not slow to turn them to his advantage.
“Listen, Joan,” he said: “say that you will take time to
think it over, and I will make matters easy for you with Mrs. Gillingwater. I
know how to manage her, and I promise that not a rough word shall be said to
you. Joan, Joan, it is not much to ask. Tell me that I may come again for my
answer in six months. That can’t hurt you, and it will be hope to
me.”
She hesitated. A warning sense told her that it would be better to have done
with this man at once; but then, if she obeyed it, the one thing which she
truly feared—her aunt’s fury—would fall upon her and crush
her. If she gave way, on the other hand, she knew well enough that Samuel would
shelter her from this storm for his own sake if not for hers. What could it
matter, she argued weakly, if she did postpone her final decision for six
months? Perhaps before that time she might be able to escape from Bradmouth and
Samuel Rock, and thus avoid the necessity of giving any answer.
“If I do as you wish, will you promise not to trouble me, or interfere
with me, or to speak to me about this kind of thing in the meanwhile?”
she asked.
“Yes; I swear that I will not.”
“Very good: have your own way about it, Mr. Rock; but understand that I
do not mean to encourage you by this, and I don’t think it likely that my
answer six months hence will be any different from what it is to-day.”
“I understand, Joan.”
“Very well, then: good-bye.” And she held out her hand.
He took it, and, overmastered by a sudden impulse, pressed it to his lips and
kissed it twice or thrice.
“Leave go,” she said, wrenching herself free. “Is that the
way you keep your promise?”
“I beg your pardon,” he answered humbly. “I could not help
it—Heaven knows that I could not help it. I will not break my word
again.” And he turned and left her, walking through the grass of the
graves with a slow and somewhat feline step.
At last he was gone, and Joan sat down once more, with a gasp of relief. Her
first feelings were those of exultation at being rid of Mr. Rock; but they did
not endure. Would he keep his promise, she wondered, and hide from her aunt the
fact that he had proposed and been rejected? If he did not, one thing was clear
to her,—that she would be forced to fly from Bradmouth, since by many a
hint she knew well that it was expected of her that she should marry Samuel
Rock, who was considered to have honoured her greatly by his attentions. This,
in view of their relative social positions in the small society of Bradmouth,
was not wonderful; but Joan’s pride revolted at the thought.
“After all,” she said aloud, “how is he so much higher than I
am? and why should my aunt always speak of him as though he were a king and I a
beggar girl? My blood is as good as his, and better,” and she glanced at
a row of ancient tombstones, whereof the tops were visible above the herbage of
rank grass, yellow crowsfoot, and sheep’s parsley still white with bloom,
that marked the resting-places of the Lacons.
These Lacons had been yeomen farmers for many generations, until the last of
them, Joan’s grandfather, took to evil courses and dissipated his
ancestral patrimony, the greater part of which was now in the possession of
Samuel Rock.
Yes, that side of her pedigree was well enough, and were it not for the mystery
about her father she could have held her head up with the best of them. Oh, it
was a bitter thing that, through no fault of her own, Samuel Rock should be
able to reproach her with her lack of an “honest name”! So it was,
however—she was an outcast, a waif and a stray, and it was useless to
cloak this fact. But, outcast or no, she was mistress of herself, and would not
be driven into marriage, however advantageous, with Samuel Rock or any other
man who was repellent to her.
Having come to this conclusion, Joan’s spirits rose. After all, she was
young and healthy, and, she believed, beautiful, with the wide world before
her. There were even advantages in lacking an “honest name,” since
it freed her from responsibilities and rendered it impossible for her to
disgrace that which she had not got. As it was, she had only herself to please
in the world, and within reasonable and decent limits Joan meant to please
herself. Most of all did she mean to do so in connection with these matters of
the heart—Nobody had ever loved her, and she had never found anybody to
love; and yet, as in all true women, love of one sort or another was the great
desire and necessity of her life. Therefore on this point she was determined:
she would never marry where she could not love.
Thus thought Joan; then, weary of the subject, she dismissed it from her mind
for a while, and, lying back upon the grass in idle contentment, watched the
little clouds float across the sky till, far out to sea, they melted into the
blue of the horizon. It was a perfect afternoon, and she would enjoy what was
left of it before she returned to Bradmouth to face Samuel Rock and all her
other worries. Grasshoppers chirped in the flowers at her feet, a beautiful
butterfly flitted from tombstone to grey tombstone, sunning itself on each, and
high over her head flew the jackdaws, taking food to their young in the
crumbling tower above.
For a while Joan watched these jackdaws through her half-shut eyes, till
suddenly she remembered that her late employer Mr. Biggen’s little boy
had confided to her his ardent desire for a young bird of that species, and she
began to wonder if she could reach the nest and rob it as a farewell gift to
him.
Speculation led to desire, and desire to endeavour. The ruined belfry stairway
still ran up the interior of the tower for twenty feet or more—to a spot,
indeed, in the stonework where a huge fragment of masonry had fallen bodily,
leaving a V-shaped opening that reached to the battlements. Ivy grew upon this
gap in the flint rubble, and the nest of the two jackdaws that Joan had been
watching particularly, did not appear to be more than a dozen feet above the
top of the broken stair. This stair she proceeded to climb without further
hesitation. It was not at all safe, but she was active, and her head being
good, she reached the point where it was broken away without accident, and,
taking her stand on the thickness of the wall, supported herself by the ivy and
looked up. There, twice her own height above her, was the window slit with the
nest in it, but the mortar and stone upon which she must cling to reach it
looked so crumbling and insecure that she did not dare to trust herself to
them. So, having finished her inspection, Joan decided to leave those young
jackdaws in peace and descend to earth again.