“I FORBID YOU.”
On the following Monday morning Joan began her career as a shop-girl, to
describe which in detail would be too long, however instructive it might prove.
Her actual work, especially at this, the dead season of the year, was not so
hard as she had expected, nor was she long in mastering her duties; but,
accustomed as she had been to a country life and the fresh air, she soon found
confinement for so many hours a day in the close atmosphere of the shop
exceedingly irksome. From Kent Street to Messrs. Black and Parker’s was
but a quarter of an hour’s walk; and, as Joan discovered by experiment,
without exposing herself to many annoyances it was impossible for her to wander
about the streets after dark in search of exercise. As a last resource she was
driven to rising at the peep of day and taking her walks abroad in the Park so
soon as the gates were open—a daily constitutional which, if wholesome,
was not exhilarating, and one that could only be practised in fine weather and
while the days were long. This craving for air, however, was among the least of
her troubles, for soon it became clear to her that she had no vocation for shop
life; indeed, she learned to loathe it and its surroundings. At first the
humours of the business amused her a little, but very shortly she discovered
that even about these there was a terrible sameness, for one cannot be
perpetually entertained by the folly of old ladies trying to make themselves
look young, or by the vanity of the young ones neglected by nature and
attempting to supply their deficiencies with costly garments.
What galled her chiefly, however, were the attentions with which she was
honoured by the young men of the establishment. Worst of all, the oiled and
curled Mr. Waters singled her out as the object of his especial admiration,
till at length she lost her temper, and answered him in such a fashion as to
check his advances once and for all. He left her muttering “You shall pay
for that”; and he kept his word, for thenceforth her life was made a
misery to her, and it seemed that she could do nothing right. As it chanced, he
could not actually discharge her, for Joan had attracted the favourable notice
of one of the owners of the business, who, when Mr. Waters made some trumped-up
complaint against her, dismissed it with a hint that he had better be more
careful as to his facts in future.
For the rest, she had no amusements and no friends, and during all the time she
spent in London she never visited a theatre or other place of entertainment.
Her only recreation was to read when she could get the books, or, failing this,
to sit with little Mrs. Bird in the Kent Street parlour and perfect herself in
the art of conversation with the deaf and dumb.
As may be imagined, such an existence did not tend to cause Joan to forget her
past, or the man who was to her heart what the sun is to the world. She could
renounce him, she could go away vowing that she would never see him more; but
to live without him, and especially to live such a life as hers, ah! that was
another matter.
Moreover, as time went on, a new terror took her, that, vague in the beginning,
grew week by week more definite and more dreadful. At first she could scarcely
believe it, for somehow such a thing had never entered into her calculations;
but soon she was forced to acknowledge it as a fact, an appalling, unalterable
fact, which, as yet secret to herself, must shortly become patent to the whole
world. The night that the truth came home to her without the possibility of
further doubt was perhaps the most terrible which she ever spent. For some
hours she thought that she must go mad: she wept, she prayed, she called upon
the name of her lover, who, although he was the author of her woe, in some
mysterious fashion had now grown doubly dear to her, till at last sleep or
insensibility brought her relief. But sleep passes with the darkness, and she
awoke to find this new spectre standing by her bedside and to know that there
it must always stand till the end came. All that day she went about her work
dazed by her secret agony of mind, but in the evening her senses seemed to come
back to her, bringing with them new and acuter suffering.
Where was she to go and what was she to do, she who had no friend in the wide
world, or at least none in whom she could confide? Soon they would turn her out
upon the streets; even the Bird family would shrink from her as though she had
a leprosy. Would it not be better to end it at once, and herself with it?
Abandoning her usual custom, Joan did not return home, but wandered about
London heedless of the stares and insults of the passers-by, till at length she
came to Westminster Bridge. She had not meant to come there—indeed, she
did not know the way—but the river had drawn her to its brink, as it has
drawn so many an unfortunate before her. There beneath those dim and swirling
waters she could escape her shame and find peace, or at least take it to a
region beyond all familiar things, whereof the miseries and unrest would not be
those of the earth, even if they surpassed them. Twice she crossed the bridge;
once she tore herself away, walking for a while along the Embankment; then she
returned to it again, brought back by the irresistible attraction of the
darkling river.
Now she thought that she would do it, and now her hand was on the parapet. She
was quite alone for the moment, there were none to stop her,—alone with
her fear and fate. Yes, she would do it: but oh! what of Henry? Had she a right
to make him a murderer? Had she the right to be the murderess of his child?
What would he say when he heard, and what would he think? After all, why should
she kill herself? Was it so wicked to become a mother? According to religion
and custom, yes—that is, such a mother as she would be—but how
about nature? As for the sin, she could not help it. It was done, and she must
suffer for it. She had broken the law of God, and doubtless God would exact
retribution from her; indeed, already He was exacting it. At least she might
plead that she loved this man, and there were many married women who could bear
their children without shame, and could not say as much. Yet they were virtuous
and she was an outcast—that was the rule. Well, what did it matter to
her? They could not put her in prison, and she had no name to lose. Why should
she kill herself? Why should she not bear her baby and love it for its
father’s sake and its own? Now she came to think of it, there was nothing
that she would like better. Doubtless there would be difficulties and troubles,
but she was answerable to no one. However much she might be ashamed of herself,
there were none to be ashamed of her, and therefore it was a mere question of
pounds, shillings and pence. She could get these from Mr. Levinger, or, failing
him, from Henry. He would not leave her to starve, or his child
either—she knew him too well for that. What a fool she had been! Had she
not come to her senses, by now she would be floating on that river or lying in
the mud at the bottom of it. Well, she had done with that, and so she might as
well go home. The future and the wrath of Heaven she must face, that was all;
she had sown, and she must reap—as we always do.
Accordingly she hailed a passing hansom and told the driver to take her to the
Marble Arch, for she was too weary to walk; moreover she did not know the road.
It was ten o’clock when she reached Kent Street. “My dear,”
said Mrs. Bird, “how flushed you look! Where have you been? We were all
getting quite anxious about you.”
“I have been walking,” answered Joan: “I could not stand the
heat of that shop any longer, and I felt as though I must get some exercise or
faint.”
“I do not think that young women ought to walk about the streets by
themselves at night,” said Mrs. Bird reprovingly. “If you were so
very anxious for exercise I dare say that I could have managed to accompany
you. Have you had supper?”
“No, and I don’t want any. I think that I will go to bed. I am
tired.”
“You will certainly not go to bed, Joan, until you have had something to
eat. I don’t know what has come to you—I don’t indeed.”
So Joan was forced to sit down and go through the farce of swallowing some
food, while Sally ministered to her, and Jim, perceiving that something was
wrong, smiled sympathetically across the table. How she got through the meal
she never quite knew, for her mind was somewhat of a blank; though she could
not help wondering vaguely what these good people would say, could they become
aware that within the last hour she had been leaning on the parapet of
Westminster Bridge purposing to cast herself into the Thames.
Next morning Joan went to her work as usual. All day long she stood in the shop
attending to her duties, but it seemed to her as though she had changed her
identity, as though she were not Joan Haste, but a different woman, whom as yet
she could not understand. Once before she had suffered this fancied change of
self: on that night when she lay in the churchyard clasping Henry’s
shattered body to her breast; and now again it was with her. That was the hour
when she had passed from the regions of her careless girlhood into love’s
field of thorns and flowers—the hour of dim and happy dream. This, the
second and completer change, came upon her in the hour of awakening; and though
the thorns still pierced her soul, behold, the red bloom she had gathered was
become a bitter fruit, a very apple of Sodom, a fruit of the tree of sinful
knowledge that she must taste of in the wilderness which she had won. Love had
been with her in the field, and still he was with her in the desert; but oh!
how different his aspect! Then he was bright and winged and beautiful, with
lips of honey, and a voice of promise murmuring many a new and happy word; now
he appeared terrible and stern, and spoke of sin, of sorrow, and of shame. Then
also her lover had been at her side, now she was utterly alone, alone with the
accusing angel of her conscience, and in this solitude she must suffer, with no
voice to cheer her and no hand to help.
From the hour of their parting she had longed for him, and desired the comfort
of his presence. How much more, then, did she long for him now! Soon indeed
this craving swallowed up every other need of her nature, and became a physical
anguish that, like some deadly sickness, ended in the conquest of her mind and
body. Joan fought against it bravely, for she knew what submission meant. It
meant that she would involve Henry in her own ruin. She remembered well what he
had said about marrying her, and the tale which she had heard as to his
refusing to become engaged to Miss Levinger on the ground that he considered
himself to be already bound to her. If she told him of her sore distress, would
he not act upon these declarations? Would he not insist upon making her his
wife, and could she find the strength to refuse his sacrifice? Beyond the
barrier that she herself had built between them were peace and love and honour
for her. But what was there for him? If once those bars were down—and she
could break them with a touch—she would be saved indeed, but Henry must
be lost. She was acquainted with the position of his affairs, and aware that
the question was not one of a _mésalliance_ only. If he married
her, he would be ruined socially and financially in such a fashion that he
could never lift up his head again. Of course even in present circumstances it
was not necessary that he should marry her, especially as she would never ask
it of him; but if once they met, if once they corresponded even, as she knew
well, the whole trouble would begin afresh, and at least there would be an end
of his prospects with Miss Levinger. No, no; whatever happened, however great
her sufferings, her first duty was silence.
Another week went by, leaving her resolution unchanged; but now her health
began to fail beneath the constant strain of her anxieties, and a physical
languor that rendered her unfit for long hours of work in a heated shop. Now
she lacked the energy to tramp about the Park before her early breakfast;
indeed, the advance of autumn, with its rain and fogs, made such exercise
impossible. Her first despair, the despair that suggested suicide, had gone by,
but then so had the half-defiant mood which followed it. Whatever may have been
her faults, Joan was a decent-minded woman, and one who felt her position
bitterly. Never for one moment of the day or night could she be free from
remorse and care, and the weight of apprehension that seemed to crush all
courage out of her. Even if from time to time she could succeed in putting
aside her mental troubles, their place was taken by anxieties for the future.
Soon she must leave the home that sheltered her, and then where was she to go?
One afternoon, about half-past three o’clock, Joan was standing in the
mantle department of Messrs. Black and Parker’s establishment awaiting
customers. The morning had been a heavy one, for town was filling rapidly, and
she felt very tired. There was, it is true, no fixed rule to prevent Messrs.
Black and Parker’s employés from seating themselves when not
actually at work; but since a pique had begun between herself and Mr. Waters,
in practice Joan found few opportunities of so doing. On two occasions when she
ventured to rest thus for a minute, the manager had rated her harshly for
indolence, and she did not care to expose herself to another such experience.
Now she was standing, the very picture of weariness and melancholy, leaning
upon a chair, when of a sudden she looked up and saw before her—Ellen
Graves and Emma Levinger. They were speaking.
“Very well, dear,” said Ellen, “you go and buy the gloves
while I try on the mantles. I will meet you presently in the doorway.”
“Yes,” said Emma, and went.
Joan’s first impulse was to fly; but flight was impossible, for with
Ellen, rubbing his white hands and bowing at intervals, was Mr. Waters.
“I think you asked for velvet mantles, madam, did you not? Now, miss, the
velvet mantles—quick, please—those new shapes from Paris.”
Almost automatically Joan obeyed, reaching down cloak after cloak to be
submitted to Miss Graves’s critical examination. Three or four of them
she put by as unsuitable, but at last one was produced that seemed to take her
fancy.
“I should like the young person to try on this one, please,” she
said.
“Certainly, madam. Now, miss: no, not that, the other. Where are your
wits this afternoon?”
Joan put on the garment in silence, turning herself round to display its
perfections, with the vain hope that Ellen’s preoccupation and the
gathering gloom in the shop would prevent her from being recognised.
“It is very dark here,” Ellen said presently.
“Yes, madam; but I have ordered them to turn on the electric light. Will
you be seated for a moment, madam?”
Ellen took a chair, and began chatting with the manager about the advantages of
the employment of electricity in preference to gas in shops, while Joan, with
the cloak still on her shoulders, stood before them in the shadow.
Just then she heard a footstep, the footstep of a lame man who was advancing
towards them from the stairs, and the sound set her wondering if Henry had
recovered from his lameness. Next moment she was clinging to the back of a
chair to save herself from falling headlong to the floor, for the man was
speaking.
“Are you here, Ellen?” he said: “it is so infernally dark in
this place. Oh! there you are. I met Miss Levinger below, and she told me that
I should find you upstairs trying on bodices or something.”
“One does not generally try on bodices in public, Henry. What is the
matter?”
“Nothing more than usual, only I have made up my mind to go back to
Rosham by the five o’clock train, and thought that I would come to see
whether you had any message for my mother.”
“Oh! I understood that you were not going till Wednesday, when you could
have escorted us home. No, I have no particular message, beyond my love. You
may tell her that I am getting on very well with my trousseau, and that Edward
has given me the loveliest bangle.”
“I have to go,” answered Henry: “those confounded farms, as
usual,” and he sighed.
“Oh! farms,” said Ellen,—“I am sick of farms. I wish
that the art of agriculture had never been invented. Thank
goodness”—as the electric light sprang out with a sudden
glare—“we can see at last. If you have a minute, stop and give me
your opinion of this cloak. Taste is one of your redeeming virtues, you
know.”
“Well, it is about all the time I have,” he said, glancing at his
watch. “Where’s the article?”
“There, before you, on that young woman.”
“Oh!” said Henry, “I see. Charming, I think; but a little
long, isn’t it? Now I’m off.”
At this moment, for the first time Ellen saw Joan’s face.
She recognised her instantly—there was no possibility of mistake in that
brilliant and merciless light. And what a despairing face it was! so much so,
indeed, that it touched even Ellen’s imagination and moved her to pity.
The great brown eyes were opened wide, the lips were set apart and pale, the
head was bent forward, and from beneath the rich folds of the velvet cloak the
hands were a little lifted, as though in entreaty.
In an instant Ellen grasped the facts: Joan Haste had seen Henry, and was about
to speak to him. Trying as was the situation, Ellen proved herself its
mistress, as she had need to do, for an instinct warned her that if once these
two recognised each other incalculable trouble must result. With a sudden
movement she threw herself between them.
“Very well, dear,” she said: “good-bye. You had better be
going, or you will miss the train.”
“All right,” answered Henry, “there is no such desperate
hurry; let me have another look at the cloak.”
“You will have plenty of opportunities of doing that,” Ellen said
carelessly; “I have settled to buy it. Why, here comes Emma; I suppose
that she is tired of waiting.”
Henry turned and began to walk towards the stairs. Joan saw that he was going,
and made an involuntary movement as though to follow him, but Ellen was too
quick for her. Stepping swiftly to one side, she spoke, or rather whispered
into her ear:
“Go back: I forbid you!”
[Illustration: ]
‘Go back: I forbid you!’
Joan stopped bewildered, and in another moment Henry had spoken some civil
words of adieu to Emma and was gone.
“Will you be so good as to send the cloak with the other things?”
said Ellen to Mr. Waters. “Come, Emma, we must be going, or we shall be
late for the ‘at home,’” and, followed by the bowing manager,
she left the shop.
“Oh, my God!” murmured Joan, putting her hands to her face,
“oh, my God! my God!”