THE DESIRE OF DEATH—AND THE FEAR OF HIM.
Joan remained at Kent Street, and the weary days crept on. When the first
excitement of her self-sacrifice had faded from her mind, she lapsed into a
condition of melancholy that was pitiable to see. Every week brought her
rambling and impassioned epistles from her husband, most of which she threw
into the fire half-read. At length there came one that she perused eagerly
enough, for it announced the approaching marriage of Sir Henry Graves and Miss
Levinger tidings which were confirmed in a few brief words by a note from Mr.
Levinger himself, enclosing her monthly allowance; for from Samuel as yet she
would take nothing. Then in January another letter reached her, together with a
copy of the local paper, describing the ceremony, the presents, the dress and
appearance “of the lovely bride and the gallant bridegroom, Captain Sir
Henry Graves, Bart., R.N.”
“At least I have not done all this for nothing,” said Joan, as she
threw down the paper; and then for the rest of that day she lay upon her bed
moaning with the pain of her bitter jealousy and immeasurable despair.
She felt now that, had she known what she must suffer, she would never have
found the strength to act as she had done, and time upon time did she regret
that she had allowed her impulses to carry her away. Rock had been careful to
inform her of his interview with Henry, putting his own gloss upon what passed
between them; and the knowledge that her lover must hate and despise her was
the sharpest arrow of the many which were fixed in her poor heart. All the rest
she could bear, but than this Death himself had been more kind. How pitiable
was her state! —scorned by Henry, of whose child she must be the mother,
but who was now the loving husband of another woman, and given over to a man
she hated and who would shortly claim his bond. Alas! no regrets, however
poignant, could serve to undo the past, any more than the fear of it could
avert the future; for Mrs. Bird was right—as she had sown so she must
reap.
One by one the weary days crept on till at length the long London winter gave
way to spring, and the time of her trial drew near. In health she remained
fairly well, since sorrow works slowly upon so vigorous a constitution; but the
end of each week found her sadder and more broken in spirit than its beginning.
She had no friends, and went out but little—indeed, her only relaxations
were found in reading, with a vague idea of improving her mind, because Henry
had once told her to do so, or conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with
Jim and Sally. Still her life was not an idle one, for as time went by the
shadow of a great catastrophe fell upon the Kent Street household. Mrs.
Bird’s eyesight began to fail her, and the hospital doctors whom she
consulted, were of opinion that the weakness must increase.
“Oh! my dear,” she said to Joan, “what is to happen to us all
if I go blind? I have a little money put away— about a hundred and fifty
pounds, or two hundred in all, perhaps; but it will soon melt, and then I
suppose that they will take us to the workhouse; and you know, my dear, they
separate husband and wife in those places.” And, quite broken down by
such a prospect, the poor little woman began to weep.
“At any rate there is no need for you to trouble yourself about it at
present,” answered Joan gently, “since Sally helps, and I can do
the fine work that you cannot manage.”
“It is very kind of you, Joan. Ah! little did I know, when I took you in
out of the street that day, what a blessing you would prove to me, and how I
should learn to love you. Also, it is wicked of me to repine, for God has
always looked after us heretofore, and I do not believe that He Who feeds the
ravens will suffer us to starve, or to be separated. So I will try to be brave
and trust in Him.”
“Ah!” answered Joan, “I wish that I could have your faith;
but I suppose it is only given to good people. Now, where is the work? Let me
begin at once. No, don’t thank me any more; it will be a comfort;
besides, I would stitch my fingers off for you.”
Thenceforth Mrs. Bird’s orders were fulfilled as regularly as ever they
had been, and as Joan anticipated, the constant employment gave her some
relief. But while she sat and sewed for hour after hour, a new desire entered
into her mind that most terrible of all desires, the desire of Death! Of Death
she became enamoured, and her daily prayer to Heaven was that she might die,
she and her child together, since her imagination could picture no future in
another world more dreadful than that which awaited her in this.
Only once during these months did she hear anything of Henry; and then it was
through the columns of a penny paper, where, under the heading of
“Society Jottings,” she read that “Sir Henry Graves, Bart.,
R.N., and his beautiful young bride were staying at Shepheard’s Hotel in
Cairo, where the gallant Captain was very popular and Lady Graves was much
admired.” The paragraph added that they were going to travel in the Holy
Land, and expected to return to their seat at Rosham towards the end of May.
It was shortly after she read this that Joan, who from constantly thinking
about death, had convinced herself that she would die, went through the
formality of making a will on a sixpenny form which she bought for that purpose.
To Sir Henry Graves she left the books that he had given her, and a long
letter, which she was at much trouble to compose, and placed carefully in the
same envelope with the will. All the rest of her property, of any sort
whatsoever, whereof she might die possessed it amounted to about thirty pounds
and some clothes she devised to Mrs. Bird for the use of her unborn child,
should it live, and, failing that, to Mrs. Bird absolutely.
At last the inevitable hour of her trouble came upon her, and left her pale and
weak, but holding a little daughter in her arms. From the first the child was
sickly, for the long illness of the mother had affected its constitution; and
within three weeks from the day of its birth it was laid to rest in a London
cemetery, leaving Joan to drink the cup of a new and a deeper agony than any
that it had been her lot to taste.
Yet, when her first days of grief and prostration had gone by, almost could she
find it in her heart to rejoice that the child had been taken from her and
placed beyond the possibilities of such a life as she had led; for, otherwise,
how would things have gone with it when she, its mother, passed into the power
of Samuel Rock? Surely he would have hated and maltreated it, and, if fate had
left it without the protection of her love in the hands of such a guardian, its
existence might have been made a misery. Still, after the death of that infant
those about her never saw a smile upon Joan’s face, however closely they
might watch for it. Perhaps she was more beautiful now than she had ever been,
for the chestnut hair that clustered in short curls upon her shapely head, and
her great sorrowful eyes shining in the pallor of her sweet face, refined and
made strange her loveliness; moreover, if the grace of girlhood had left her,
it was replaced by another and a truer dignity the dignity of a woman who has
loved and suffered and lost.
One morning, it was on the ninth of June, Joan received a letter from her
husband, who now wrote to her every two or three days. Before she opened it she
knew well from past experience what would be the tenor of its contents: an
appeal to her, more or less impassioned, to shorten the year of separation for
which she had stipulated, and come to live with him as his wife. She was not
mistaken, for the letter ended thus:
“Oh! Joan, have pity on me and come to me, for if you don’t I think
that I shall go crazed. I have kept my promise to you faithful so far, so if
you are made of flesh and blood, show mercy before you drive me to something
desperate. It’s all over now; the child’s dead, you tell me, and
the man’s married, so let’s turn a new leaf and begin afresh. After
all, Joan, you are my wife before God and man, and it is to me that your duty
lies, not to anybody else. Even if you haven’t any fondness for me, I ask
you in the name of that duty to listen to me, and I tell you that if you
don’t I believe that I shall go mad with the longing to see your face,
and the sin of it will be upon you. I’ve done up the house comfortable
for you, Joan; no money has been spared, and if you want anything more you
shall have it. Then don’t go on hiding yourself away from me, but come
and take the home that waits you.”
“I suppose he is right, and that it is my duty,” said Joan to
herself with a sigh, as she laid down the letter. “Love and hope and
happiness have gone from me, nothing is left except duty, so I had better hold
fast to it. I will write and say that I will go soon within a few days; though
what the Birds will do without me I do not know, unless he will let me give
them some of my allowance.”
Having come to this determination, Joan wrote her letter and posted it, fearing
lest, should she delay, her virtuous resolution might fail her. As she returned
from the pillar box, a messenger, who was standing on the steps of No. 8,
handed her a telegram addressed to herself. Wondering what it might be, she
opened it, to read this message:—
“Come down here at once. I am ill and must see you before it is too late.
The carriage will meet the five o’clock train at Monk’s Vale
station. Wire reply.
“LEVINGER,
“_Monk’s Lodge._”
“I wonder what he can want to see me for,” thought Joan; then,
asking the boy to wait in the passage, she went in to consult Mrs. Bird.
“You had best go, my dear,” she said; “I have always thought
that there was some mystery about this Mr. Levinger, and now I expect that it
is coming out. If you take a cab at once, you will just have time to catch the
twelve o’clock train at Liverpool Street.”
Joan nodded, and writing one word upon the prepaid answer “Coming,”
gave it to the boy and ran upstairs to pack a few things in a bag. In ten
minutes a hansom was at the door and she was ready to start. First she bade
good-bye to the two invalids, who were much disturbed at this hurried
departure; and then to Mrs. Bird, who followed her into the passage kissing her
again and again.
“Do you know, Joan,” she said, beginning to cry, “I feel as
if you were going away for good and I should never see you any more.”
“Nonsense, dear,” she answered briefly, for a queer contraction in
her throat made a lengthened speech impossible, “I hope to be back in a
day or two if all is well.”
“Yes, Joan—if all is well, and there’s hope for everybody.
Well, good-bye, and God bless you wherever you go—God bless you here and
hereafter, for ever and ever!”
Then Joan drove away, and as she went it came into her mind that it would be
best if she returned no more. She had promised to join her husband in a few
days. Why should she not do so at once, and thus avoid the pain of a formal
parting with the Birds, her true and indeed her only friends?
By half-past four that afternoon the train pulled up at Bradmouth, where she
must change into the light railway with tramcar carriages that runs for fifteen
or twenty miles along the coast, Monk’s Vale being the second station
from the junction.
The branch train did not start for ten minutes, and Joan employed the interval
in walking up and down the platform, looking at the church tower, the roofs of
the fishing village, the boats upon the beach, and the familiar view of land
and sea. Everything seemed quite unchanged; she alone was changed, and felt as
though a century of time had passed over her head since that morning when she
ran away to London.
“Hullo, Joan Rock!” said a half-remembered voice at her elbow.
“I’m in luck, it seems: I saw you off, and here I am to welcome you
back. But you shouldn’t have married him, Joan; you should have waited
for me as I told you. I’m in business for myself now, four saddle donkeys
and a goat chaise, and doing grand. I shall die a rich man, you bet.”
Joan turned round to see a youth with impudent blue eyes and hair of flaming
red, in whom she recognised Willie Hood, much elongated, but otherwise the same.
“Oh! Willie, is that you?” she said, stretching out her hand, for
she was pleased to see a friendly face; “how are you, and how do you know
that I am married?”
“Know? Why, if you sent the crier round with a bell to call it, folks
would hear, wouldn’t they? And that’s just about what Mr. Samuel
Rock has done, talking of ‘my wife, Joan Haste as was,’ here, there
and everywhere; and telling how as you were stopping in foreign parts awhile
for the benefit of your health, which seems a strange tale to me, and I know a
thing or two, I do. Not that it has done you much good, anyway, to judge from
the air of you, for you look like the ghost of what you used to be. I’ll
tell you what, Joan: for the sake of old times you shall have a ride every
morning on my best donkey, all for love, if Sammy won’t be jealous.
That’ll bring the colour back into your cheeks, you bet.”
“How are my uncle and aunt?” asked Joan, hastening to change the
conversation.
“How are they? Will you promise to bear up if I tell you? Well, then,
Mrs. G. is lodging for three months at the public expense in Ipswich jail,
which the beaks gave her for assault ‘with intent to do grievous bodily
harm’ —them was the words, for I went to hear the
case,—‘upon the person of her lawful husband, John
Gillingwater,’ and my! she did hammer him too—with a rolling pin!
His face was like a squashed pumpkin, with no eyes left for a sinner to swear
by. The guardians have taken pity on him too, and are nursing him well again,
all for nothing, in the Union. I saw him hoeing taters there the other day, and
he asked me if I couldn’t smuggle him a bottle of gin—yes, and
nearly cried when I told him that it wasn’t to be done unless I had the
cash in hand and a commission.”
At this moment Willie’s flow of information was interrupted by the guard,
who told Joan that she must get into the train if she did not wish to be left.
“Ta-ta, Mrs. Rock,” cried Willie after her: “see you again
soon; and remember that the donkey is always ready. Now,” he added to
himself, “I wonder why the dickens she is going that way instead of home
to her loving Sammy? He’s a nasty mean beast, he is, and it’s a rum
go her having married him at all, but it ain’t no affair of mine. All the
same, I mean to let my dickies run down by the meres to-night, for I’m
sure he can’t grudge an armful of rough grass to an old friend of his
wife’s as has been the first to welcome her home. By the way, why
ain’t the holy Samuel here, to welcome her home himself?” and
Master Willie scratched his red head and departed speculating, with the full
intention of pasturing his donkeys that night upon lands in the possession or
hire of the said Samuel.
At Monk’s Vale station Joan found a dog-cart waiting for her. When she
had taken her seat she asked the groom if Mr. Levinger was ill. He replied that
he didn’t rightly know, but that his master had kept the house almost
ever since Miss Emma he meant Lady Graves had married, and that last night,
feeling queer, he had sent for a doctor.
Then Joan asked if Lady Graves was at Monk’s Lodge, and was informed that
she and her husband were not expected home at Rosham from abroad till this
night or the next morning.
By this time they had reached the house, which was not more than half a mile
distant from the station. The servant who opened the door took Joan to a
bedroom and said that tea was waiting for her. When she was ready she went
downstairs to the dining-room, where presently she received a message that Mr.
Levinger would be glad to see her, and was shown to his room on the first
floor. She found him seated in an armchair by a fire, although the weather was
warm for June; and noticed at once that he was much changed since she had last
seen him, his face being pale and thin and his form shrunken. His eyes,
however, retained their brightness and intelligence, and his manner its
vivacity. As she entered the room he attempted to rise to receive her, only to
sink back into his chair with a groan, where for a while he remained speechless.
“It is very good of you to come to see me, Joan,” he said
presently. “Pray be seated.”
“I am sorry to hear that you have not been well, sir,” she answered.
“No, Joan, I have not; there never was a man further from health or much
nearer to death than I am at this moment, and that is why I have sent for you,
since what I have to say cannot be put off any longer. But you do not look very
well yourself, Joan.”
“I feel quite strong, thank you, sir. You know I had a bad illness, for
you very kindly came to see me, and it has taken me a while to recover.”
“I hear that you are married, Joan, although you are not living with your
husband, Samuel Rock. It would, perhaps, have been well if you had consulted me
before taking such a step, but you have a right to manage your own affairs. I
trust that you are happy; though, if so, I do not understand why you keep
away.” And he looked at her anxiously.
“I am as happy as I ever shall be, sir, and I go to live with Mr. Rock
to-morrow: till now I have been detained in town by business.”
“You know that my daughter is married to Sir Henry Graves,” he went
on after a pause, again searching her face with his eyes. “They return
home to-night or to-morrow; and not too soon if they wish to see me alive,
though they know nothing of that, for I have told them little of my state of
health.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered imperturbably, though her hands shook as
she spoke. “But I suppose that you did not send for me to tell me that,
sir.”
“No, Joan, no. Is the door shut? I sent for you— O my God, that I
should have to say it! to throw myself upon your mercy, since I dare not die
and face the Judgment-seat till I have told you all the truth. Listen to
me—” and his voice fell to a piercing whisper—“Joan,
_you are my daughter!_”