A GHOST OF THE PAST.
Lady Graves sat at breakfast in the dining-room at Rosham, where she had
arrived from London on the previous evening, to welcome home her son and her
daughter-in-law. Just as she was rising from the table the butler brought her a
telegram.
“Your master and mistress will be here by half-past eleven,
Thomson,” she said. “This message is from Harwich, and they seem to
have had a very bad crossing.”
“Indeed, my lady!” answered the old man, whose face, like the house
of Graves, shone with a renewed prosperity; “then I had better give
orders about the carriage meeting them. It’s a pity we hadn’t a
little more notice, for there’s many in the village as would have liked
to give Sir Henry and her ladyship a bit of a welcome.”
“Yes, Thomson; but perhaps they can manage something of that sort in a
day or two. Everything is ready, I suppose? I have not had time to go round
yet.”
“Well, I can’t say that, my lady. I think that some of them there
workmen won’t have done till their dying day; and the smell of paint
upstairs is awful. But perhaps your ladyship would like to have a look?”
“Yes, I should, Thomson, if you will give the orders about the carriage
and to have some breakfast ready.”
Thomson bowed and went, and, reappearing presently, led Lady Graves from room
to room, pointing out the repairs that had been done to each. Emma’s
money had fallen upon the nakedness of Rosham like spring rains upon a desert
land, with results that were eminently satisfactory to Lady Graves, who for
many years had been doomed to mourn over threadbare carpets and shabby walls.
At last they had inspected everything, down to the new glass in the windows of
the servants’ bedrooms.
“I think, Thomson,” said Lady Graves, with a sigh of relief,
“that, taking everything into consideration, we have a great deal to be
thankful for.”
“That’s just what I says upon my knees every night, my lady. When I
remember that if it hadn’t been for the new mistress and her money (bless
her sweet face!) all of us might have been sold up and in the workhouse by now,
or near it, I feel downright sick.”
“Well, you can cheer up now, Thomson, for, although for his position your
master will not be a rich man, the bad times are done with.”
“Yes, my lady, they are done with; and please God they won’t come
no more in my day. If your ladyship is going to walk outside I’ll call
March, as I know he’s very anxious to show you the new vinery.”
“Thank you, Thomson, but I think I will sit quiet and enjoy myself till
Sir Henry comes, and then we can all go and see the gardens together. Mr. and
Mrs. Milward are coming over this afternoon, are they not?”
“Yes, I believe so, my lady; that is, Miss Ellen—I mean Mrs.
Milward—drove round with her husband yesterday to look at the new
furniture in the drawing-room, and said that they should invite themselves to
dinner to-night to welcome the bride. He’s grown wonderful pleasant of
late, Mr. Milward has, and speaks quite civil to the likes of us since Sir
Henry’s marriage; though March, he do say it’s because he wants our
votes for I suppose you’ve heard, my lady, that he’s putting up for
Parliament in this division— but then March never was no believer in the
human heart.”
“Yes, I have heard, and I am told that Miss Ellen will pull him through.
However, we need not think of that yet. By the way, Thomson, tell March to cut
a bowlful of sweet peas and have them put in your mistress’s room. I
remember that when she was here as a girl, nearly three years ago, she said
that they were her favourite flower.”
When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door of the
hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds and the light
shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond, to read the morning
psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon, however, the book dropped
from her hand and she fell to musing on the past, and how strangely, after all
its troubles, the family that she loved, and with which her life was
interwoven, had been guided back into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than
a year ago there had been nothing before them but ruin and extinction, and now!
It was not for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were
for the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she must
follow them; but rather for her dead husband’s sake, and for the sake of
the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their descendants.
Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her knees when
she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit to Joan Haste,
things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since heard that this poor
girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she had seen in the train when
she went to London; for Henry had told her as much and spoken very bitterly of
her conduct. The story seemed a little curious, and she could not altogether
understand it, but she supposed that her son was right, and that on
consideration the young woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a
wise marriage with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a
poor gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue was
most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their gratitude.
Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little doze, from which she was
awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and went to the front door to find
Henry, looking very well and bronzed, helping his wife out of the carriage.
“Why, mother, is that you?” he said, with a pleasant laugh.
“This is first-rate: I didn’t expect from your letter that you
would be down before to-morrow,” and he kissed her. “Look, here is
my invalid; I have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did
not imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don’t know how she
survived it.”
“Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way, that
I may say how do you do to your mother.”
“Well, Emma,” said Lady Graves, “I must say that,
notwithstanding your bad crossing, you look very well and happy.”
“Thank you, Lady Graves,” she answered, colouring slightly;
“I am both well and happy.”
“Welcome home, dear!” said Henry; and putting his arm round his
wife, he gave her a kiss, which she returned. “By the way,” he
added, “I wonder if there is any news of your father.”
“Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand,” answered
Lady Graves. “But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing;
here it is.”
Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It said:
“Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look
to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over on the
following morning?
“Yours affectionately,
“G. L.”
“He seems pretty well,” said Henry. “But I’ll drive to
Bradmouth and take the two o’clock train to Monk’s Vale, coming
back to-night.”
“Ellen and her husband are going to be here to dinner,” said Lady
Graves.
“Oh, indeed! Well, perhaps you and Emma will look after them. I dare say
that I shall be home before they go. No, don’t bother about meeting me.
Probably I shall return by the last train and walk from Bradmouth. I must go,
as you remember I wrote to your father from abroad saying that I would come and
see him to-day, and he will have the letter this morning.”
After her interview with Mr. Levinger, for the first time in her life Joan
slept beneath her father’s roof—or rather she lay down to sleep,
since, notwithstanding her weariness, the scene through which she had passed,
together with the aching of her heart for all that she had lost, and its
rebellion against the fate which was in store for her on the morrow, made it
impossible that she should rest. Once towards morning she did doze off indeed,
and dreamed.
She dreamt that she stood alone upon a point of rock, out of all sight or hope
of shore, while round her raged a sea of troubles. From every side they poured
in upon her to overwhelm her, and beneath the black sky above howled a dreary
wind, which was full of voices crying to each other of her sins and sorrows
across the abysm of space. Wave after wave that sea rolled on, and its waters
were thick with human faces, or rather with one face twisted and distorted into
many shapes, as though reflected from a thousand faulty mirrors—now long,
now broad, and now short; now so immense that it filled the ocean and
overflowed the edge of the horizon, and now tiny as a pin’s point, yet
visible and dreadful. Gibbering, laughing, groaning, and shouting aloud, still
the face was one face—that of Samuel Rock, her husband. Nearer it surged
and nearer, till at length it flowed across her feet, halving itself against
them; then the one half shouted with laughter and the other screamed in agony,
and, joining themselves together, they rose on the waters of that sea, which of
a sudden had grown red, and, smiting her upon the breast, drove her down and
down and down into the depths of an infinite peace, whence the voice of a child
was calling her.
Then she awoke, and rejoiced to see the light of day streaming into the room;
for she was frightened at her nightmare, though the sense of peace with which
it closed left her strangely comforted. Death must be like that, she thought.
At breakfast Joan inquired of the servant how Mr. Levinger was; and, being of a
communicative disposition, the girl told her that he had gone to bed late last
night, after sitting up to burn and arrange papers, and said that he should
stop there until the doctor had been. She added that a letter had arrived from
Sir Henry announcing his intention of coming to see her master after lunch.
Joan informed the woman that she would wait at Monk’s Lodge to hear Dr.
Childs’s report, but that Mr. Levinger need not be troubled about her,
since, having only a handbag with her, she could find her own way back to
Bradmouth, either on foot or by train. Then she went to her room and sat down
to think.
Henry was coming here, and she was glad of it; for, dreadful as such an
interview would be, already she had made up her mind that she must see him
alone and for the last time. Everything else she could bear, but she could no
longer bear that he should think her vile and faithless. To-day she must go to
her husband, but first Henry should learn why she went. He was safely married
now, and no harm could come of it, she argued. Also, if she did not take this
opportunity, how could she know when she might find another? An instinct warned
her that her career in Bradmouth as the wife of Mr. Rock would be a short one;
and at least she was sure that, when once she was in his power, he would be
careful that she should have no chance of speaking with the man whom he knew to
have been her lover. Yes, it might be unheroic and inconsistent, but she could
keep silence no longer; see him she must and would, were it only to tell him
that his child had lived, and was dead.
Moreover, there was another matter. She must warn him to guard against the
secret which she had learned on the previous night being brought directly or
indirectly to the knowledge of his wife. Towards Emma her feelings, if they
could be defined at all, were kindly; and Joan guessed that, should
Henry’s wife discover how she had been palmed off upon an unsuspecting
husband, it would shatter her happiness. For her own part, Joan had quickly
made up her mind to let all this sad history of falsehood and dishonour sink
back into the darkness of the past. It mattered to her little now whether she
was legitimate or not, and it was useless to attempt to clear the reputation of
a forgotten woman, who had been dead for twenty years, at the expense of
blasting that of her own father. Also, she knew that if Samuel got hold of this
story, he would never rest from his endeavours to wring from its rightful owner
the fortune that might pass to herself by a quibble of the law. No, she had the
proofs of her identity; she would destroy them, and if any others were to be
found among her father’s papers after his death Henry must do likewise.
When Dr. Childs had gone, about one o’clock, Joan saw the servant, who
told her the doctor said that Mr. Levinger remained in much the same condition,
and that he yet might live for another month or two. On the other hand, he
might die at any moment, and, although he did not anticipate such immediate
danger, he had ordered him to stay in bed, and had advised him to send for a
clergyman if he wished to see one; also to write to his daughter, Lady Graves,
asking her to come on the morrow and to stay with him for the present. Joan
thanked the maid, and leaving a message for Mr. Levinger to the effect that she
would come to see him again if he wished it, she started on her way, carrying
her bag in her hand.
There were only two roads by which Henry could approach Monk’s Lodge: the
cliff road; and that which ran, through woodlands for the most part, to the
Yale station, half a mile away. Joan knew that about three hundred yards from
the Lodge at the end of the shrubberies, there was a summer-house commanding a
view of the cliff and sea, and standing within twenty paces of the station
road. Here she placed herself, so as to be able to intercept Henry by whichever
route he should come; for she wished their meeting to be secret, and, for
obvious reasons, she did not dare to await him in the immediate neighbourhood
of the house.
She came to the summer-house, a rustic building surrounded at a little distance
by trees, and much overgrown with masses of ivy and other creeping plants. Here
Joan sat herself down, and picking up a mouldering novel left there long ago by
Emma, she held it in her hand as though she were reading, while over the top of
it she watched the two roads anxiously.
Nearly an hour passed, and as yet no one had gone by whom even at that distance
she could possibly mistake for Henry; when suddenly her heart bounded within
her, for a hundred yards or more away, and just at the turn of the station
road, a view of which she commanded through a gap in the trees and fence, she
caught sight of the figure of a man who walked with a limp. Hastening from the
summer-house, she pushed her way through the under-growth and the hedge beyond,
taking her stand at a bend in the path. Here she waited, listening to the sound
of approaching footsteps and of a man’s voice, Henry’s voice,
humming a tune that at the time was popular in the streets of London. A few
seconds passed, which to her seemed like an age, and he was round the corner
advancing towards her, swinging his stick as he came. So intent was he upon his
thoughts, or on the tune that he was humming, that he never saw her until they
were face to face. Then, catching sight of a lady in a grey dress, he stepped
to one side, lifting his hand to his hat,—looked up at her, and stopped
dead.
“Henry,” she said in a low voice.
“What! are you here, Joan,” he asked, “and in that dress? For
a moment you frightened me like a ghost—a ghost of the past.”
“I am a ghost of the past,” she answered. “Yes, that is all I
am—a ghost. Come in here, Henry; I wish to speak to you.”
He followed her without a word, and presently they were standing together in
the summer-house.
Henry opened his lips as though to speak; but apparently thought better of it,
for he said nothing, and it was Joan who broke that painful silence.
“I have waited for you here,” she began confusedly, “because
I have things that I must tell you in private.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rock,” he answered; “but do you not think, under
all the circumstances, that it would be better if you told them to me in
public? You know this kind of meeting might be misunderstood.”
“Do not speak to me like that, I beg,” she said, clasping her hands
and looking at him imploringly; then added, “and do not call me by that
name: I cannot bear it from you, at any rate as yet.”
“I understand that it is your name, and I have no title to use any
other.”
“Yes, it is my name,” she answered passionately; “but do you
know why?”
“I know nothing except what your letters and your husband have told me,
and really I do not think that I have any right to inquire further.”
“No, but I have a right to tell you. You think that I threw you over, do
you not, and married Mr. Rock for my own reasons?”
“I must confess that I do; you would scarcely have married him for
anybody else’s reasons.”
[Illustration: ]
‘I have waited for you here …
because I have things that I must tell you in private.’
“So you believe. Now listen to me: I married Samuel Rock in order that
you might marry Emma Levinger. I meant to marry you, Henry, but your mother
came to me and implored me not to do so, so I took this means of putting myself
out of the reach of temptation.”
“My mother came to you, and you did _that!_ Why, you must be
mad!”
“Perhaps; but so it is, and the plot has answered very well, especially
as our child is dead.”
“Our child!” he said, turning deathly pale: “was there any
child?”
“Yes, Henry; and she was very like you. Her name was Joan. I thought that
you would wish her to be called Joan. I buried her about a month ago.”
For a moment he hid his face in his hands, then said, “Perhaps, Joan, you
will explain, for I am bewildered.”
So she told him all.
“Fate and our own folly have dealt very hardly with us, Joan,” he
said in a quiet voice when she had finished; “and now I do not see what
there is to be done. We are both of us married, and there is nothing between us
except our past and the dead child. By Heaven! you are a noble woman, but also
you are a foolish one. Why could you not consult me instead of listening to my
mother, or to any one else who chose to plead with you in my
interests—and their own?”
“If I had consulted you, Henry, by now I should have been your
wife.”
“Well, and was that so terrible a prospect to you? As you know, I asked
nothing better; and it chanced that I was able to obtain a promise of
employment abroad which would have supported both of us in comfort.
Or—answer me truly, Joan—did you, on the whole, as he told me,
think that you would do better to marry Mr. Rock?”
“If Mr. Rock said that,” she answered, looking at him steadily,
“he said what he knew to be false, since before I married him I told him
all the facts and bargained that I should live apart from him for a while. Oh!
Henry, how can you doubt me? I tell you that I hate this man whom I have
married for your sake, that the sight of him is dreadful to me, and that I had
sooner live in prison than with him. And yet to-day I go to him.”
“I do not doubt you, Joan,” he answered, in a voice that betrayed
the extremity of his distress; “but the thing is so appalling that it
paralyses me, and I know neither what to do nor to say. Do you want help to get
away from him?”
She shook her head sadly, and answered, “I can escape from him in one way
only, Henry—by death, for my bargain was that when the time of grace was
ended I would come to be his faithful wife. After all he is my husband, and my
duty is towards him.”
“I suppose so,—curse him for a cringing hound. Oh, Joan! the
thought of it drives me mad, and I am helpless. I cannot in honour even say the
words that lie upon my tongue.”
“I know,” she answered; “say nothing, only tell me that you
believe me.”
“Of course I believe you; but my belief will not save you from Samuel
Rock, or me from my remorse.”
“Perhaps not, dear,” she answered quietly, “but since there
is no escape we must accept the inevitable; doubtless things will settle
themselves sooner or later. And now there is another matter of which I want to
speak to you. You know your father-in-law is very ill, dying indeed, and
yesterday he telegraphed for me to come to see him from London. What do you
think that he had to tell me?”
Henry shook his head.
“This: that I am his legitimate daughter; for it seems that in marrying
your wife’s mother he committed bigamy, although he did not mean to do
so.”
“Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken,
Joan, or we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.”
“I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect
clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told her on the
previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates of her mother’s
marriage and of her own birth.
“Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old
rogue has betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious
that I should marry his daughter. Did _she_ know anything of this,
Joan?”
“Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is in
order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to you. Look,
there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the two
certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered them to the
winds.
“What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they
are only copies.”
“It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered,
with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the name
of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the registration of
my birth.”
“I will get those out of _him,_ he said grimly, nodding his head
towards the house.
“If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the
sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can
well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret of her
birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.”
“That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was ever
man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is just, for it is
Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.”
“Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name,
attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.”
“By whom?”
“By my husband, to whose house I must now be going.”
For a few moments there was silence, then Joan spoke again:—
“I forgot, Henry: I have something to give you that you may like to
keep,” and she took a tiny packet from her breast.
“What is it?” he said, shrinking back a little.
“Only—a lock of the—baby’s hair.” And she kissed
it and gave it to him.
He placed the paper in his purse calmly enough. Then he broke down.
“Oh! my God,” he said, with a groan, “forgive me, but this is
more than I can bear.”
Another second, and they were sobbing in each other’s arms, seeing
nothing of a man, with a face made devilish by hate and jealousy, who craned
his head forward to watch them from the shelter of a thick bush some few yards
away.