CHAPTER XXXI.
THE GATE OF PARADISE.
For some days Lady Graves was completely prostrated by this new and terrible misfortune, which, following as it did hard upon the hope of happier things, seemed to her utterly overwhelming. She dared not even trust herself to see her son, but kept her room, sending a message to him to say that she was unwell and did not wish to be disturbed. For his part Henry avoided the house as much as possible. As it chanced, he had several invitations to shoot during this particular week, one of them coupled with an engagement to dine and sleep; and of all of these he availed himself, though they brought him little enjoyment. On the third morning after he had posted his letter, there came a short answer from Mrs. Bird, stating that Joan would be well enough to see him on the following Thursday or Friday; but from Joan herself he received no reply. This note reached him on a Friday, just as he was starting to keep his aforesaid engagement to shoot and sleep. On Saturday he returned to Rosham to find that his mother had gone to town, leaving a note of explanation to be given to him. The note said:—
“DEAR HENRY,—
“I am going to London to stay for a few days with my old friend and your godmother, Lady Norse. Circumstances that have recently arisen make it necessary that I should consult with the lawyers, to see if it is possible for me to recover any of the sums that from time to time have been expended upon this estate out of my private fortune. I am not avaricious, but if I can obtain some slight provision for my remaining years, of course I must do so; and I desire that my claim should be made out legally, so as to entitle me to rank as a creditor in the bankruptcy proceedings which are now, I suppose, inevitable.
“Your affectionate mother,
“E. GRAVES.”
Henry put the letter into his pocket with a sigh. Like everything else, it was sad and humiliating; but he was not sorry to find that his mother had gone, for he had no more wish to meet her just now than she had to meet him. Then he began to wonder if he ought to take any steps to advise Mr. Levinger of his intentions, so that the mortgagee might proceed to recover such portion of the capital advanced as the assets would realise. On the whole he determined to let the matter be for a while. He was sick to death of arguments, reproaches, and affairs; it would be time enough to face these and other disagreeables when he had seen Joan and was about to marry her, or had already done so. There was no pressing need for hurry. By Mr. Levinger’s help arrangements had been made under which the vacant farms were being carried on for the present, and he had a little money in hand. He remembered, indeed, that he was engaged to stay at Monk’s Lodge on the following Friday. Well, he could telegraph from London making his apologies and saying that he was detained in town by business, which would save the necessity of writing an explanatory letter. One step he did take, however: he wrote to an old messmate of his who held an under-secretaryship in the Government, explaining the condition of the estate to which he had succeeded, and asking him to interest himself to obtain him a consulship, no matter how remote, or any other suitable employment. Also he put himself in communication with the Admiralty, to arrange for the commutation of his pension, which of course was not liable for his father’s debts, so that he might have some cash in hand wherewith to start in married life. Then he composed himself to wait quietly at Rosham till the following Friday, when he purposed to go to town.
Lady Graves’s note to Henry was true in substance, but it was not the whole truth. She was still an able and an energetic woman, and her mind had not been idle during those days when she kept her room, refusing to see her son. On the contrary, she considered the position in all its bearings, recalling every word of her interviews with Henry, and of Joan’s letter to him, no sentence of which had escaped her memory. After much thinking she came to a conclusion namely, that while it would be absolutely useless to make any further attempt to turn Henry from his purpose, it was by no means certain that the girl herself could not be appealed to with success. She recollected that, according to Henry’s story, Joan had all along declined to entertain the idea of marrying him, and that even in the mad rhapsody which Mrs. Bird had forwarded, she stated that she could never suffer such a thing, because it would mean his ruin. Of course, as she was well aware, should these two once meet it was probable, it was almost certain, that Joan Haste would be persuaded to retract her self-denying ordinance, and to allow herself to be made Henry’s wife and a respectable member of society. The woman who was so circumstanced and did otherwise would be more than human, seeing that her own honour and the honour of her child were at stake, and that consent meant social advancement to her, and the lifelong gratification of a love which, however guilty it might have been in its beginning, was evidently sincere. But if she could be appealed to before they met, it might be different. At any rate it seemed to Lady Graves that the experiment was worth trying.
Should she be justified in making such an appeal? This girl had been wronged, and she had rights: could she then be asked to forego those rights? Lady Graves answered the question in the affirmative. She was not a hard and worldly woman, like her daughter, nor was she careful of her own advantage in this matter, but her dead husband’s wishes were sacred to her and she had her son’s best interests at heart. Moreover, she was of opinion, with Ellen, that a man has no right to undo his family, and bring the struggle of generations to an inglorious end, in order that he may gratify a personal passion or even fulfil a personal duty. It was better that this girl should be wronged, if indeed she was wronged, and that Henry should suffer some remorse and shame, than that a day should come when others would learn that the family had been ousted of its place and heritage because he had chosen to pay a debt of honour at their expense.
The reasoning may have been faulty, and perhaps Lady Graves was not the person to give judgment upon a case in which she was so deeply interested; but, such as it was, it carried conviction to her mind, and she determined to act upon it. There was but one way to do this, to see the girl face to face, for she would trust nothing to letters. She had learned through Thomson the butler that Henry was not going to town for some days, and she must be beforehand with him. She had Joan’s address that is, she had seen it at the head of Mrs. Bird’s letter, and she would take the chance of her being well enough to receive her. It was a forlorn hope, and one that Lady Graves had no liking for; still, for the sake of all that had been and of all that might be, she made up her mind to lead it.
Henry’s letter reached Kent Street in due course, and when she had read it Mrs. Bird was a proud and happy woman. She also had led a forlorn hope, and never in her wildest moments had she dreamed that the enemy would capitulate thus readily. She could scarcely believe her eyes: the wicked baronet, the penny-novel villain of her imaginings, had proved himself to be an amenable creature, and as well-principled as any common man; indeed, she gathered, although he did not say so in as many words, that actually he meant to marry the victim of his vices. Mrs. Bird was dumfoundered; she read and re-read Henry’s note, then she examined the enclosure addressed to Joan, holding it to the light and trying to peep beneath the edges of the envelope, to see if perchance she could not win some further word of comfort. So great was her curiosity, indeed, that she looked with longing at the kettle boiling on the hearth, wondering if she would not be justified in reducing the gum upon the envelope to a condition that would enable her to peruse the writing within before she handed it seemingly inviolate to Joan. But at this point conscience came to her rescue and triumphed over her curiosity, devouring as it was.
When first she read Henry’s letter she had determined that in the interests of Joan’s health the enclosure must not be given to her for some days, but by degrees she modified this decision. Joan was out of danger now, and the doctor said that she might read anything; surely, therefore, it would be safe for her to peruse this particular sheet of paper. Accordingly, when the nurse came down to say that her patient was awake after her morning sleep, and that if Mrs. Bird would sit with her, she proposed to take a walk in the Park till dinner-time, the little woman hurried upstairs with the precious document in her pocket. Joan, who was sitting on the sofa, received her with a smile, and held up her face to be kissed.
“How are you this morning, my dear?” she asked, putting her head on one side and surveying her critically.
“I feel stronger than I have for weeks,” answered Joan; “indeed, I believe that I am quite well again now, thanks to you and all your kindness.”
“Do you think that you are strong enough to read a letter, dear?—because I have one for you.”
“A letter?” said Joan anxiously: “who has taken the trouble to write to me? Mr. Levinger?”
Mrs. Bird shook her head and looked mysterious.
“Oh! don’t torment me,” cried Joan; “give it me—give it me at once.”
Then Mrs. Bird put her hand into her pocket and produced Henry’s enclosure.
Joan saw the writing, and her poor white hands trembled so that she could not unfasten the envelope. “Open it for me,” she whispered. “Oh! I cannot see: read it to me. Quick, quick!”
“Don’t be in a hurry, my dear; it won’t fly away,” said Mrs. Bird as she took the letter. Then she put on her spectacles, cleared her throat, and began.
“‘Dearest Joan—’Really, my love, do you not think that you had better read this for yourself? It seems so very—confidential.”
“Oh! I can’t; I must hear it at once. Go on, pray.”
Thus encouraged, Mrs. Bird went on, nothing loath, till she reached the last word of the letter.
“Well,” she said, laying it upon her knees, “now, that is what I call behaving like a gentleman. At any rate, my dear, you have been lucky in falling into the hands of such a man, for some would not have treated you so well, having begun wicked they would have gone on wickeder. Why, good gracious! what’s the matter with the girl? She’s fainted, I do believe.” And she ran to get water, reproaching herself the while for her folly in letting Joan have the letter while she was still so weak. By the time that she returned with the water, the necessity for it had gone by. Joan had recovered, and was seated staring into vacancy, with a rapt smile upon her face that, so thought Mrs. Bird, made her look like an angel.
“You silly girl!” she said: “you gave me quite a turn.”
“Give me that letter,” answered Joan.
Mrs. Bird picked it up from the floor, where it had fallen, and handed it to her. Joan took it and pressed it to her breast as though it were a thing alive much, indeed, as a mother may be seen to press her new-born infant when the fear and agony are done with and love and joy remain. For a while she sat thus in silence, holding the letter to her heart, then she spoke:——
“I do not suppose that I shall ever marry him, but I don’t care now: whatever comes I have had my hour, and after this and the rest I can never quite lose him—no, not through all eternity.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Joan,” said Mrs. Bird, who did not understand what she meant. “Not marry him, indeed!— why shouldn’t you?”
“Because something is sure to prevent it. Besides, it would be wrong of me to do so. Letting other things alone, he must marry a rich woman, not a penniless girl like me.”
“Oh! stuff and nonsense with your ‘rich woman’: the man who’ll go for money when he can get love isn’t worth a row of pins, say I; and this one isn’t of that sort, or he would never have written such a letter.”
“He can get both love and money,” answered Joan; “and it isn’t for himself that he wants the money—it is to save his family. He had an elder brother who brought them to ruin, and now he’s got to set them up again by taking the girl who holds the mortgages, and who is in love with him, as his wife—at least, I believe that’s the story, though he never told it me himself.”
“A pretty kettle of fish, I am sure. Now look here, Joan, don’t you talk silly, but listen to me, who am older than you are and have seen more. It isn’t for me to blame you, but, whatever was the truth of it, you’ve done what isn’t right, and you know it. Well, it has pleased God to be kind to you and to show you a way out of a mess that most girls never get clear of. Yes, you can become an honest woman again, and have the man you love as a husband, which is more than you deserve perhaps. What I have to say is this: don’t you be a fool and cut your own throat. These money matters are all very well, but you have got nothing to do with them. You get married, Joan, and leave the rest to luck; it will come right in the end. If there’s one thing that’s more of a vanity than any other in this wide world, it is scheming and plotting about fortunes and estates and suchlike, and in nine cases out of ten the woman who goes sacrificing herself to put cash into her lover’s pocket or her own either for that matter does him no good in the long run, but just breaks her heart for nothing, and his too very likely. There, that’s my advice to you, Joan; and I tell you that if I thought that you would go on as you have begun and make this man a bad wife, I shouldn’t be the one to give it. But I don’t think that, dear. No; I believe that you would be as good as gold to him, and that he’d never regret marrying you, even though he is a baronet and you are what you are.”
“Oh! indeed I would,” said Joan.
“Don’t say ‘indeed I would,’ dear; say ‘indeed I shall,’ and mind you stick to it. And now I hear the nurse coming back, and it is time for me to go and see about your dinner. Don’t you fuss and make yourself ill again, or she won’t be able to go away to-morrow, you know. I shall just write to this gentleman and say that he can come and see you about next Friday; so mind, you’ve got to be well by then. Good-bye.”
Weak as she was still from illness, when her first wild joy had passed a great bewilderment took possession of Joan.
As her body had been brought back to the fulness of life from the very pit of death, so the magic of Henry’s letter changed the blackness of her despair to a dawn of hope, by contrast so bright that it dazzled her mind. She had no recollection of writing the letter to which Henry alluded; indeed, had she been herself she would never have written it, and even now she did not know what she had told him or what she had left untold. What she was pleased to consider his goodness and generosity in offering to make her his wife touched her most deeply, and she blessed him for them, but neither the secret pleading of her love nor Mrs. Bird’s arguments convinced her that it would be right to take advantage of them. The gate of what seemed to be an earthly paradise was of a sudden thrown open to her feet: behind her lay solitude, sorrow, sin and agonising shame, before her were peace, comfort, security, and that good report which every civilised woman must desire; but ought she to enter by that gate? A warning instinct answered “No,” and yet she had not strength to shut it. Why should she, indeed? If she might judge the future from the past, Fate would do her that disservice; such happiness could not be for one so wicked. Yet till the blow fell she might please her fancy by standing upon the threshold of her heaven, and peopling the beyond with unreal glories which her imagination furnished without stay or stint. She was still too weak to struggle against the glamour of these visions, for that they could become realities Joan did not believe, rather did she submit herself to them, and satisfy her soul with a false but penetrating delight, such as men grasp in dreams. Of only one thing was she sure that Henry loved her and in that knowledge, so deep was her folly, she found reward for all she had undergone, or that could by any possibility be left for her to undergo; for had he not loved her, as she believed, he would never have offered to marry her. He loved her, and she would see him; then things must take their chance, meanwhile she would rest and be content.