CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CLOSING OF THE GATE.
While Lady Graves was standing at the Bradmouth station on that Saturday in November, waiting for the London train, she saw a man whose face she knew and who saluted her with much humility. He was dressed in a semi-clerical fashion, in clothes made of smooth black cloth, and he wore a broad wide-awake, the only spot of colour about him being a neck scarf of brilliant red, whereof the strange incongruity caught and offended her eye. For a long time she puzzled herself with endeavours to recollect who this individual might be. He did not look like a farmer; and it was obvious that he could not belong to the neighbouring clergy, since no parson in his senses would wear such a tie. Finally Lady Graves concluded that he must be a dissenting minister, and dismissed the matter from her mind. At Liverpool Street, however, she saw him again, although he tried to avoid her, or so she thought; and then it flashed across her that this person was Mr. Samuel Rock of Moor Farm, and she wondered vaguely what his business in London could be.
Had Lady Graves possessed the gift of clairvoyance she would have wondered still more, for Mr. Rock’s business was curiously connected with her own, seeing that he also had journeyed to town, for the first time in his life, in order to obtain an interview with Joan Haste, whose address he had purchased at so great a price on the previous day. As yet he had no very clear idea of what he should say or do when he found himself in Joan’s presence. He knew only that he was driven to seek that presence by a desire which he was absolutely unable to control. He loved Joan, not as other men love, but with all the strength and virulence of his distempered nature; and this love, or passion, or incipient insanity, drew him to her with as irresistible a force as a magnet draws the fragment of steel that is brought within its influence. Had he known her to be at the uttermost ends of the earth, it would have drawn him thither; and though he was timid and fearful of the vengeance of Heaven, there was no danger that he would not have braved, and no crime which he would not have committed, that he might win her to himself.
Till he learned to love Joan Samuel Rock had been as free from all human affections as it is possible for a man to be; there was no one creature for whom he cared, and, though he was naturally passionate, his interests and his strict religious training had kept him from giving way to the excesses that in secret he brooded over and desired. During his early manhood all his energies had been devoted to moneymaking, and in the joy of amassing wealth and of overreaching his fellows in every kind of legitimate business he found consolation for the absence of all that in the case of most men makes life worth living. Then on one evil day he met Joan, grown from a child into a most lovely woman; and that which he had hidden in his heart arose suddenly and asserted itself, so that from this hour he became a slave bound to the chariot-wheels of a passion over which he had lost command. The rebuffs that he had received at her hands served only to make the object of his affections dearer and more desirable in his eyes, while the gnawing ache of jealousy and the daily torment of long-continued disappointment drove him by slow degrees to the very edge of madness. She hated him, he knew, as he knew that she loved his rival; but if only he could see her, things might yet go well with him, or if they did not, at least he would have seen her.
But of all this Lady Graves was ignorant, and, had she known it, anxious though she was to win her end, it is probable that she would have shrunk from an enterprise which, if successful, must expose Joan Haste to the persecution of such a man as Samuel Rock, and might end in delivering her into his hands.
On the following afternoon—it was Sunday—Lady Graves informed her hostess that she was going to visit a friend, and, declining the offer of the carriage, walked to the corner of the square, where she chartered a four-wheeled cab, directing the driver to take her to Kent Street. As they crawled up the Edgware Road she let down the window of the cab and idly watched the stream of passers-by. Presently she started, for among the hundreds of faces she caught sight of that of Mr. Samuel Rock. It was pale, and she noticed that as he went the man was muttering to himself and glancing at the corner of a street, as though he were seeking some turn with which he was not familiar.
“I wonder what that person is doing here,” she thought to herself; “positively he seems to haunt me.” Then the cab went on, and presently drew up in front of No. 8, Kent Street.
“What a squalid-looking place!” Lady Graves reflected, while she paid the man and rang the bell.
As it chanced, Mrs. Bird was out and the door was answered by the little serving girl, who, in reply to the question of whether Miss Haste was in, said “Yes” without hesitation and led the way upstairs.
“Some one to see you,” she said, opening the door in front of Lady Graves and almost simultaneously shutting it behind her.
Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to read a book, rose instinctively at the words, and stared at her veiled and stately-looking visitor.
“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?”
“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.”
Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a chair. At the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that the blow which she dreaded was about to fall, and that Henry’s mother came as a messenger of ill.
Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence.
“I trust that you are better,” she said at length.
“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.”
“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you, or retard your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your permission, upon a very delicate and important matter.”
Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on.
“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need only allude to one namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you his wife, as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right to expect,” and she paused.
“Please go on,” murmured Joan.
“I am here,” she continued hesitatingly, “to submit some questions to your consideration; but pray understand that my son knows nothing of this visit, and that I have not come to reproach you in any way. We are all human and liable to fall into temptation, though our temptations vary with age, disposition and other circumstances: it is quite possible, for instance, that in speaking to you thus I am at this moment yielding to a temptation which I ought to resist. Perhaps I am right in supposing that it is your intention to accept my son’s offer of marriage?”
“I have not made up my mind, Lady Graves.”
“Well,” she answered, with a faint smile, “you will doubtless make it up when you see him, if you do see him. I think that I may take it for granted that, unless what I have to say to you should change your views, you will very shortly be married to Sir Henry Graves.”
“I suppose you do not wish that,” said Joan: “indeed, how can you wish it, seeing what I am, and his reason for asking me to marry him?”
“No, I do not wish it, though not altogether for these reasons. You are a very beautiful woman and a sweet one, and I have no doubt but that you could soon learn to fill any position which he might be able to give you, with credit to yourself and to him. As for the rest, he is as much to blame as you are, and therefore owes you reparation, so I will say no more upon that point. My reasons are simple and to a certain extent selfish, but I think that they will appeal to you. I believe that you love Henry. Well, if you marry him you will bring this man whom you love to the most irretrievable ruin. I do not know if you have heard of it, but the place where he lives, and where his ancestors have lived for three centuries before him, is deeply encumbered. Should he marry a girl without means it must be sold, leaving us all, not only beggars, but bankrupt. I will not insult you by supposing that the fact that you would find yourself in the painful position of the penniless wife of a person of nominal rank can influence you one way or another, but I do hope that the thought of the position in which he would find himself may influence you. He would be driven from his home, his name would be tarnished, and he would be left burdened with a wife and family, and without a profession, to seek such a living as chance might offer to him.”
“I know all this,” said Joan quietly; “but have you quite considered my side of the question, Lady Graves? You seem to have heard the facts: have you thought, then, in what state I shall be left if I refuse the offer that Sir Henry has so generously made to me?”
“Doubtless,” answered Lady Graves confusedly—“forgive me for speaking of it—adequate provision, the best possible, would be made——”
She stopped, for Joan held up her hand in warning, and said: “If you are going to offer me money compensation, I may as well tell you at once, it is the one thing that I shall not be able to forgive you. Also, where is the provision to come from? Do you wish to endow me with Miss Levinger’s money? I have not sunk to that, Lady Graves.”
“I ask your pardon,” she answered; “it is so terribly hard to deal with such a subject without giving offence. Believe me, I have considered your side of the question, and my heart bleeds for you, for I am asking more of you than any one has a right to ask of a woman placed in your position. Indeed, I come to you as a suppliant, not for justice, but for pity; to implore you, in the name of the love which you bear my son, to save him from himself yes, even at the cost of your own ruin.”
“You put things plainly, Lady Graves; but how if he loves me? In that event will it be any real kindness to save him from himself? Naturally I do not wish to sacrifice my life for nothing.”
“It will be a kindness, Miss Haste, if not to him, at any rate to his family. To the chance that a man in after years might learn to dislike, or even to hate the woman who has been forced upon him as a wife under such painful circumstances, I will only allude; for, although it is a common experience enough, it is possible, indeed I think that it is probable, that such a thing would never arise in your case. If he loves you, in my opinion he should sacrifice that love upon the altar of his duty; he has sinned, and it is right that he should suffer for his sin, as you have already suffered. Although I am his mother, Miss Haste, for Henry I have little sympathy in this matter; my sympathy is for you and you alone!”
“You spoke of his family, Lady Graves: a man is not his family. Surely his duty is towards himself, and not towards the past and the future.”
“I cannot agree with you. The duty of a man placed as Henry is, is chiefly owing to the house which for some few years he represents—in which, indeed, he has but a brief life interest—and to the name that has descended to him. The step which he contemplates would bring both to destruction; also it would bring me, his mother, who have given my all to bolster up the fortunes of his family, to utter penury in my old age. But of that I do not complain; I am well schooled in trouble, and it makes little difference to me in what fashion I drag out my remaining years. I plead, Miss Haste, not for myself and not for my son Henry, but for his forefathers and his descendants, and the home that for three centuries has been theirs. Do you know how his father, my beloved husband, died? He died broken-hearted, because in his last moments he learned that his only surviving son purposed to sacrifice all these on your account. Therefore although he is dead I plead for him also. Putting Henry out of the account, this is the plain issue, Miss Haste: are you to be deserted, or is Rosham to be sold and are the members of the family into which I have married to be turned out upon the world bankrupt and dishonoured?”
“Putting myself aside, Lady Graves, is your son to suffer for difficulties that he did not create? Did he spend the money which if it is not repaid will make him a bankrupt? Indeed, will he be made a bankrupt at all? Was he not earning his living in a profession which his family forced him to abandon, in order that he might take these troubles upon his own shoulders, and put an end to them by bartering himself in marriage to a rich lady for whom he has no affection?”
“These things are true; but still I say that he must suffer, and for the reasons that I have given.”
“You say that, Lady Graves, but what you mean is that he will not suffer. I will put your thoughts into words: you think that your son has been betrayed by me into a troublesome position, from which most men would escape simply enough—namely, by deserting the woman. As it chances, he is so foolish that, when he has heard of her trouble, he refuses to do this from a mistaken sense of honour. So you come to appeal to that fallen and unfortunate woman, although it must be an insult to you to be obliged even to speak to her, and because you are kind-hearted, you say that your son must suffer. How must he suffer according to your view? His punishment will be, firstly, that at the cost of some passing pain he escapes from a disgraceful marriage with a nameless girl—a half-lady—born of nobody knows whom and bred up in a public-house, with such results that on the first opportunity she follows her mother’s example; and secondly, that he must marry a sweet and beautiful lady who will bring him love as well as fortune, and having shaken himself clear from trouble of every sort, live happy and honoured in the position that he has inherited. And if, as you wish, I inflict all this upon him by refusing to marry him, what will be my reward? A life of shame and remorse for myself and my unborn child, till at length I die of a broken heart, or perhaps——” And she stopped.
“Oh! how can I ask it of you?” broke in Lady Graves.
“I do not know—that is a matter for your own conscience; but you have asked it, understanding all that it means to me. Well, Lady Graves, I will do as you wish, I will not accept your son’s offer. He never made me a promise of marriage, and I never asked or expected any. Whatever I have done I did for love of him, and it was my fault, not his—or as much my fault as his—and I must pay the price. I love him so well that I sacrifice my child and myself, that I put him out of my life—yes, and give him to the arms of my rival”—and Joan made a movement with her hands as though to push away some unseen presence.
“You are a very noble woman,” said Lady Graves—“so noble that my mind misgives me; and notwithstanding all that I have said, I am inclined to ask you to forget that promise and let things take their chance. Whatever may have been your faults, no man could do wrong to marry such a wife.”
“No, no—I have promised, and there’s an end; and may God have mercy on me, for He alone knows how I shall perform what now I undertake! Forgive me, your ladyship, but I am very tired.”
Then her visitor rose.
“My dear girl,” she said, “my dear, dear girl, in asking all this of you I have done only what I believed to be my duty; and should you, on reflection, come to any different conclusion from that which you have just expressed, I can only say that I for one shall not blame you, and that, whatever the event, you will always have me for your friend.” And, moved to it by a sudden impulse, she bent down and kissed Joan upon the forehead.
“Thank you,” said Joan, smiling faintly, “you are too good to me. Do not distress yourself; I dare say that I should have come to the same mind if I had not seen you, and I deserve it all.”
Then Lady Graves went. “It was very painful,” she reflected, as she left the house. “That girl has a heart of gold, and I feel as though I had done something wicked, though Heaven knows that I am acting for the best. Why, there is that man Rock again, staring at the house! What can he be looking for? Somehow I don’t like him; his face and manner remind me of a cat watching a caged bird.”
Joan watched the door close behind Lady Graves, then, pressing her hands to her head, she began to laugh hysterically. “It is like a scene out of a book,” she said aloud. “Well, the dream has come to an end sooner than I thought even. I knew it would, so what does it matter? And now what am I to do?” She thought a while, then went to the table and began to write. She wrote thus:—
“DEAR SIR HENRY,—
“I have received your letter, but could not answer it before because I was so ill. I am very much honoured by what you say in it, but it is not to be thought of that a gentleman in your position should marry a poor girl like me; and, if you did, I dare say that we should both of us be very unhappy, seeing that, as they say in Bradmouth, pigeons can’t nest with crows. It seems, from what you tell me, that I have written you some stuff while I was ill. I remember nothing about it, but if so, you must pay no attention to it, since people often talk and write nonsense when they are off their heads. You will be glad to know that I hope to get well again soon, but I am still too sick to see anybody at present, so it will be no use your coming to London to call upon me. I do not mind my life here at all, and hope to find another situation as soon as I can get about. Thanking you again,
“Believe me
“Your affectionate
“JOAN.
“P.S. You must not take any notice of what Mrs. Bird writes, as she is very romantic. I cannot help thinking how sorry you would be if I were to take you at your word. ‘Just fancy Sir Henry Graves married to a shop-girl!”
Joan gave much thought and care to the composition of this precious epistle, with the result that it was in its way a masterpiece of art—indeed, just the kind of letter that a person of her position and bringing up might be expected to write to a former flame of whom, for reasons of her own, she wished to see no more.
“There,” she said, as she finished re-reading her fair copy, “if that does not disgust him with me, I don’t know what will. Bah! It makes me sick myself. Oh! my darling, it is bitter hard that I should have to write to you like this. I know that I shall not be able to keep it up for long: some day I shall see you and tell you the truth, but not till you are married, dear.” And she rested her head, that now was clustered over with little curls, upon the edge of the table, and wept bitterly, till she heard the girl coming up with her tea, when she dried her eyes and sent her letter to the post.
Thus, then, did Joan begin to keep her promise.