Joan Haste
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JOAN HASTE
wear you out; and what is more, I dare say she will take some holding before we have done with her».
«A nurse!» said Mrs. Bird, throwing up her hands, «how am I to afford all that expense?»
«I don’t know; but can’t she afford it? Has she no friends?» «She has friends, sir, of a sort, but she seems to have run away from them, though I think that I have the address of her aunt. She’s got money too, I believe; and there’s some one who
gives her an allowance».
«Very likely, poor girl», answered the doctor drily. «Well, I think that under the circumstances you had better examine her purse and see what she has to go on with, and then you must write to this aunt and let her know how things are. I dare say that you will not get any answer, but it’s worth a penny stamp on the chance. And now I’ll be witness while you count the money».
Joan’s purse was easily found; indeed, it lay upon the table before them, for, notwithstanding Mr. Levinger’s admonitions, she was careless, like most of her sex, as to where she put her cash. On examination it was found to contain over fifteen pounds.
«Well, there’s plenty to go on with», said the doctor; «and when that’s gone, if the relations won’t do anything, I must get a sister to come in and nurse her. But I shouldn’t feel justified in recommending her case to them while she has so much money in her possession».
Within three hours the nurse arrived – a capable and kindly woman of middle age who thoroughly understood her business. As may be imagined, Mrs. Bird was glad enough to see
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her; indeed, between the nursing of Joan, who by now was in a high fever and delirious, upstairs, and attending to her paralytic husband below, her strength was well-nigh spent, nor could she do a stitch of the work upon which her family depended for their livelihood. That afternoon she composed a letter to Mrs. Gillingwater. It ran as follows: –
«Madam, –
«You may think it strange that I should write to you, seeing that you never heard of me, and that I do not know if there is such a person as yourself, though well enough acquainted with the name of Gillingwater down Yarmouth way in my youth; but I believe, whether I am right or wrong – and if I am wrong this letter will come back to me through the Post Office – that you are the aunt of a girl called Joan Haste, and that you live at Bradmouth, which place I have found on the map. I write, then, to tell you that Joan Haste has been lodging with me for some months, keeping herself quiet and respectable, and working in a situation in Messrs. Black & Parker’s shop in Oxford Street, which doubtless is known to you if ever you come to London. Two nights ago she came back from her work ill, and now she lies in a high fever and quite off her head (so you see she can’t tell me if you are her aunt or not). Whether she lives or dies is in the hands of God, and under Him of the doctor; but he, the doctor I mean, thinks that I ought to let her relations, if she has any, know of her state, both because it is right that they should, and so that they may help her if they will. I have grown very fond of her myself, and will do all I can for her; but I am a poor woman with an invalid husband and child to look after, and must work to support the three of us,
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so that won’t be much. Joan has about fifteen pounds in her purse, which will of course pay for doctor, food and nursing for a few weeks; but her illness, if things go well with her, is likely to be a long one, and if they don’t, then there will be her funeral expenses to meet, for I suppose that you would wish to have her buried decent in a private grave. Joan told me that there is some one who is a kind of guardian to her and supplies her with money, so if you can do nothing yourself, perhaps you will send him this letter, as I can’t write to him not knowing his address. Madam, I do hope that even if you have quarrelled with Joan, or if she hasn’t behaved right to you, that you will not desert her now in her trouble, seeing that if you do and she dies, you may come to be sorry for it in after years. Trusting to hear from you,
«Believe me, Madam, «Obediently yours, «Jane Bird, Dressmaker.
«P.S. – I enclose my card, and you will find my name in the London Directory».
When she had finished this letter, and addressed it thus, «Mrs. Gillingwater, «Bradmouth, «Please deliver at once», Mrs. Bird posted it with her own hands in the pillar-box at
the corner of Kent Street.
Then she returned to the house and sat down to reflect as to whether or not she should write another letter – namely, to the Mr. Henry Graves of Rosham, who, according to Joan’s story, was the author of her trouble, enclosing in it the epistle which the girl had composed at the commencement of her delirium. Finally she decided not to do so at present, out of no consideration for the feelings of this wicked and perfidious
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man, but because she could not see that it would serve any useful purpose. If Joan’s relations did not come forward, then it would be time enough to appeal to him for the money to nurse or to bury her. Or even if they did come forward, then she might still appeal to him – that is, if Joan recovered – to save her from the results of his evil doings and her folly by making her his wife. Until these issues were decided one way or another, it seemed to Mrs. Bird, who did not lack shrewdness and a certain knowledge of the world, that it would be wisest to keep silent, more especially in view of the fact that, as the doctor had pointed out, the whole tale might be the imagining of a mind diseased.
And here it may be convenient to say that some weeks went by before it was known for certain whether Joan would die or live. Once or twice she was in considerable if not in imminent danger; moreover, after periods of distinct improvement, she twice suffered from relapses. But in the end her own splendid constitution and youth, aided by the care and skill with which she was nursed, pulled her through triumphantly. When her return to life and health was assured, Mrs. Bird again considered the question of the advisability of communicating with Henry in the interests of her patient.
CHAPTER XXVII
LUCK AT LAST
On the morning after the posting of Mrs. Bird’s letter, Mrs. Gillingwater was sitting at breakfast in the parlour of the Crown and Mitre, in no happy frame of mind. Things had gone very ill with her since Joan disappeared, some months previously. To begin with, the ample allowance that Mr. Levinger had been in the habit of paying for his ward’s support no longer found its way into her pocket, and the sums received from that quarter were now inconsiderable, amounting indeed to a remission of rent only. Then, try as she would, she could not extract another farthing from Samuel Rock, who, in fact, had shown the very nastiest temper when she ventured to ask him for a trifle, having gone so far as to allege that she had been playing a double game with him as to Joan, and was concealing from him the secret of that young lady’s whereabouts.
«Look here, mum», he had said in conclusion, «if you want money you must give value, do you understand? At present you have had lots of money out of me, but I have had precious little value out of you. On the day that you tell me Joan’s true address, there will be five-and-twenty sovereigns to go into your pocket. Look, I keep them ready», – and going to a drawer he
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unlocked it and showed her the gold, at which Mrs. Gillingwater glared avariciously. «Yes, and on the day that I marry her there’ll be fifty more to follow. Don’t you be afraid but what I can afford it and will keep my word. But till I get that address you sha’n’t have a sixpence – no, not if it was to save you from the poorhouse».
«I tell you, Mr. Rock, that I have no more notion where she has flitted to than a babe unborn. If any one knows, it’s old Levinger or Sir Henry».
«And if they know, they keep their mouths shut», said Samuel. «Well, ma’am, you have got my answer, so now I will wish you good morning. When you can let me have that address I shall be glad to see you, but till then perhaps you’ll keep clear, as it don’t look well for a married woman to be always hanging about my house».
«Any one with a grain of sense in his head might be pretty certain that she wasn’t hanging after an oily-tongued halfbred saint like you», retorted Mrs. Gillingwater furiously. «I don’t wonder that Joan never could abide you, that I don’t, with your sneaking, shuffling ways, and your eye cocked round the corner. She hates the sight of you, and that’s why she’s run away. She hates you as much as she loves Sir Henry, and small blame to her: ay, you may turn green with jealousy if you like, but it’s true for all that. She’d rather run a mile barefoot to kiss his little finger than she would be carried in a coach- and-four to marry you. So there, you put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Rock!» And she retired, slamming the office and kitchen doors behind her.
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When her just wrath against Samuel had subsided, Mrs. Gillingwater considered the position, and since she must get money by hook or by crook, she determined to renew her attack upon Henry, this time by letter. Accordingly she wrote a long and rambling epistle, wherein among other things she accused him of the abduction of her niece, mildly suggesting even that he had murdered her in order to hide his misdeeds. The letter ended with a threat that she would publish his true «karacter» from one end of the county to the other unless the sum of ten pounds was immediately forthcoming. In a few days the answer came; but on opening it Mrs. Gillingwater discovered, to her disgust and dismay, that it was from a firm of lawyers, who informed her in the most pointed language that if any further attempt was made to blackmail their client she would be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.
All this was bad enough, yet it was but a beginning of troubles. Since Joan’s departure Mr. Gillingwater had been drunk at least twice as often as usual – as he declared in his sober moments, and with some truth, in order to console himself for the loss of Joan, who was the one human creature to whom he was attached. One of these drinking bouts culminated in his making a furious attack, in the bar of the Crown and Mitre, upon a customer who was also drunk. For this assault he was fined at the petty sessions; and on the matter coming before the bench on licensing day, his license to keep a publichouse, that already had been twice endorsed by the police, was taken away from him – which meant, of course, that the Crown and Mitre was closed as a place of refreshment for
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man and beast so long as the landlord, Mr. Levinger, chose to allow him to occupy it.
No wonder, then, that on this morning of the receipt of Mrs. Bird’s letter Mrs. Gillingwater was depressed in mind as she sat drinking her tea and trying to master an invitation from no less a person than «Victoria, by the grace of God, etc.», to attend a county court and show cause why she should not pay a certain sum of four pounds three and ninepence halfpenny, with costs, for various necessaries of life bought by and duly delivered to her, the said defendant.
Hearing a knock at the door, Mrs. Gillingwater threw down the summons with an expression that was more forcible than polite – having reference, indeed, to the temporal and spiritual welfare of her august sovereign and of all those who administer justice under her. Then, having looked carefully through the window to make sure that her visitor was not another bailiff or policeman, she opened the door and took her letter.
«I don’t know the writing», she muttered, turning it round and round suspiciously. «It may be another of those dratted summonses, or something of that sort; I’ve half a mind to throw it into the fire and swear that I never got it, only then that fool of a postman would give me the lie, for I took it from him myself».
In the end she opened the letter and spelt through its contents with difficulty and ever growing astonishment.
«Well», she said, as she put it down, «here’s some luck at last, anyway. If that silly girl doesn’t go and die it will be hard if I don’t turn an honest penny out of her, now that I know
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where she’s got to. Samuel would pay up to learn, but it’s best to let him lie awhile, for I can work more out of him when she gets well again – if she does. I’m off up to the old man’s, for that’s the safest game: he’ll scarcely bow me out with this in my hand; and if I don’t give him a nip or two before I am done with him, the mean old scamp, then my fingers grow on my feet, that’s all!» For be it known that on two recent occasions when Mrs. Gillingwater called, Mr. Levinger had declared himself not to be at home, and this when she could plainly see him standing by the study window.
Reaching Monk’s Lodge in due course, Mrs. Gillingwater, who was not afflicted with Joan’s humility, went to the front door and rang the bell boldly. Its sound disturbed Mr. Levinger from his reading, and he stepped to the window to perceive her standing on the doorstep, red and hot from her walk, and looking, as he thought, unusually large, coarse and violent.
«There is that dreadful woman again», he said to himself. «I can’t bear the sight of her. I wonder now if, had she lived, poor Mary would have looked like her by this time. Perhaps», and he sighed; then, opening the door, told the servant to say that he was not at home.
She obeyed, and presently there arose sounds of altercation. «It ain’t no use, you impudent barefaced thing, for you to stand there a-lying your soul away, when I saw him with my own eyes», shrilled the rough voice of Mrs. Gillingwater.
«Not at home: them’s my orders», answered the girl with warmth, as she attempted to shut the door.
«No, you don’t, hussy!» retorted the visitor, thrusting her foot between it and the jamb. «I’ve got some orders for you too.
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You go to your master and tell him that I must see him, about Joan Haste, and if he won’t let me in I’ll holler what I’ve got say outside the house».
Alarmed by the violence of her antagonist, the girl retreated, and, returning presently, showed Mrs. Gillingwater into the study without a word. Here she found Mr. Levinger standing by the fire, his face white with anger.
«Be seated, Mrs. Gillingwater», he said in a quiet voice, «and tell me what you mean by coming to make a disturbance here».
«I mean that I want to see you, sir», she answered sullenly, «and that I won’t be driven away from your door like a dog. Once for all I tell you, sir, that you’d better be careful how you treat me, for if you turn dirty on me, I’ll turn dirty on you. It’s only the dead that don’t speak, sir, and I’m very much alive, I am». Then she paused and added threateningly, «You can’t treat me as I’ve heard say you did another, Mr. Levinger».
«Have you quite done?» he asked. «Very well, then; be so good as to listen to me: you can tell nothing about me, for the best of all possible reasons, that you know nothing. On the other hand, Mrs. Gillingwater, I can, if necessary, tell something about you – perhaps you may remember to what I refer, if not I can refresh your memory – ah! I see that there is no need. A moment’s reflection will show you that you are entirely in my power. If you dare to make any attack upon my character, or even to repeat such a disturbance as you have just caused, I will ruin you and drive you to the workhouse, where, except for me, you would have been long ago. In earnest of what I say, your husband will receive to-morrow a summons
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