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.