Joan Haste, H. Rider Haggard [e book reader free .TXT] 📗

CHAPTER III

THE BEGINNINGS OF FATE

 

It was at this juncture that Captain Henry Archibald Graves, R.N.,

pursuing his way by the little-frequented sea road that runs along the

top of the cliff past the Ramborough ruins to Bradmouth, halted the

cob on which he was riding in order that he might admire the scene at

leisure. Presently his eyes, following the line of the ruined tower,

lit upon the figure of a girl standing twenty feet from the ground in

a gap of the broken wall. He was sixty yards away or more, but there

was something so striking and graceful about this figure, poised on

high and outlined against the glow of the westering sun, that his

curiosity became excited to know whose it was and what the girl might

be doing. So strongly was it excited, indeed, that, after a fateful

moment of hesitation, Captain Graves, reflecting that he had never

examined Ramborough Abbey since he was a boy, turned his horse and

rode up the slope of broken ground that intervened between him and the

churchyard, where he dismounted and made the bridle fast to a stunted

thorn. Possibly the lady might be in difficulty or danger, he

explained to himself.

 

When he had tied up the cob to his satisfaction, he climbed the bank

whereon the thorn grew, and reached the dilapidated wall of the

churchyard, whence he could again see the lower parts of the tower

which had been hidden from his view for a while by the nature of the

ground. Now the figure of the woman that had stood there was gone, and

a genuine fear seized him lest she should have fallen. With some haste

he walked to the foot of the tower, to halt suddenly within five paces

of it, for before him stood the object of his search. She had emerged

from behind a thicket of briars that grew among the fallen masonry;

and, holding her straw hat in her hand, was standing with her back

towards him, gazing upwards at the unattainable nest.

 

“She is safe enough, and I had better move on,” thought Captain

Graves.

 

At that moment Joan seemed to become aware of his presence; at any

rate, she wheeled round quickly, and they were face to face.

 

She started and blushed—perhaps more violently than the occasion

warranted, for Joan was not accustomed to meet strange men of his

class thus unexpectedly. Captain Graves scarcely noticed either the

start or the blush, for, to tell the truth, he was employed in

studying the appearance of the loveliest woman that he had ever

beheld. Perhaps it was only to him that she seemed lovely, and others

might not have rated her so highly; perhaps his senses deceived him,

and Joan was not truly beautiful; but, in his judgment, neither before

nor after did he see her equal, and he had looked on many women in

different quarters of the world.

 

She was tall, and her figure was rounded without being coarse, or even

giving promise of coarseness. Her arms were somewhat long for her

height, and set on to the shoulders with a peculiar grace, her hands

were rather thin, and delicately shaped, and her appearance conveyed

an impression of vigour and perfect health. These gifts, however, are

not uncommon among English girls. What, to his mind, seemed uncommon

was Joan’s face as it appeared then, in the beginning of her

two-and-twentieth year, with its curved lips, its dimpled yet resolute

chin, its flawless oval, its arched brows, and the steady, tender eyes

of deepest brown that shone beneath them. For the rest, her head was

small and covered with ripping chestnut hair gathered into a knot at

the back, her loose-bodied white dress, secured about the waist with a

leather girdle, was clean and simple, and her bearing had a grace and

dignity that Nature alone can give. Lastly, though from various

indications he judged that she did not belong to his own station in

life, she looked like a person of some refinement.

 

Such was Joan’s outward appearance. It was attractive enough, and yet

it was not her beauty only that fascinated Henry Graves. There was

something about this girl which was new to him; a mystery more

beautiful than beauty shone upon her sweet face—such a mystery as he

had noted once or twice in the masterpieces of ancient art, but never

till that hour on human lips or eyes. In those days Joan might have

posed as a model of Psyche before Cupid kissed her.

 

Now let us turn for a moment to Henry Archibald Graves, the man

destined to be the hero of her life’s romance.

 

Like so many sailors, he was short, scarcely taller than Joan herself

indeed, and stout in build. In complexion he was fair, though much

bronzed by exposure to foreign climates; his blue eyes were keen and

searching, as might be expected in one who had watched at sea by night

for nearly twenty years; and he was clean shaved. His features were

good though strongly marked, especially as regards the nose and chin;

but he could not be called handsome, only a distinguished-looking man

of gentlemanly bearing. At first sight the face might strike a

stranger as hard, but more careful examination showed it to be rather

that of a person who made it a practice to keep guard over his

emotions. In repose it was a somewhat proud face, that of one

accustomed to command and to be obeyed; but frank and open withal,

particularly if its owner smiled, when it became decidedly pleasing.

 

For a few seconds they stood still in their mutual surprise, looking

at each other, and the astonishment and admiration written in the

stranger’s eyes were so evident, and yet so obviously involuntary,

that Joan blushed more deeply than before.

 

Captain Graves felt the situation to be awkward. His first impulse was

to take off his hat and go, his next and stronger one to stay and

explain.

 

“I really beg your pardon,” he said, with a shyness which was almost

comic; “I saw a lady standing on the tower as I was riding by, and

feared that she might be in difficulties.”

 

Joan turned her head away, being terribly conscious of the blush which

would not fade. This stranger’s appearance pleased her greatly;

moreover, she was flattered by his notice, and by the designation of

“lady.” Hitherto her safety had not been a matter of much moment to

any one, except, perhaps, to Samuel Rock.

 

“It is very kind of you,” she answered, with hesitation; “but I was in

no danger—I got down quite easily.”

 

Again Captain Graves paused. He was puzzled. The girl’s voice was as

sweet as her person—low and rich in tone—but she spoke with a slight

Eastern-counties accent. Who and what was she?

 

“Then I must apologise for troubling you, Miss— Miss–-?”

 

“I am only Joan Haste of Bradmouth, sir,” she interrupted confusedly,

as though she guessed his thoughts.

 

“Indeed! and I am Captain Graves of Rosham—up there, you know.

Bradmouth is—I mean, is the view good from that tower?”

 

“I think so; but I did not go up to look at it. I went to try to get

those young jackdaws. I wanted them for a little boy in Bradmouth, the

clergyman’s son.”

 

“Ah!” he said, his face lighting up, for he saw an opportunity of

prolonging the acquaintance, which interested him not a little; “then

perhaps I may be of service after all. I think that I can help you

there.” And he stepped towards the tower.

 

“I don’t believe that it is quite safe, sir,” said Joan, in some

alarm; “please do not take the trouble,”—and she stretched out her

hand as though to detain him.

 

“Oh, it is no trouble at all, I assure you: I like climbing. You see,

I am well accustomed to it. Once I climbed the second Pyramid, the one

with the casing on it, though I won’t try that again,” he replied,

with a pleasant laugh. And before she could interfere further he was

mounting the broken stair.

 

At the top of it Henry halted, surveying the crumbling slope of wall

doubtfully. Then he took his coat off, threw it down into the

churchyard, and rolled his shirt sleeves up