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“honest name”! So it was, however—she was an outcast, a waif and a
stray, and it was useless to cloak this fact. But, outcast or no, she
was mistress of herself, and would not be driven into marriage,
however advantageous, with Samuel Rock or any other man who was
repellent to her.
Having come to this conclusion, Joan’s spirits rose. After all, she
was young and healthy, and, she believed, beautiful, with the wide
world before her. There were even advantages in lacking an “honest
name,” since it freed her from responsibilities and rendered it
impossible for her to disgrace that which she had not got. As it was,
she had only herself to please in the world, and within reasonable and
decent limits Joan meant to please herself. Most of all did she mean
to do so in connection with these matters of the heart. Nobody had
ever loved her, and she had never found anybody to love; and yet, as
in all true women, love of one sort or another was the great desire
and necessity of her life. Therefore on this point she was determined:
she would never marry where she could not love.
Thus thought Joan; then, weary of the subject, she dismissed it from
her mind for a while, and, lying back upon the grass in idle
contentment, watched the little clouds float across the sky till, far
out to sea, they melted into the blue of the horizon. It was a perfect
afternoon, and she would enjoy what was left of it before she returned
to Bradmouth to face Samuel Rock and all her other worries.
Grasshoppers chirped in the flowers at her feet, a beautiful butterfly
flitted from tombstone to grey tombstone, sunning itself on each, and
high over her head flew the jackdaws, taking food to their young in
the crumbling tower above.
For a while Joan watched these jackdaws through her half-shut eyes,
till suddenly she remembered that her late employer Mr. Biggen’s
little boy had confided to her his ardent desire for a young bird of
that species, and she began to wonder if she could reach the nest and
rob it as a farewell gift to him.
Speculation led to desire, and desire to endeavour. The ruined belfry
stairway still ran up the interior of the tower for twenty feet or
more—to a spot, indeed, in the stonework where a huge fragment of
masonry had fallen bodily, leaving a V-shaped opening that reached to
the battlements. Ivy grew upon this gap in the flint rubble, and the
nest of the two jackdaws that Joan had been watching particularly, did
not appear to be more than a dozen feet above the top of the broken
stair. This stair she proceeded to climb without further hesitation.
It was not at all safe, but she was active, and her head being good,
she reached the point where it was broken away without accident, and,
taking her stand on the thickness of the wall, supported herself by
the ivy and looked up. There, twice her own height above her, was the
window slit with the nest in it, but the mortar and stone upon which
she must cling to reach it looked so crumbling and insecure that she
did not dare to trust herself to them. So, having finished her
inspection, Joan decided to leave those young jackdaws in peace and
descend to earth again.
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
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