Joan Haste. Генри Райдер Хаггард

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 above his elbows, revealing a pair of very powerful and fair-skinned arms.

      “Please don’t – please!” implored Joan from below.

      “I am not going to give in now,” he answered; and, grasping a firm and projecting stone with his right hand, he set his foot upon a second fragment and began the ascent of the broken wall. Soon he reached the head of the slope in safety, but only to be encountered by another difficulty. The window slit containing the jackdaws’ nest was round the corner, a little above him on the surface of the wall, and it proved impossible to reach it from where he stood. Very cautiously he bent to one side and looked round the angle of the masonry. Close to him a strong stem of ivy grew up the tower, dividing into two branches some five feet below the nest. He knew that it would be dangerous to trust his weight to it, and still more dangerous to attempt the turning of the corner; but at this moment he was more set upon getting the young birds which this village beauty desired, than on his own safety or any other earthly thing. Henry Graves was a man who disliked being beaten.

      Very swiftly he shifted his hold, and, stretching out his left hand, he felt about until it gripped the ivy stem. Now he must go on. Exactly how it happened would be difficult to describe on paper, but in two more seconds his foot was in the fork of ivy and his face was opposite to the window slit containing the nest.

      “I can see the young ones,” he said. “I will throw them out, and you must catch them in your hat, for I can’t carry them.”

      “Oh! pray take care,” gasped Joan.

      He laughed by way of answer; and next second, with loud squawks and an impotent flapping of untried wings, a callow jackdaw was launched upon its first flight, to be deftly caught in Joan’s broad hat before it touched the earth. A second followed, then another, and another. The last bird was the strongest of the four, and flew some yards in its descent. Joan ran to catch it – a process that took a little time, for it lay upon its back behind a broken tombstone, and pecked at her hand in a fashion necessitating its envelopment in her handkerchief. Just as she secured it she heard Captain Graves say: “That’s the lot. Now I am coming down.”

      Next instant there was a sound as of something being torn. Joan looked up, to see him hanging by one arm against the sheer face of the tower. In attempting to repass the corner Henry’s foot had slipped, throwing all his weight on to the stem of ivy which he held; but it was not equal to the strain, and a slab of it had come away from the wall. To this ivy he clung desperately, striving to find foothold with his heels, his face towards her, for he had swung round. Uttering a low cry of fear, Joan sped back to the tower like a swallow. She knew that he must fall; but that was not the worst of it, for almost immediately beneath where he hung stood a raised tomb shaped like