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 eye, 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 rippling 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 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 a
stone coffin, having its top set thickly with rusted iron spikes, three inches
or more in length, especially designed to prevent the idle youth of all
generations from seating themselves upon this home of the dead.
If he struck upon these!
Joan rushed round the spiked tomb, and halted almost, but not quite, beneath
Henry’s hanging shape. His eyes fell upon her agonised and upturned face.
“Stand clear! I am coming,” he said in a low voice.
Watching, she saw the muscles of his arm work convulsively. Then the rough stem
of ivy began to slip through his clenched fingers. Another second, and he
dropped like a stone from a height of twenty feet or more. Instinctively Joan
stretched out her arms as though to catch him; but he struck the ground legs
first just in front of her, and, with a sharp exclamation, pitched forward
against her.
The shock was tremendous. Joan saw it coming, and prepared to meet it as well
as she might by bending her body forward, since, at all hazards, he must be
prevented from falling face foremost on the spiked tomb, there to be impaled.
His brow cut her lip almost through, his shoulder struck her bosom, knocking
the breath out of her, then her strong arms closed around him like a vice, and
down they went together.
All this while her mind remained clear. She knew that she _must_ not go
down backwards, or the fate from which she strove to protect him would overtake
her—the iron spikes would pierce her back and brain. By a desperate
effort she altered the direction of their fall, trusting to come to earth
alongside the tomb. But she could not quite clear it, as a sudden pang in the
right shoulder told her. For a moment they lay on the edge of the tomb, then
rolled free. Captain Graves fell undermost, his head striking with some
violence on a stone, and he lay still, as did Joan for nearly a minute, since
her breath was gone.
Presently the pain of breathlessness passed a little, and she began to recover.
Glancing at her arm, she saw that a stream of blood trickled along her sleeve,
and blood from her cut lips was falling on the bosom of her dress and upon the
forehead of Henry Graves beneath her, staining his white face.
“Oh, he is dead!” mourned Joan aloud; “and it is my
fault.”
At this moment Henry opened his eyes. Apparently he had overheard her, for he
answered: “Don’t distress yourself: I am all right.”
As he spoke, he tried to move his leg, with the result that a groan of agony
broke from him. Glancing at the limb, Joan saw it was twisted beneath him in a
fashion so unnatural that it became evident even to her inexperience that it
must be broken. At this discovery her distress overpowered her to so great an
extent that she burst into tears.
“Oh! your leg is broken,” she sobbed. “What shall I do?”
“I think,” he whispered, with a ghastly smile, biting his lips to
keep back any further expression of his pain, “that you will find a flask
in my coat pocket, if you do not mind getting it.”
Joan rose from her knees, and going to the coat, which lay hard by, took from
it a little silver flask of whiskey-and-water; then, returning, she placed one
arm beneath the injured man’s head and with the other contrived to pour
some of the liquid down his throat.
“Thank you,” he said: “I feel better”; then suddenly
fainted away.
In great alarm she poured some more of the spirit down his throat; for now a
new terror had taken her that he might be suffering from internal injuries
also. To her relief, he came to himself again, and caught sight of the red
stain growing upon her white dress.
“You are hurt,” he said. “What a selfish fellow I am,
thinking only of myself!”
“Oh, don’t think of me,” Joan answered: “it is nothing,
—a mere scratch. What is to be done? How can I get you from here? Nobody
lives about, and we are a long way from Bradmouth.”
“There is my horse,” he murmured, “but I fear that I cannot
ride him.”
“I will go,” said Joan; “yet how can I leave you by
yourself?”
“I shall get on for a while,” Henry answered. “It is very
good of you.”
Then, since there was no help for it, Joan rose, and running to where the horse
was tied, she loosed it. But now a new difficulty confronted her: her wounded
arm was already helpless and painful, and without its aid she could not manage
to climb into the saddle, for the cob, although a quiet animal enough, was not
accustomed to a woman’s skirts, and at every effort shifted itself a foot
or two away from her. At length Joan, crying with pain, grief and vexation,
determined to abandon the attempt and to set out for Bradmouth on foot, when
for the first time fortune favoured her in the person of a red-haired lad whom
she knew well, and who was returning homewards from an expedition in search of
the eggs of wild-fowl.
“Oh! Willie Hood,” she cried, “come and help me. A gentleman
has fallen from the tower yonder and broken his leg. Now do you get on this
horse and ride as hard as you can to Dr. Child’s, and tell him that he
must come out here with some men, and a door or something to carry him on. Mind
you say his leg is broken, and that he must bring things to tie it up with. Do
you understand?”
“Why you’re all bloody!” answered the boy, whose face
betrayed his bewilderment; “and I never did ride a horse in my
life.”
“Yes, yes, I am hurt too; but don’t think of that. You get on to
him, and you’ll be safe enough. Why, surely you’re not afraid,
Willie Hood?”
“Afraid? No, I aren’t afraid,” answered the boy, colouring,
“only I like my legs better than his’n, that’s all. Here
goes.” And with a prodigious and scuffling effort Willie landed himself
on the back of the astonished cob.
“Stop,” said Joan; “you know what to say?”
“Yes,” he answered proudly; “don’t you fret—I
know right enough. I’ll bring the doctor back myself.”
“No, Willie: you go on to the Crown and Mitre, and tell my aunt that a
gentleman, Captain Graves of Rosham, has hurt himself badly, and that she must
get a room ready for him. It had best be mine, for it’s the
nicest,” she added; “and there is nowhere else that he can
go.”
Willie nodded, and with a loud “gee-up” to the horse, started on
his journey, his legs hanging clear of the stirrups, and gripping the pommel of
the saddle with his right hand.
Having watched him disappear, Joan returned to where the wounded man lay. His
eyes were shut, but apparently he heard her come, for presently he opened them.
“What, back so soon?” he said; “I must have been
asleep.”
“No, no: I could not leave you. I found a boy and sent him on the horse
for the doctor. I only trust that he may get there safely,” she added to
herself.
“Very well: I am glad you have come back,” he said faintly.
“I am afraid that I am giving you a great deal of trouble, but do you
mind rubbing my hand? It feels so cold.”
She sat down on the grass beside him, having first wrapped his coat round him
as best she could, and began to chafe his hand. Presently the pain, which had
subsided for a while, set in more sharply then ever, and his fingers, that had
been like ice, were now burning hot. Another half-hour passed, while the
shadows lengthened and the evening waned, and Henry’s speech became
incoherent. He fancied himself on board a man-of-war, and uttered words of
command; he talked of foreign countries, and mentioned many names, among them
one that was not strange to Joan’s ears—that of Emma Levinger;
lastly even he spoke of herself:
“What a lovely girl!” he muttered. “It’s worth risking
one’s neck to please her. Worth risking one’s neck to please
her!”
A third half-hour passed; the fever lessened, and he grew silent. Then the cold
fit took him again—his flesh shivered.
“I am frozen,” he murmured through his chattering teeth: “for
Heaven’s sake help me! Can’t you see how cold I am?”
Joan was in despair. Alas and alas! she had nothing to put on him, for even if
she took it off, her thin white dress would be no protection. Again and again
he prayed for warmth, till at length her tender pity overcame her natural
shrinking, and she did the only thing she could. Lying down beside him, she put
her arms about him, and held him so, to comfort him if she might.
Apparently it did comfort him, for his moaning ceased, and by slow degrees he
sank into stupor. Now twilight was upon them, and still no help came. Where
could Willie have gone, Joan wondered: oh, if he did not come quickly, the man
would surely die! Her own strength was failing her she felt it going with the
blood that ebbed continually from the wound in her shoulder. Periods of mist
and oblivion alternated in her mind with times of clearest reason. Quick they
came and quicker, till at last all was a blank and she knew no more.
And now the twilight had grown into darkness, and these two lay silent, locked
in each other’s arms among the graves, and the stars shed their light
upon them.