Joan Haste | Page 5

to hide this blemish that he wore a brown
beard, very long, but thin and straggling. His greatest peculiarity,
however, was his hands, which were shaped like those of a woman,
were long, white notwithstanding their exposure to the weather, and
adorned with almond-shaped nails that any lady might have envied.
These hands were never still; moreover, there was something furtive
and unpleasant about them, capable as they were of the strangest

contortions. Mr. Rock's garments suggested a compromise between the
dress affected by Dissenters who are pillars of their local chapel and
anxious to proclaim the fact, and those worn by the ordinary farmer,
consisting as they did of a long-tailed black coat rather the worse for
wear, a black felt wide-awake, and a pair of cord breeches and stout
riding boots.
"How do you do, Miss Haste?" said Samuel Rock, in his soft,
melodious voice, but not offering to shake hands, perhaps because his
fingers were engaged in nervously crushing the crown of his hat.
"How do you do?" answered Joan, starting violently. "How did you----"
("find me here," she was about to add; then, remembering that such a
remark would show a guilty knowledge of being sought after,
substituted) "get here?"
"I--I walked, Miss Haste," he replied, looking at his legs and blushing,
as though there were something improper about the fact; then added,
"You are quite close to my house, Moor Farm, you know, and I was
told that--I thought that I should find you here."
"I suppose you mean that you asked my aunt, and she sent you after
me?" said Joan bluntly.
Samuel smiled evasively, but made no other reply to this remark.
Then came a pause, while, with a growing irritation, Joan watched the
long white fingers squeezing at the black wide-awake.
"You had better put your hat on, or you will catch cold," she suggested,
presently.
"Thank you, Miss Haste, it is not what I am liable to--not but what I
take it kindly that you should think of my health;" and he carefully
replaced the hat upon his head in such a fashion that the long brown
hair showed beneath it in a ragged fringe.
"Oh, please don't thank me," said Joan rudely, dreading lest her remark

should be taken as a sign of encouragement.
Then came another pause, while Samuel searched the heavens with his
wandering blue eyes, as though to find inspiration there.
"You are very fond of graves, Miss Haste," he said at length.
"Yes, Mr. Rock; they are comfortable to sit on--and I don't doubt very
good beds to sleep in," she added, with a touch of grim humour.
Samuel gave a slight but perceptible shiver. He was a highly strung
man, and, his piety notwithstanding, he did not appreciate the allusion.
When you wish to make love to a young woman, to say the least of it, it
is disagreeable if she begins to talk of that place whither no earthly love
can follow.
"You shouldn't think of such things at your age--you should not indeed,
Miss Haste," he replied; "there are many things you have got to think of
before you think of them."
"What things?" asked Joan rashly.
Again Samuel blushed.
"Well--husbands, and--cradles and such-like," he answered vaguely.
"Thank you, I prefer graves," Joan replied with tartness.
By this time it had dawned upon Samuel that he was "getting no
forwarder." For a moment he thought of retreat; then the native
determination that underlay his soft voice and timid manner came to his
aid.
"Miss Haste--Joan," he said huskily, "I want to speak to you."
Joan felt that the hour of trial had come, but still sought a feeble refuge
in flippancy.
"You have been doing that for the last five minutes, Mr. Rock," she

said; "and I should like to go home."
"No, no, not yet--not till you have heard what I have to say." And he
made a quick movement as though to cut off her retreat.
"Well, be quick then," she answered, in a voice in which vexation and
fear struggled for the mastery.
Twice Samuel strove to speak, and twice words failed him, for his
agitation was very real. At last they came.
"I love you," he said, in an intense whisper. "By the God above you,
and the dead beneath your feet, I love you, Joan, as you have never
been loved before and never will be loved again!"
She threw her head back and looked at him, frightened by his passion.
The realities of his declaration were worse than she had anticipated. His
thin face was fierce with emotion, his sensitive lips quivered, and the
long lithe fingers of his right hand played with his beard as though he
were plaiting it. Joan grew seriously alarmed: she had never seen
Samuel