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Only one love

by Charles Garvice · English · Gutenberg #35523 · 618,294 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Only one love
        or, Who was the heir

Author: Charles Garvice


        
Release date: March 9, 2011 [eBook #35523]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35523

Credits: Produced by Heather Clark, eagkw and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONLY ONE LOVE ***




Produced by Heather Clark, eagkw and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









ONLY ONE LOVE

Or

WHO WAS THE HEIR


By

CHARLES GARVICE

Author of

  "Claire," "Elaine," "Her Heart's Desire," "Leola Dale's Fortune,"
  "Her Ransom," "Leslie's Loyalty," "Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold,"
  "The Marquis," "Only a Girl's Love,"
  "She Loved Him," "A Wasted Love,"
  Etc.


CHICAGO

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

407-429 Dearborn Street




  M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
  PRINTERS AND BINDERS
  407-429 DEARBORN STREET
  CHICAGO




ONLY ONE LOVE

Or,

Who Was The Heir?




CHAPTER I.


One summer's evening a young man was tramping through the Forest of
Warden. "Forest of Warden" sounds strange, old-fashioned, almost
improbable; but, thank Heaven, there yet remain, in over-crowded
England, some spots, few and far between though they may be, still
untouched by the greedy fingers of the destroyers, whom men call
Progress and Civilization.

To this grand old forest, for instance, whose dim shades echo the soft
pit-pat of the deer and the coo of the wood-pigeon, comes not the
tourist, with hideous knapsack and suit of startling check; no panting
locomotive belches out its cloud of coal smoke to dim the brightness of
the sky and choke the elms and oaks which reared their stately heads
before their fell enemy, the steam engine, was dreamt of.

So remote and unfrequented is the forest that there is scarcely a road
from end to end of its umbrageous length, for the trail made by the
rough carts of the woodmen and charcoal burners could scarcely be
dignified by the title of thoroughfare, and a few footpaths that wind
about the glades are so faint and seldom used as to be scarcely
distinguished from the undergrowth of ferny moss around.

Along one of the footpaths the young man tramped, occasionally stopping
for a moment to look up at the sky which shone redly through the
openings of the trees or to watch some frightened hare scamper across
the glade.

Every now and then a herd of deer would flit through the undergrowth,
turning toward him distended eyes of alarm and curiosity, for of the two
kinds of men with whom they were acquainted--charcoal burners and
woodmen--he was neither; nor did he belong to the tribe of tourists, for
he carried no knapsack, and instead of the inevitable check and
knickerbockers, was clad in a loose Cheviot suit, which, though well
worn, bore about it the unmistakable stamp of Saville Row.

That he was young and light-hearted was evident from the fact that he
broke out into an occasional snatch of an air from the last new popular
_opera bouffe_, notwithstanding that the evening was closing in and he
had most completely and emphatically lost his way.

Now, to lose your way in a forest reads rather romantic and entertaining
than otherwise, but like shipwreck, or falling into the hands of Greek
banditti, it is a much pleasanter thing on paper than in reality.

A bed of moss, though very charming in the daytime, is not nearly so
comfortable as a spring mattress, and is sure to be damp, and primeval
oaks, majestic and beautiful as they are, do not keep out the draught.
The worst room in the worst inn is preferable to a night's lodging in
the grandest of forests.

But, though he had never been in the Warden Forest before, the young man
knew it would be midsummer madness to hope for an inn and was wandering
along on the chance of coming across some woodman's hut, or by meeting a
stray human being of whom he could inquire his way.

He was tired--he had been walking since morning, and he was hungry and
athirst, but he tramped on, and smoked and sang as carelessly as if he
were strolling down the shady side of Pall Mall.

Slowly the sun set, and the glades, which had been dusky an hour ago,
grew dark. The faint footpath grew still more indistinct, the
undergrowth denser and more difficult for persons walking.

The pedestrian fought on for some time, but at last, as he stumbled over
one of the gnarled roots which a grand chestnut had thrust up through
the ground, he stopped and, looking round, shook his head.

"A regular babe in the wood, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "I shall have to
make a night of it, I expect. Wonder whether the robins will be good
enough to cover me over in the proper nursery-book style? Is it any good
halloing, I wonder? I tried that an hour ago, much to the disgust of the
live animals; and I don't think I can kick up a row at this time of
night. Let's see how the 'bacca goes. Hem! about three--perhaps four
pipes. I wish I had something to eat and drink; what a fool I was to
leave that piece of steak at breakfast. Steak! I mustn't think of
it--that way madness lies. Well, this looks about as sheltered a spot as
I could find--I'll turn in. I wonder if anybody has, ever since the
world began, hit upon a short cut? I never have, and hang me if I'll try
it again. By George! the grass is wet already. Such a likely place for
snakes--find my pocket full when I wake, no doubt."

Then, with a laugh, he dropped down amongst the long brake; but the idea
of going to bed in a forest, at the early hour of nine, was too much for
him, and instead of composing himself to rheumatic slumber, he began to
sing:

    "Oh, wake and call me early, mother,
    Call me early, mother, dear."

Scarcely had he finished the line when there came through the darkness,
as if in response, a short, sharp bark of a dog.

The wanderer leapt to his feet as if something had bitten him, and after
listening intently for a moment, exclaimed:

"Another chance, by Jove!" and sent up a shout that, ringing through the
stillness, echoed from tree to tree, and at last called forth the
answering bark from the distant dog.

Knocking out his pipe as he ran, he made his way as best he could toward
the sound, shouting occasionally and listening warily to the dog's
response.

At last, after many a stumble, he found himself in a narrow glade, at
the end of which, faintly defined against the patch of sky, stood the
figure of a man.

"Saved, by George!" exclaimed the youth, with mock melodramatic
emphasis.

"Halloa! Hi! Wait a moment there, will you?" he shouted.

The figure stopped and turned its head, then, after what seemed a
moment's hesitation, brought back the dog, which was running toward the
belated youth, and suddenly disappeared.

The wanderer pulled up and stared about the glade with an astonishment
which immediately gave place to wrath.

"Confound his impudence!" he exclaimed, fiercely. "I'll swear he saw me!
What on earth did he mean by going off like that? Did the fool think I
was a ghost? I'll show him I'm a ghost that carries a big stick if I
come up with him. Confound him, where----" Then, as a sudden thought
struck him, he set off running down the glade, barking like a dog.

No live, real dog could withstand such an invitation. The dog ahead set
up an angry echo, through which the youth could hear the man's angry
attempt to silence the animal, and guided by the two voices, the
wanderer struck into a footpath, and running at a good pace, came
suddenly into a small clearing, in which stood a small wooden hut,
before the door of which man and dog were standing as if on guard.

For a moment the two men stood and regarded each other in silence, the
youth hot and angry, the man calm and grim.

Each, in his way, was a fine specimen of his class; the man, with his
weather-beaten face and his thick-set limbs, clad in woodman's garb; the
youth, with his frankly handsome countenance and patrician air.

"What the deuce do you mean by leaving a man in the lurch like this?"
demanded the young man, angrily. "Did you take me for a ghost?"

The woodman, half leaning on his long-handled axe, regarded him grimly.

"No. I don't come at every man's beck and call, young sir. What's your
will with me?"

"Why didn't you stop when I called to you just now?" retorted the youth,
ignoring the question.

"Because it didn't suit me," said the man, not insolently, but with
simple, straightforward candor. "You are answered, young sir; now, what
do you want?"

The young man looked at him curiously, conquering his anger.

"Well, I've lost my way," he said, after a moment's pause.

"Where are you going?" was the quiet response.

"To Arkdale."

The woodman raised his eyes, and looked at him for a moment.

"Arkdale? Yes, you are out of the way. Arkdale lies to the west. Follow
me, young sir, and I'll show you the road."

"Stop a moment," said the other; "though you declined to wait for me
just now, you would not refuse to give me a glass of water, I suppose."

The man turned, he had already strode forward, and laid his hand on the
latch of the cottage door.

The young man was following as a matter of course; but the woodman, with
his hand still on the latch, pointed to a wooden seat under the window.

"Take your seat there, sir," he said, with grim determination.

The other stared, and the hot blood rose to his face; but he threw
himself on the bench.

"Very well," he said; "I see you still think me a ghost; you'll be more
easy when you see me drink. Look sharp, my good fellow."

The woodman, not a whit moved by this taunt, entered the cottage, and
the young man heard a bolt shot into its place.

A few moments passed, and then the man came out with a plate and a
glass.

"Thanks," said the young man. "What's this?"

"Cider--cake," was the curt answer.

"Oh, thanks," repeated the other; "jolly good cider, too. Come, you're
not half a bad fellow. Do you know I meant to give you a hiding when I
came up to you?"

"Very like," said the man, calmly. "Will you have any more?"

"Another glass, thanks."

With his former precaution in the way of bolting and barring, the man
entered the cottage and reappeared with a refilled glass.

This the young man drank more leisurely, staring with unconcealed
curiosity at his entertainer.

It was a kind of stare that would embarrass six men out of ten, and
madden the remaining four; but the woodman bore it with the calm
impassiveness of a wooden block, and stood motionless as a statue till
the youth set down the glass, then he raised his hand and pointed to the
west.

"Yonder lies Arkdale."

"Oh! How far?"

"Four miles and a half by the near road. Follow me, and I will put you
into it."

"All right, lead on," said the other; but as he rose he turned, and
while refilling his pipe stared at the closely locked cottage.

"Comfortable kind of crib that, my man."

The woodman nodded curtly.

"You are a woodman?"

Another nod.

"And poacher too, eh? No offense," he added, coolly. "I only supposed so
from the close way in which you keep your place locked up."

"Suppose what you please," retorted the woodman, if words so calmly
spoken could be called a retort. "Yonder lies your road, you'd best be
taking to it."

"No hurry," retorted the young man, thrusting his hands in his pockets
and smiling at the ill-concealed impatience which struggled through the
grave calm on the weather-beaten face. "Well, I'm coming. You're not
half such a bad sort, after all. What have you got inside there that you
keep so close, eh? Some of the crown jewels or some of the Queen's
venison? Take my advice, old fellow--if you don't want people to be
curious, don't show such anxiety to keep 'em out of your crib."

The man, pacing on ahead, knit his brows as if struck by the idea.

"Curious folk don't come this way, young sir," he said, reluctantly.

"So I should think," retorted the other. "Well, I'm not one of the
curious, though you think I am. I don't care a button what you've got
there. Will you have a pipe? I've got some 'bacca."

The man shook his head, and they walked on in silence for some minutes,
the footpath winding in and out like a dimly-defined serpent. Presently
it widened, and the woodman stopped short and pointed down the leafy
lane.

"Follow this path," he said, "until you come to a wood pile; take the
path to the left of it, and it will bring you to Arkdale. Good-night,
young sir."

"Here, stop!" said the young man, and he held out his hand with a dollar
in it. "Here's a trifle to drink my health with."

The woodman looked at the coin, then shook his head slowly; and with
another "good-night" turned and tramped off.

Not at all abashed the young man restored the coin to his pocket,
laughed, and strode on.

The woodman walked back a few yards, then stopped, and looked after the
stalwart figure until it deepened in the gloom, a thoughtful, puzzled
expression upon his face, as if he were trying to call up some
recollection.

With a shake of his head, denoting failure, he made his way to the
cottage, unlocked it and entered.

The door opened into what appeared to be the living room. It was small
and plainly furnished, after the manner of a woodman's hut, and yet,
after a moment's glance, a stranger would have noticed a subtle air of
refinement in common with better habitations.

The table and chairs were of plain deal, the walls were of pine, stained
and varnished, but there was a good thick carpet on the floor, and on
one side of the room hung a bookcase filled with well-bound volumes.

Beside the table, on which was spread the supper, stood a chair, more
luxurious than its fellows, and covered with a pretty chintz. The knife
and fork laid opposite this chair was of a better quality than the
others on the table; and beside the knife and fork lay a white napkin
and a daintily engraved glass; the other drinking vessels on the table
were of common delf. As the woodman entered, a woman, who was kneeling
at a fire in an adjoining room, looked round through the doorway.

"Is't you, Gideon?"

"Yes," he answered. "Where is Una?"

"Una? Isn't she with you? I heard voices. Who was it?"

"Where is Una?" he said, ignoring her question.

"In the clearing, I suppose," said the woman. "She went out a few
minutes ago. I thought she went to meet you?"

The man opened the door and called the dog, who had been wandering round
the room in an uneasy fashion.

"Go, Dick," he said. "Go fetch her!"

Then he came and stood by the fire thoughtfully.

"No," he said, "it was not Una. I wish she wouldn't leave the cot after
dusk."

"Why not? What's the fear? What has happened? Who was that I heard with
you?"

"A stranger," he said, "a young gentleman lost his way. How long has she
been gone?"

"Not ten minutes. A young gentleman. Think of that! How came he here?"

"Lost his way. He followed me through the Chase. He has gone on to
Arkdale."

"Lost his way," repeated the woman. "Poor fellow! Five miles it is to
Arkdale! A gentleman! A gentleman, did thee say?"

"Ay," responded the man, frowning. "An outspoken one, too; I heard him
at the bottom of the Chase and thought to give him the slip, but he was
cunning, he teased the dog and ran us down. I had hard work to get rid
of him; he looked sore tired. No matter, he's gone," and he gave a sigh
of relief. "'Tis the first stranger that has come upon us since she
came."

"Lost his way," murmured the woman, as she lifted a saucepan from the
fire, "and a gentleman. It is a rare sight in Warden Forest. Why,
Gideon, what has happened to thee?" and saucepan in hand, she stared at
her husband's cloudy brow.

"Tut--nothing!" he answered, thrusting a projecting log into the fire
with his foot. "The young man's face seemed--as I thought--'twas but a
passing fancy--but I thought it was familiar. It was the voice more than
the face. And a bold face it was. I wish," he broke off, "that the lass
would come in. From to-night I will have no more wanderings after
sunset! One stranger follows another, and it is not safe for her to be
out so late----"

"Hush!" interrupted the woman, holding up a forefinger. "Here she
comes."

"Not a word!" said Gideon, warningly.

As he spoke the door opened, the dog bounded in with a short yelp of
satisfaction, and close behind him, framed like a picture in the dark
doorway, stood a young girl.




CHAPTER II.


She had evidently run some distance, for she stood panting and
breathless, the color coming and going on her face, which shone out of
the hood which half covered her head.

She was dressed in a plain cotton dress which a woodman's daughter might
wear, and which was short enough in the skirt to reveal a shapely foot,
and scant enough in the sleeves to show a white, shapely arm.

But no one would have wasted time upon either arm or foot after a glance
at her face.

To write it down simply and curtly, it was a beautiful face; but such a
description is far too meager and insufficient. It requires an artist, a
Rembrandt or a Gainsborough, to describe it, no pen-and-ink work can do
it. Beautiful faces can be seen by the score by anyone who chooses to
walk through Hyde Park in the middle of the season, but such a face as
this which was enframed by the doorway of the woodman's hut is not seen
in twenty seasons.

It was a face which baffles the powers of description, just as a sunset
sky laughs to scorn the brush of the ablest painter. It was neither dark
nor fair, neither grave nor sad, though at the moment of its entrance a
smile played over it as the moonbeams play over a placid lake.

To catalogue in dry matter-of-fact fashion, the face possessed dark
brown eyes, bright brown hair, and red, ripe lips; but no catalogue can
give the spirit of the face, no description convey an idea of the swift
and eloquent play of expression which, like a flash of sunlight, lit up
eyes and lips.

Beautiful! The word is hackneyed and worn out. Here was a face more
than beautiful, it was soulful. Like the still pool in the heart of a
wood, it mirrored the emotion of the heart as faithfully as a glass
would reflect the face. Like a glass--joy, sorrow, pleasure, mirth, were
reflected in the eloquent eyes and mobile lips.

Of concealment the face was entirely ignorant; no bird of the forest in
which she lived could be more frank, innocent of guile, and ignorant of
evil.

With her light summer cloak held round her graceful figure, she stood in
the doorway, a picture of grace and youthful beauty.

For a moment she stood silent, looking from the woodman to his wife
questioningly, then she came into the room and threw the hood back,
revealing a shapely head, shining, bronze-like, in the light of the
lamp.

"Did you send Dick for me, father?" she said, and her voice, like her
face, betokened a refinement uncommon in a woodman's daughter. "I was
not far off, only at the pool to hear the frogs' concert. Dick knows
where to find me now, he comes straight to the pond, though he hates
frogs' music; don't you, Dick?"

The dog rubbed his nose against her hand and wagged his tail, and the
girl took her seat at the table.

To match face and voice, her mien and movements were graceful, and she
handled the dinner-napkin like--a lady. It was just that, expressed in a
word. The girl was not only beautiful--but a lady, in appearance, in
tone, in bearing--and that, notwithstanding she wore a plain cotton gown
in a woodman's hut, and called the woodman "father."

"You did not come by your usual path, father," she said, turning from
the deerhound, who sat on his haunches and rested his nose in her lap,
quite content if her hand touched his head, say once during the meal.

"No, Una," he replied, and though he called her by her Christian name,
and without any prefix there was a subtle undertone in his voice and in
his manner of addressing her, which seemed to infer something like
respect. "No, I went astray."

"And you were late," she said. "Was anything the matter?" she added,
turning her eyes upon him, with, for the first time, an air of
interrogation.

"Matter? No," he said, raising himself and coming to the table. "What
should be? Yes, I came home by another path, and I don't think you must
come to meet me after dark, Una," he added, with affected carelessness.

"No?" she asked, looking from one to the other with a smile of surprise.
"Why not? Do you think I should get lost, or have you seen any wolves in
Warden Forest, father? I know every path from end to end, and wolves
have left merry England forever."

"Not quite," said Gideon, absently.

"Yes, quite," and she laughed. "What Saxon king was it who offered
fivepence for every wolf's head? We were reading about it the other
night, don't you remember?"

"Reading! you are always reading," said the woman, as she put a smoking
dish on the table, and speaking for the first time. "It's books, books,
from morn to night, and your father encourages you. The books will make
thee old before thy time, child, and put no pence in thy father's
pocket."

"Poor father!" she murmured, and leaning forward, put her arms round his
neck. "I wish I could find in the poor, abused books the way to make him
rich."

Gideon had put up his rough hand to caress the white one nestling
against his face, but he let his hand drop again and looked at her with
a slight cloud on his brow.

"Rich! who wants to be rich? The word is on your lips full oft of late,
Una. Do _you_ want to be rich?"

"Sometimes," she answered. "As much for your sake as mine. I should like
to be rich enough for you to rest, and"--looking round the plainly
furnished but comfortable room--"and a better house and clothes."

"I am not weary," he said, his eyes fixed on her with a thoughtful air
of concealed scrutiny. "The cot is good enough for me, and the purple
and fine linen I want none of. So much for me; now for yourself, Una?"

"For myself?" she said. "Well, sometimes I think, when I have been
reading some of the books, that I should like to be rich and see the
world."

"It must be such a wonderful place! Not so wonderful as I think it,
perhaps, and that's just because I have never seen anything of it. Is it
not strange that for all these years I have never been outside Warden?"

"Strange?" he echoed, reluctantly.

"Yes; are other girls so shut in and kept from seeing the world that one
reads so pleasantly of?"

"Not all. It would be well for most of them if they were. It has been
well for you. You have not been unhappy, Una?"

"Unhappy! No! How could one be unhappy in Warden? Why, it's a world in
itself, and full of friends. Every living thing in it seems a friend,
and an old friend, too. How long have we lived in Warden, father?"

"Eighteen years."

"And I am twenty-one. Mother told me yesterday. Where did we live before
we came to Warden?"

"Don't worry your father, Una," said Mrs. Rolfe, who had been listening
and looking from one to the other with ill-concealed anxiety; "he is too
weary to talk."

"Forgive me, father. It was thoughtless of me. I should have remembered
that you have had a hard day, while I have been idling in the wood, and
over my books; it was stupid of me to trouble you. Won't you sit down
again and--and I will promise not to talk."

"Say no more, Una. It grieves me to think that you might not be content,
that you were not happy; if you knew as much of the world that raves and
writhes outside as I do, you would be all too thankful that you are out
of the monster's reach, and that all you know of it is from your books,
which--Heaven forgive them--lie all too often! See now, here is
something I found in Arkdale;" and as he spoke he drew from the
capacious pocket of his velveteen jacket a small volume.

The girl sprang to her feet--not clumsily, but with infinite grace--and
leaned over his shoulder eagerly.

"Why, father, it is the poems you promised me, and it was in your pocket
all the while I was wearying you with my foolish questions."

"Tut, tut! Take your book, child, and devour it, as usual."

Once or twice Gideon looked up, roused from his reverie by the rustling
of the trees as the gusts shook them, and suddenly the sky was rent by a
flash of lightning and a peal of thunder, followed by the heavy rattle
of the rainstorm.

"Hark at the night, father!" she said, raising her eyes from the book,
but only for a moment.

"Ay, Una," he said, "some of the old elms will fall to-night. Woodman
Lightning strikes with a keen ax."

Suddenly there came another sound which, coming in an interval of
comparative quiet, caused Una to look up with surprise.

"Halloa there! open the door."

Gideon sprang to his feet, his face pale with anger.

"Go to your room, Una," he said.

She rose and moved across the room to obey, but before she had passed up
the stairs the woodman had opened the door, and the voice came in from
the outside, and she paused almost unconsciously.

"At last! What a time you have been! I've knocked loud enough to wake
the dead. For Heaven's sake, open the door and let me in. I'm drenched
to the skin."

"This is not an inn, young sir."

"No, or it would soon come to ruin with such a landlord. It's something
with four walls and a roof, and I must be content with that. You don't
mean to say that you won't let me come in?"

"I do not keep open house for travelers."

"Oh, come," exclaimed the young man, with a short laugh. "It's your own
fault that I am back here; you told me the wrong turning. I'll swear I
followed your directions. I must have been walking in a circle; anyhow I
lost my way, and here I am, and, with all your churlishness, you can't
refuse me shelter on such a night as this."

"The storm has cleared. It is but an hour's walk to Arkdale; I will go
with you."

"That you certainly will not, to-night, nor any other man," was the
good-humored retort. "I've had enough of your confounded forest for
to-night. Why, man, are you afraid to let me in? It's a nasty thing to
have to do, but----" and with a sudden thrust of his strong shoulder he
forced the door open and passed the threshold.

But the woodman recovered from the surprise in a moment and, seizing him
by the throat, was forcing him out again, when, with a low cry, Una
sprang forward and laid her hand on his arm.

At her touch Gideon's hands dropped to his side. The stranger sprang
upright, but almost staggered out with discomfited astonishment.

For the first time in her life she stood face to face with a man other
than a woodman or a charcoal-burner. And as she looked her heart almost
stopped beating, the color died slowly from her face. Was it real, or
was it one of the visionary heroes of her books created into life from
her own dreaming brain?

With parted lips she waited, half longing, half dreading, to hear him
speak.

It seemed ages before he found his voice, but at last, with a sudden
little shake of the head, as if he were, as he would have expressed it,
"pulling himself together," he took off his wide hat and slowly turned
his eyes from the beautiful face of the girl to the stern and now set
face of the woodman.

"Why didn't you tell me that you had a lady--ladies with you?" half
angrily, half apologetically. Then he turned quickly, impulsively, to
Una. "I hope you will forgive me. I had no idea that there was anyone
here excepting himself. Of course I would rather have got into the first
ditch than have disturbed you. I hope, I do hope you believe that,
though I can't hope you'll forgive me. Good-night," and inclining his
head he turned to the door.

Una, who had listened with an intent, rapt look on her face, as one sees
a blind man listen to music, drew a little breath of regret as he ceased
speaking, and then, with a little, quick gesture, laid her hand on her
father's arm.

It was an imploring touch. It said as plainly as if she had spoken:

"Do not let him go."

"Having forced your way into my house you--may remain."

"Thanks. I should not think of doing so. Good-night."

"No; you must not go. He does not mean it. You have made him angry.
Please do not go!"

The young man hesitated, and the woodman, with a gesture that was one of
resigned despair, shut the door.

Then he turned and pointed to the next room.

"There's a fire there," he said.

"I'd rather be out in the wood by far," he said, "than be here feeling
that I have made a nuisance of myself. I'd better go."

But Gideon Rolfe led the way into the next room, and after another look
from Mrs. Rolfe to Una, the young man followed.

Una stood in the center of the room looking at the door behind which he
had disappeared, like one in a dream. Then she turned to Mrs. Rolfe.

"Shall I go, mother?"

"Yes. No. Wait till your father comes in."

After the lapse of ten minutes the woodman and the woodman's guest
re-entered. The latter had exchanged his wet clothes for a suit of
Gideon's, which, though it was well-worn velveteen, failed to conceal
the high-bred air of its present wearer.

Meanwhile Mrs. Rolfe had been busily spreading the remains of the
supper.

"'Tis but plain fare, sir," she said; "but you are heartily welcome."

"Thanks. It looks like a banquet to me," he added, with the short laugh
which seemed peculiar to him. "I haven't tasted food, as tramps say,
since morning."

"Dear! dear!" exclaimed the wife.

Una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of Ivanhoe,
then--and with a feeling of satisfaction--of Hotspur.

Figure matched face. Though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a
trained athlete--stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all
combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding.

Wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman--in Gideon's suit of
worn velveteen he looked one still.

Silent and motionless, Una watched him.

"Yes," he said, "I got some lunch at the inn--'Spotted Boar' at
Wermesley--about one o'clock, I suppose. I have never felt so hungry in
my life."

"Wermesley?" said the wife. "Then you came from----"

"London, originally. I got out at Wermesley, meaning to walk to Arkdale;
but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?"

Gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear.

"I can't think how I missed the way," he went on. "I found the charcoal
burner's hut, and hurried off to the left----"

"To the right, I said," muttered Gideon.

"Right, did you? Then I misunderstood you. Anyhow, I lost the right
path, and wandered about until I came back to this cottage."

"And you were going to stay at Arkdale? 'Tis but a dull place," said
Mrs. Rolfe.

"No; I meant taking the train from there to Hurst Leigh----Hurst
Leigh," repeated the young man. "Do you know it? Ah," he went on, "don't
suppose you would; it's some distance from here. Pretty place. I am
going to see a relative. My name is Newcombe--Jack Newcombe I am
generally called--and I am going on a visit to Squire Davenant."

Gideon Rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and
strode into the lamplight.

The young man looked up in surprise.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

With an effort Gideon Rolfe recovered himself.

"I--I want a light," he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his
pipe. Then turning toward the window, he said: "Una, it is late; go to
bed now."

She rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held
out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her
with an intent, but wholly respectful look.

But before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them,
and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his
seat with the other.




CHAPTER III.


A hearty meal after a long fast invariably produces intense sleepiness.

No sooner had the young gentleman who was called, according to his own
account, Jack Newcombe, finished his supper than he began to show
palpable signs of exhaustion.

He felt, indeed, remarkably tired, or be sure he would have demanded the
reason of the woodman's refusal to allow his daughter to shake hands.

For once in a way, Jack--who was also called "The Savage" by his
intimate friends--allowed the opportunity for a quarrel to slide by, and
very soon also allowed the pipe to slide from his mouth, and his body
from the chair.

Rousing himself with a muttered apology, he found that the woodman alone
remained, and that he was sitting apparently forgetful of his guest's
presence.

"Did you speak?" said Jack, rubbing his eyes, and struggling with a very
giant of a yawn. Gideon looked round.

"You are tired," he said, slowly.

"Rather," assented the Savage, with half-closed eyes; "it must have been
the wind. I can't keep my head up."

The woodman rose, and taking down from a cupboard a bundle of fox-skins,
arranged them on the floor, put a couple of chair-cushions at the head
to serve as pillows, and threw a riding-cloak--which, by the way, did
not correspond with a woodman's usual attire, and pointed to the
impromptu bed.

"Thanks," said Jack, getting up and taking off his coat and boots.

"It is a poor bed," remarked the woodman, but the Savage interrupted him
with a cheerful though sleepy assurance that it needed no apologies.

"I could sleep on a rail to-night," he said, "and that looks comfortable
enough for a king! Fine skins! Good-night!" and he held out his hand.

Gideon looked at it, but refusing it, nodded gravely.

"You won't shake hands!" exclaimed the Savage, with a little flush and
an aggrieved tone. "Come, isn't that carrying the high and imposing
rather too far, old fellow? Makes one feel more ashamed than ever, you
know. Perhaps I'd better march, after all."

"No," said Gideon, slowly. "It is not that I owe you any ill-will for
your presence here. You are welcome, but I cannot take your hand.
Good-night," and he went to the stairs.

At the door, however, he paused, and looked over his shoulder.

"Did you say that--Squire Davenant was your uncle, Mr. Newcombe?"

"Eh--uncle? Well, scarcely. It's rather difficult to tell what
relationship there is between us. He's a sort of cousin, I believe,"
answered Jack, carelessly, but yet with a touch of gravity that had
something comical about it. "Rum old boy, isn't he? You know him, don't
you?"

Gideon shook his head.

"Oh, I thought you did by the way you looked when I mentioned his name
just now. Good thing you don't, for you might have something to say
about him that is not pleasant, and though the old man and I are not
turtle doves just now, I'm bound to stand up for him for the sake of old
times."

"You have quarreled?" the old man said; but the Savage had already
curled himself up in the fox-skins, and was incapable of further
conversation.

Gideon Rolfe crossed the room, and holding the candle above his head,
looked down at the sleeper.

"Yes," he muttered, "it's the same face--they are alike! Faces of angels
and the hearts of devils. What fate has sent him here to-night?"

Though Jack Newcombe was by no means one of those impossible, perfect
heroes whom we have sometimes met in history, and was, alas! as full of
imperfections as a sieve is of holes, he was a gentleman, and for a
savage, was possessed of a considerable amount of delicacy.

"Seems to me," he mused, "that the best thing I can do is to take my
objectionable self out of the way before any of the good folks put in an
appearance. The old fellow will be sure to order me off the premises
directly after the breakfast; and I, in common gratitude, ought to save
him the trouble."

To resolve and to act were one and the same thing with Jack Newcombe.
Going into the adjoining room, he got out of the woodman's and into his
own clothes, and carefully restored the skins and the cloak to the
cupboard. Then he put the remainder of the loaf into his pocket, to
serve as breakfast later on, then paused.

"Can't go without saying good-by, and much obliged," he muttered.

A bright idea struck him; he tore the blank leaf from an old letter
which he happened to have with him, and after a few minutes'
consideration--for epistolary composition was one of the Savage's
weakest points--scribbled the following brief thanks, apology, and
farewell:

"Very much obliged for your kindness, and sorry to have been such a
bore; shouldn't have intruded if I'd known ladies were present. Will you
oblige me by accepting the inclosed"--he hesitated a moment, put back
the sovereign which he had taken from his pocket, and filled up the
line--"for your wife."

Instead of the coin, he wrapped up a ring, which he took from his little
finger.

He smiled, as he wrapped it up, for he remembered that the wife had
particularly large hands; and he thought, cunningly, "_she_ will get
it."

Having placed this packet on the top of the cheese, he took a last look
round the room, glanced toward the stairs rather wistfully--it was
neither the woodman nor his wife that he longed to see--gently unbarred
the door, and started on his road.

Choosing a sheltered spot, the Savage pulled out his crust, ate it
uncomplainingly, and then lay down at full length, with his soft hat
over his eyes, and while revolving the strange events of the preceding
night, and striving to recall the face of the young girl, fell asleep.




CHAPTER IV.


A more beautiful spot for a siesta he could not have chosen. At his feet
stretched the lake, gleaming like silver in the sun, and set in a frame
of green leaves and forest flowers; above his head, in his very ears,
the thrushes and linnets sang in concert, all the air was full of the
perfumes of a summer morning, rendered sweeter by the storm of the
preceding night, which had called forth the scent of the ferns and the
honeysuckle.

As he lay, and dreamt with that happy-go-lucky carelessness of time and
the daily round of duties which is one of the privileges of youth, there
rose upon the air a song other than that of the birds.

It was a girl's voice, chanting softly, and evidently with perfect
unconsciousness; faintly at first, it broke upon the air, then more
distinctly, and presently, from amongst the bushes that stood breast
high round the sleeping Savage, issued Una.

The night had had dreams for her, dreams in which the handsome face,
with its bold, daring eyes, and quick, sensitive mouth, had hovered
before her closed eyes and haunted her, and now here he lay at her feet.

How tired he must be to sleep there, and how hungry! for, though she had
not seen the note--nor the ring--she knew that he had gone without
breakfast.

"Poor fellow!" she murmured--"his face is quite pale--and--ah----!" she
broke off with a sudden gasp, and bent forward; a wasp, which had been
buzzing around his head for some time, swept his cheek.

Too fearful of waking him to sweep the insect aside, she knelt and
watched with clasped hands and shrinking heart; so intent in her dread
that the wasp should alight on his cheek and sting him as almost to have
forgotten her fear that he should awake.

At last the dreaded climax occurred; the wasp settled on his lips; with
a low, smothered cry, she stretched out her hand, and, with a quick
movement, swept the wasp off. But, lightly as her finger had touched his
lips, it had been sufficient to wake him, and, with a little start, he
opened his eyes, and received into them, and through them to his heart
the girl's rapt gaze.

For a minute neither moved; he lest he should break the dream; she,
because, bird-like, she was fascinated; then, the minute passed, she
rose, and drew back, and glided into the brake.

The Savage with a wild throb of the heart, saw that his dream had grown
into life, raised himself on his elbow and looked after her, and, as he
did so, his eye caught a small basket which she had set down beside him.

"Stay," he called, and in so gentle a voice that his friends who had
christened him the Savage would have instantly changed it to the Dove.

"Stay! Please stay. Your basket."

"Why did you run from me?" asked the Savage, in a low voice. "Did you
think that I should hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No, why should you?" and her eyes met his with innocent
surprise.

"Why should I, indeed! I should have been very sorry if you had gone,
because I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night."

"You have not to thank me," she said, slowly.

"Yes," he assented, quietly. "But for you----" then he stopped,
remembering that it was scarcely correct to complain of her father's
inhospitality; "I behaved very badly. I always do," he added--for the
first time in his life with regret.

"Do you?" she said, doubtfully. "You were wet and tired last night,
and--and you must not think ill of my father; he----"

"Don't say another word. I was treated better than I deserved."

"Why did you go without breakfast this morning?" she said, suddenly.

"I brought it with me," he replied. "You forgot the loaf!" and he
smiled.

"Dry bread!" she said, pityingly. "I am so sorry. If I had but known, I
would have brought you some milk."

"Oh, I have done very well," he said, his curt way softened and toned
down.

"And now you are going to Arkdale?" she said, gently.

"That is, after I have gone to rest for a little while longer; I am in
no hurry; won't you sit down, Una? Keep me company."

To her there seemed nothing strange in the speech; gravely and
naturally she sat down at the foot of an oak.

"You think the forest is lonely?" she said.

"I do, most decidedly. Don't you?"

"No; but that is because I am used to it and have known no other place."

"Always lived here?" he said, with interest.

"Ever since I was three years old."

"Eighteen years! Then you are twenty-one?" murmured Jack.

"Yes; how old are you?" she asked, calmly.

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-two. And you have lived in the world all the time?"

"Yes--very much so," he replied.

"And you are going back to it. You will never come into the forest
again, while I shall go on living here till I die, and never see the
world in which you have lived. Does that sound strange to you?"

"Do you mean to say that you have never been outside this forest?" he
said, raising himself on his elbow to stare at her.

"Yes. I have never been out of Warden since we came into it."

"But--why not?" he demanded.

"I do not know," she replied, simply.

"But there must be some reason for it? Haven't you been to Arkdale or
Wermesley?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Tell me what they are like. Are they gay and
full of people, with theaters and parks, and ladies riding and driving,
and crowds in the streets?"

"Oh, this is too much!" under his breath. "No, no--a thousand times no!"
he exclaimed; "they are the two most miserable holes in creation! There
are no parks, no theaters in Arkdale or Wermesley. You might see a lady
on horseback--one lady in a week! They are two county towns, and nothing
of that kind ever goes on in them. You mean London, and--and places like
that when you speak of theaters and that sort of thing!"

"Yes, London," she says, quietly. "Tell me all about that--I have read
about it in books."

"Books!" said the Savage, in undisguised contempt; "what's the use of
_them_! You must see life for yourself--books are no use. They give it
to you all wrong; at least, I expect so; don't know much about them
myself."

"Tell me," she repeated, "tell me of the world outside the forest; tell
me about yourself."

"About myself? Oh, that wouldn't interest you."

"Yes," she said, simply, "I would rather hear about yourself than about
anything else."

"Look here, I don't know what to tell you."

"Tell me all you can think of," she said, calmly; "about your father and
mother."

"Haven't got any," he said; "they're both dead."

"I am sorry," she said.

"Yes, they're dead," he said; "they died long ago."

"And have you any brothers and sisters?"

"No; I have a cousin, though," and he groaned.

"I am so glad," she said, in a low voice.

"Don't be. I'm not. He's a--I don't like him; we don't get on together,
you know."

"You quarrel, do you mean?"

"Like Kilkenny cats," assented the Savage.

"Then he must be a bad man," she said, simply.

"No," he said, quietly; "everybody says that I am the bad one. I'm a
regular bad lot, you know."

"I don't think that you are bad," she said.

"You don't; really not! By George! I like to hear you say that; but,"
with a slow shake of the head, "I'm afraid it's true. Yes, I am a
regular bad lot."

"Tell me what you have done that is so wrong," she said.

"Oh--I've--I've spent all my money."

"That's not so very wrong; you have hurt only yourself."

"Jove, that's a new way of looking at it," he muttered.
"And"--aloud--"and I've run into debt, and I've--oh, I can't tell you
any more; I don't want you to hate me!"

"Hate you? I could not do that."

He sprang to his feet, paced up and down, and then dropped at her side
again.

"Well, that's all about myself," he said; "now tell me about yourself."

"No," she said; "not yet. Tell me why you are going to Arkdale?"

"I'm going to Arkdale to take a train to Hurst Leigh to see my uncle,
cousin, or whatever he is--Squire Davenant."

"Is he an old man?"

"Yes, a very old man, and a bad one, too. All our family are a bad lot,
excepting my cousin, Stephen Davenant."

"The one you do not like?"

"The same. He is quite an angel."

"An angel?"

"One of those men too good to live. He's the only steady one we've got,
and we make the most of him. He is Squire Davenant's heir--at least he
will come into his money. The old man is very rich, you know."

"I see," she said, musingly; then she looked down at him and added,
suddenly: "You were to have been the heir?"

"Yes, that's right! How did you guess that? Yes, I was the old man's
favorite, but we quarreled. He wanted it all his own way, and, oh--we
couldn't get on. Then Cousin Stephen stepped in, and I am out in the
cold now."

"Then why are you going there now?" she asked.

"Because the squire sent for me," he replied.

"And you have been all this time going?"

"You see, I thought I'd walk through the forest," he said,
apologetically.

"You should be there now--you should not have waited on the road! Is
your Cousin Stephen--is that his name?--there?"

"I don't know," he said, carelessly.

"Ah, you should be there," she said. "Squire Davenant would be friendly
with you again."

"I'm afraid you haven't hit the right nail on the head there," he said.
"I rather think he wants to give me a good rowing about a scrape I've
got into."

"Tell me about that."

"Oh, it's about money--the usual thing. I got into a mess, and had to
borrow some money of a Jew, and he got me to sign a paper, promising to
pay after Squire Davenant's death; he called it a _post obit_--I didn't
know what it was then, but I do now; for the squire got to hear of it,
but how, hanged if I can make out; and he wrote to me and to the Jew,
saying that he shouldn't leave me a brass farthing. Of course the Jew
was wild; but I gave him another sort of bill, and it's all right."

"Excepting that you will lose your fortune," said Una, with a little
sigh. "What will you do?"

"That's a conundrum which I've long ago given up. By Jove! I'll come and
be a woodman in the forest!"

"Will you?" she said. "Do you really mean it?--no, you were not in
earnest!"

"I--why shouldn't I be in earnest?" he says, almost to himself. "Would
you like me to? I mean shall I come here to--what do you call
it--Warden?" and he threw himself down again.

"Yes," she said; "I should like you to. Yes, that would be very nice. We
could sit and talk when your work was done, and I could show you all the
prettiest spots, and the places where the starlings make their nests,
and the fairy rings in the glades, and you could tell me all that you
have seen and done. Yes," wistfully, "that would be very nice. It is so
lonely sometimes!"

"Lonely, is it?" he said. "Lonely! By George, I should think it must be!
I can't realize it! Books, it reads like a book. If I were to tell some
of my friends that there was a young lady shut up in a forest, outside
of which she had never been, they wouldn't believe me. By the way--where
did you go to school?"

"School? I never went to school."

"Then how--how did you learn to read? and--it's awfully rude of me, you
know, but you speak so nicely; such grammar, and all that."

"Do I?" she said, thoughtfully. "I didn't know that I did. My father
taught me."

"It's hard to believe," he said, as if he were giving up a conundrum. "I
beg your pardon. I mean that your father would have made a jolly good
schoolmaster, and I must be an awful dunce, for I've been to Oxford, and
I'll wager I don't know half what you do, and as to talking--I am not
in it."

"Yes, my father is very clever," she said; "he is not like the other
woodmen and burners."

"No, if he is, they must be a learned lot," assented Jack; "yes, I think
I had better come and live here, and get him to teach me. I'm afraid he
wouldn't undertake the job."

"Father does not like strangers," she said, blushing as she thought of
the inhospitable scene of the preceding night. "He says that the world
is a cruel, wicked place, and that everybody is unhappy there. But I
think he must be wrong. You don't look unhappy."

"I am not unhappy now," said Jack.

"I am so glad," she said; "why are you not?"

"Because I am with you."

"Are you?" she said, gently. "Then it must be because I am with you that
I feel so happy."

The Savage flushed and he looked down, striving to still the sudden
throb of pleasure with which his heart beat.

"Confound it," he muttered, "I must go! I can't be such a cad as to stop
any longer; she oughtn't to say this sort of thing, and yet I--I can't
tell her so! No! I must go!" and he rose and took out his watch.

"I am afraid I must be on the tramp."

"Yes," she assented; "you have stayed too long. I hope you will find
that the Squire Davenant has forgiven you. I think he cannot help it.
And you will have your fortune and will go back into the world, and will
quite forget that you lost your way in Warden Forest. But I shall not
forget it; I shall often think of it."

"No," he said, "I shan't forget it. But in case I should, will you give
me something--no, I won't ask it."

"Why not?" she said, wonderingly. "Were you going to say, will I give
you something to help you to remember?"

"Yes, I will. What shall I give you?" and she looked around.

Jack looked at her. His bad angel whispered in his ear, "Ask her to give
you a kiss," but Jack metaphorically kicked him out of hearing.

"Give me a flower," he said, and his voice was as gentle as its deep
ringing bass could be.

Una nodded, and plucking a dog rose held it out to him.

"There," she said; "at least you will remember it as long as the rose
lasts. But it soon dies," and she sighed.

Jack took it and looked at it hard. Then he put it to his lips.

"There is no smell to a dog rose," said Una.

"Ah no! I forgot. Just so. Well, good-by. We may shake hands, Una. That
is your name, isn't it? How do you spell it?"

"U--n--a," she said, giving him her hand.

"It's a pretty name," he said, looking at her.

"Is it?" she said, dreamily. "Yes, I think it is, now. Say it again."

"Una, good-by. We shall meet again."

"Do you think so? Then you will have to come to Warden again."

"And I will. I will come soon. Oh, yes, we shall meet again. Good-by,"
and, yielding to the temptation, he bent and touched her hand--Heaven
knows, reverently enough--with his lips.

A warm flush spread over the girl's face and neck, and she quivered from
head to foot. It was the first kiss--except those of her father and
mother--that she had ever received.

"Good-by," he repeated, and was slowly relinquishing her hand, the hand
that clung to his, when a hand of firmer texture was laid on his arm and
swung him round.

It was Gideon Rolfe, his face white with passion, his eyes ablaze, and a
heavy stick upraised.

The Savage had just time to step back to avoid the blow and plant his
feet firmly to receive a renewed attack; but with an effort the old man
restrained himself, and struggling for speech, motioned the girl away
with one hand and pointed with the other to Jack.

"You scoundrel!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Go, Una, go. You scoundrel! I
warmed you at my hearth, you viper! and you turn to sting me. Go,
Una--go at once. Do you disobey me?"

White and trembling, the girl shrank into the shade.

"You villain!" went on the old man, struggling with his passion.

"Stop!" exclaimed Jack, the veins in his forehead swelling ominously.
"You must be mad! Don't strike me!--you are an old man!"

"Strike you! No, no; blows are of no avail with such as you! Curs take
no heed of blows! What other way can one punish the scoundrel who repays
hospitality by treachery? Was it not enough that you forced your way
into my house, broke my bread, but you must waylay a credulous girl and
lead her in the first step to ruin. Oh, spare your breath, viper! I know
you and your race too well. Ruin and desolation walk hand in hand with
you; but you have reckoned without your host here. My knowledge of you
arms me with power to protect a weak, innocent girl from your wiles.
Scoundrel!"

"You use strong words," he said, and his voice was low and hoarse. "You
are an old man and--you are her father. You call me a scoundrel; I call
you a fool, for if I were half the scoundrel you think me, you'd be to
blame for any harm I might have done. I've done none. But that's no
thanks to you, who keep such a girl as she is shut up as you do, and
leave her to wander about unprotected. You know me, you say, and you
know no good of me; that's as it may be, but I say when you call me a
scoundrel, you lie!"

"Yes, I know you. I know the stock from whence you sprung, villains all!
I thought that here, at least, I was safe from your kind; but Fate led
you here--thank Fate that I let you go unhurt. Take an old man's advice,
and, unlike your race, for once leave the prey which you thought so easy
to destroy. Go!"

"I am going," he said, grimly. "I shall go, because if I stayed all
night I should not convince you that I am not the scoundrel you suppose
me. But, if you think that I am to be frightened by these sort of
threats, you are mistaken. I have said that I will come back, and I
_will_!" and with a curt nod he strode off.




CHAPTER V.


It was the evening of the day on which Jack Newcombe had parted from
Gideon and Una, and the young moon fell peacefully on the irregular pile
of the ancient mansion known familiarly for twenty miles of its
neighborhood as The Hurst.

The present owner was one Ralph Davenant, or Squire Davenant, as Jack
Newcombe had called him, and as he was called by the county generally.

He was an old man of eighty, who had lived one-half his life in the
wildest and most dissipated fashion, and the other half in that most
unprofitable occupation known as repenting thereof.

I say "known as," for if old Squire Davenant had really repented, this
story would never have been written.

If half the stories which were told of him were true, Ralph Davenant,
the present owner of Hurst, deserves a niche in the temple of fame--or
infamy--which holds the figures of the worst men of his day. He had been
a gambler, a spendthrift, a rogue of the worst kind for one half his
life; a miser, a cynic, a misanthrope for the other.

And he now lay dying in his huge, draughty bed-chamber, hung with the
portraits of his ancestors--all bad and filled with the ghosts of his
youth and wasted old age.

As it was, he lay quite still--so still that the physician, brought down
from London at a cost of--say, ten guineas an hour, was often uncertain
whether he was alive or dead.

There was a third person in the room--a tall, thin young man, who stood
motionless beside the bed, watching the old man, with half-closed eyes
and tightly compressed lips. This was Stephen Davenant, the old man's
nephew, and, as it was generally understood, his heir. Stephen Davenant
was called a handsome man, and at first sight he seemed to merit that
description. It was not until you had looked at him closely that you
began to grow critical and to find fault. He was dark; his hair, which
was quite black, was smooth, and clung to his head with a sleek, slimy
closeness that only served to intensify the paleness, not to say pallor,
of the face. Pallor was, indeed, the prevailing characteristic, his lips
even being of a subdued and half-tinted red; they were not pleasant
lips, although for every forty minutes out of the sixty they wore a
smile which just showed a set of large and even teeth, which were, if
anything, too faultless and too white. Jack said that when Stephen
smiled it was like a private view of a cemetery.

In short, to quote the Savage again, Stephen Davenant was an admirable
example, as artists would say, of "a study in black and white."

As he stood by the bed, motionless, silent, with the fixed regard of his
light gray eyes on the sick man, he looked not unlike one of those sleek
and emaciated birds which one sees standing on the bank of the Ganges,
waiting for the floating by of stray dead bodies.

And yet he was not unhandsome. At times he looked remarkably well; when,
for instance, he was delivering a lecture or an address at some
institute or May meeting. His voice was low and soft, and not seldom
insinuating, and some of his friends had called him, half in jest, half
in earnest, "Fascination Davenant."

It will be gathered from this description that to call all the race of
Davenants bad was unfair; every rule has its exception, and Stephen
Davenant was the exception to this. He was "a good young man."

Fathers held him up as a pattern to their wayward sons, mothers
patronized and lauded him, and their daughters regarded him as almost
too good to live.

The minutes, so slow for the watchers, so rapid to the man for whom they
were numbered, passed, and the old cracked clock in the half-ruined
stables wheezed out the hour, when, as if the sound had roused him, old
Ralph moved slightly, and opening his eyes, looked slowly from one
upright figure to the other.

Dark eyes that had not even yet lost all their fire, and still shone out
like a bird's from their wrinkled, cavernous hollows.

Stephen unlocked his wrist, bent down, and murmured, in his soft, silky
voice:

"Uncle, do you know me?"

A smile, an unpleasant smile to see on such a face, glimmered on the old
man's lips.

"Here still, Stephen?" he said, slowly and hollowly. "You'd make a
good--mute."

A faint, pink tinge crept over Stephen's pale face, but he smiled and
shook his head meekly.

"Who's that?" asked Ralph, half turning his eyes to the physician.

"Sir Humphrey, uncle--the doctor," replied Stephen, and the great doctor
came a little nearer and felt the faint pulse.

"What's he stopping for?" gasped the old man. "What can he do, and--why
don't he go?"

"We must not leave you, uncle, till you are better."

A faint flame shot up in the old man's eyes.

"Better, that's a lie, you know. You always were----" Then a paroxysm of
faintness took him, but he struggled with and overcame it.

"Is--is--Jack here?" he asked.

"I regret to say," he replied, "that he is not. I cannot understand the
delay. I hope, I fervently hope, that he has not willfully----"

"Did you tell him I was dying?" asked Ralph, watching him keenly.

"Can you doubt it?" murmured Stephen, meekly. "I particularly charged
the messenger to say that my cousin was not to delay."

The old man looked up with a sardonic smile.

"I'll wait," he muttered, and he closed his eyes resolutely. The minutes
passed, and presently there was a low knock at the door, and a servant
crept up to Stephen.

"Mr. Newcombe is below, sir."

Stephen looked warningly at the bed, and stole on tiptoe from the
room--not that there was any occasion to go on tiptoe, for his ordinary
walk was as noiseless as a cat's--down the old treadworn stairs, into
the neglected hall, and entered the library.

Bolt upright, and looking very like a Savage indeed, stood Jack
Newcombe.

With noiseless step and mournful smile, Stephen entered, closed the
door, and held out his hand.

"My dear Jack, how late you are!"

With an angry gesture Jack thrust his hands in his pockets, and glared
wrathfully at the white, placid face.

"Late!" he echoed, passionately. "Why didn't you tell me that he was
dying?"

"Hush!" murmured Stephen, with a shocked look--though if Jack had
bellowed in his savagest tone, his voice would not have reached the room
upstairs. "Pray, be quiet, my dear Jack. Tell you! Didn't my man give
you my message? I particularly told him to describe the state of my
uncle's health. Slummers is not apt to forget or neglect messages!"

"Messages!" said Jack, with wrathful incredulity; "he gave me none--left
none, rather, for I was out. He simply said that the squire wanted to
see me."

"Dear, dear me," murmured Stephen, regretfully. "I cannot understand it.
Do you think the person who took the message delivered it properly?
Slummers is so very careful and trustworthy."

"Oh," said Jack, contemptuously. "Do you suppose anyone would have
forgotten to tell me if your man had told them that the squire was
dying? I don't if you do, and I don't believe you do. You're no fool,
Stephen, though you have made one of me," and he moved toward the door.

"Stay," said Stephen, laying his white hand gently on Jack's arm. "Will
you wait a few minutes? Though by some unfortunate accident you were not
told how ill my uncle is, I assure you that he is too ill now to be
harassed----"

"Oh, I know what you mean without so many words," interrupted Jack,
scornfully. "Make your mind easy, I am not going to split upon you.
Bah!" he added, as Stephen shook his head with sorrowful repudiation.
"Do you suppose that I don't know that your man was instructed to keep
it from me? What were you afraid of--that I should cut you out at the
last moment? You judge me by your own standard, and you make a vast
mistake. It isn't on account of the money--you are welcome to that--and
you deserve it, for you've worked hard enough for it; no, it's not on
that account, it's--but you wouldn't understand if I told you. I am
going up now," and he sprang up the stairs quickly.

Stephen followed him, and entered the room close behind him. The old man
looked up, motioned with his hand to Jack, looked at the other two and
quietly pointed to the door.

Stephen's eyes closed and his lips shut as he hesitated for a moment,
then he turned and left with the physician.

"I think," said Sir Humphrey, blandly, and looking at his watch--one of
a score left him by departed patients, "I think that I will go now, Mr.
Davenant; I can do no good and my presence appears only to irritate your
uncle."

The great doctor departed, just thirty guineas richer than when he came,
and Stephen went into the library and closed the door, and as he did so
it almost seemed as if he had taken off a mask and left it on the mat
outside.

The set, calm expression of the face changed to one of fierce,
uncontrollable anxiety and malice. With sullen step he paced up and down
the room, gnawing--but daintily--at his nails, and grinding the white
tombstones.

"Another half hour," he muttered, "and the fool would have been too
late? Will he tell the old man? Curse him; how I hate him! I was a fool
to send for him--an idiot! What is he saying to him? What are they
doing? Thank Heaven, that old knave Hudsley isn't there! They can't do
anything--can't, can't! No, I am safe."

Stephen Davenant need not have been so uneasy; Jack was not plotting
against him, nor was the old man making a will in the Savage's favor.

Jack stood beside the bed, waiting for one of the attacks of faintness
to pass, looking down regretfully at the haggard, death-marked face,
recalling the past kindnesses he had received from the old man, and
remorsefully remembering their many quarrels and eventful separation.

"Bad lot" as he was, no thought of lucre crossed the Savage's mind; he
forgot even Stephen and the cowardly trick he had played him, and
remembered only that he was looking his last on the old man, who, after
his kind, had been good, and so far as his nature would allow it,
generous to him.

At last old Ralph opened his eyes.

"Here at last," he said; and by an effort of the resolute will, he made
himself heard distinctly, though every word cost him a breath.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," he said; and his voice was husky. "I didn't
know----"

The old man looked at him shrewdly.

"So Stephen didn't send? It was just like him. A good stroke."

"Yes, he sent," said Jack; "but----"

The old man waved his hand to show that he understood.

"A sharp stroke. A clever fellow, Stephen. You always were a fool."

"I'm afraid so, sir," he said quietly.

"But Stephen is a knave, and a fool, too," murmured the old man. "Jack,
I wish--I wish I could come back to the funeral."

"To see his face when the will's read," explained old Ralph, with a grim
smile.

Jack colored, and, I am ashamed to say, grinned.

A sardonic smile flitted over the old man's face.

"Be sure you are there, Jack; don't let him keep you away."

"Not that you will be disappointed--much," said the old man.

"Don't think of me, sir," said Jack, with a dim sense of the discordance
in such talk from such lips.

"I have thought of you as far--as--as I dared. Jack, you are an honest
fool. Why--why did you give that _post obit_?"

"I don't know," said Jack, quietly. "Don't worry about that now."

"Stephen told me," said the old man, grimly. "He has told me every piece
of wickedness you have done. He is a kind-hearted man, is--Ste--phen."

"We never were friends, sir," he said. "But don't talk now."

"I must," murmured the old man. "Now or never, and--give me your hand,
Jack."

"I've had yours ever since I came in," said Jack, simply.

"Oh, I didn't know it. Good-by, boy--don't--don't end up like this.
It--and--for Heaven's sake don't cry!" for Jack emitted a suspicious
little choking sound, and his eyes were dim. "Good-by; don't be too
disappointed. Justice, Jack, justice. Where is Stephen?--send him to me.
I"--and the old sardonic smile came back--"I like to see him--he amuses
me!"

The eyes closed; Jack waited a moment, then pressed the cold hand, and
crept from the room.

Half way down the stairs he leaned his arm on the balustrade and dropped
his face on it for a minute or two, then choking back his tears, went
into the library--where Stephen was sitting reading a volume of
sermons--and pointed up-stairs.

"My uncle wants me?" murmured Stephen. "I will go. Might I recommend
this book to you, my dear Jack; it contains----"

Jack, I regret to say, chucked the volume into a corner of the room, and
Stephen, with a mournfully reproachful sigh, shook his head and left the
room.




CHAPTER VI.


"Villains," says an old adage, "are made by accident." Now mark how
accident helped to make a villain of the good Stephen Davenant.

He passed up the stairs and entered the bedroom. As he did so his foot
struck against a chair and caused a little noise. The dying man heard
it, however, and opening his eyes, said, almost inaudibly:

"Is that you, Hudsley?"

Stephen was about to reply, "No, it is I--Stephen," but stopped,
hesitated, and as if struck by a sudden idea, drew back behind the
bed-curtains.

Whatever that idea was, he was considerably moved by it; his hands
shook, and his lips trembled during the interval of silence before the
old man repeated the question:

"Is that you, Hudsley?"

Then Stephen, wiping his lips, answered in a dry voice utterly unlike
his own, but very remarkably resembling that of the old solicitor,
Hudsley:

"Yes, squire, it's Hudsley."

The dying man's hearing was faint, his senses wandering and dimmed; he
caught the sense of the words, however, for with an effort he turned his
head toward the curtains.

"Where are you?" he asked, almost inaudibly; "I can't see you; my sight
has gone. You have been a long while coming. Hudsley, you thought
you--knew--everything about the man who lies here; you were wrong.
There's a surprise for you as well as the rest. Did you see Jack?"

Stephen had no need to reply: the old man rambled on without waiting,
excepting to struggle for breath.

"He is down-stairs. Poor boy! it's a pity he is such a fool. There was
always one like him in the Newcombe family. But the other--Stephen--the
man who has been hanging about me all this time, eager to lick my boots
so that he might step into them when I was gone; he is a fool and a
knave."

Stephen's face went white and his lips twitched. It is probable that he
remembered the adage: "Listeners hear no good of themselves."

"He is the first of his kind we have had in the family. Plenty of fools
and scamps, Hudsley, but no hypocrites till this one. Well, he'll get
his deserts. I'd give a thousand pounds to come back and hear the will
read, and see his face. He makes so sure of it, too, the oily eel!"

Stephen writhed like an eel, indeed, and his lips blanched. Was the old
man delirious, or had he, Stephen, really played the part of sycophant,
toady and boot-licker all these years for nothing?

Great drops of sweat rolled down his face, his tongue clove to the roof
of his mouth, and his knees shook so that he had to steady himself by
holding the curtain.

"Yes, disappointed all. You don't understand. You think that you know
everything. But no; I trusted you with a great deal, but not with all.
How dark it is! Hudsley, you are an old man; don't finish up like--like
this. Only one soul in the wide world is sorry that I'm going; and he's
a fool. Poor Jack! I remember----"

Then followed, half inaudibly, a string of names belonging to the
companions of his youth. Most of them were dead and forgotten by him
until this hour, when he was about to join their shades.

"Ah, the old time! the old time. But--but--what was it I was saying?
I--I--Hudsley--quick! for Heaven's sake! I--the key--the key----"

Stephen came round, in his eagerness risking recognition.

"The key?" he asked, so hoarsely that his voice might well be taken for
an old man's. "What key?"

"Feel--under my pillow!" gasped Ralph Davenant.

Stephen thrust his trembling hand under the pillow, and, with a leap of
the heart, felt a key.

"The safe!" murmured a faltering voice. "The bottom drawer. Bring them
to me! Quick!"

Stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in
a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer.
His hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement
in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from
shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only
allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and
fighting for calm, Stephen took out two documents.

One was a parchment of goodly proportions.

Both were folded and endorsed on the back--the parchment with the
inscription, "Last will and testament of Ralph Davenant, Gent., Jan.
18--."

With eyes that almost refused to do their task, Stephen turned the other
paper to the light, and read, "Will, July 18--." This inscription was
written in an old man's hand--the parchment was engrossed as usual.

Two wills! The one--the parchment, however, was useless; the other--the
sheet of foolscap--was the last.

"Well," rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, "have you got
them?"

Stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up.

"Yes, yes," he said. "The first is--is in whose favor?"

The old man struggled for breath. White, breathless himself with the
agony of anxiety and fear--for any moment someone might enter the
room--Stephen stood staring beside him. He dared not undo the tapes and
glance at the wills, in case of interruption--dared not conceal them,
for Hudsley might appear on the scene. With the wills clasped in his
hand, he stood and waited.

The faintness passed--old Ralph regained his voice.

"One is parchment--the other is paper. The parchment one you drew up;
you know its contents--I want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. It will
add to the deceitful hound's disappointment. The other--ah, my God--it
is too late--Hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. No hand
but mine could pen it. But--but--I have done justice. Too late!--why do
you say--too late? Why do you mock a dying man? Mind, Hudsley, I trust
to you. It is a sound will, made in sound body--and--mind. Don't leave
that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. I trust to you.
Stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now--now," and in his
excitement he actually raised his head. Raised it to let it drop upon
the pillow again with exhaustion.

Stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and
uncertainty.

"Justice," he whispered hoarsely. "The first will, my will leaves all
to----"

"To that hound Stephen!" gasped the old man. "I did it in a weak moment
and repented of it. Leaves all to him; but not now."

Stephen hesitated no longer. With the quick, gliding movement of a cat
he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and
locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket.

Scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the
door opened and Hudsley, the lawyer, entered.

He was an old man, as thin and bent as a withy branch, with a face
seamed and wrinkled, like his familiar parchment, with the like spots;
his dark, keen gray eyes, which looked out from under his shaggy
eyebrows, like stars in a cloudy sky.

As he entered, Stephen came forward, his back to the light, his face in
the shadow, and held out his hand.

Hudsley took it, held it for a moment, and dropped it with a little,
irritable shudder--the slim, white hand was as cold as ice--and,
turning to the bed, looked anxiously at the dying man.

"Great heaven!" he said, "is he dead?"

A savage hope shot up in Stephen's heart, but he looked and shook his
head.

"No. You have been a long time coming, Mr. Hudsley."

"I have, sir, thanks to your man's stupidity," said the lawyer, in an
angry whisper. "He came for me in a confounded dogcart!"

"The quickest vehicle to get ready," murmured Stephen. "I told him, to
take the first that came to hand."

"And the result," said the lawyer impatiently. "The result is that we
lost half an hour on the road! Does your man drink, Mr. Stephen?"

"Drink! Slummers drink!" murmured Stephen. "A most steady,
respectable--I may say conscientious--man."

"He may be conscientious, but he's a very bad driver. I never saw such a
clumsy fellow. He drove into a ditch half a mile after we had started."

"Dear, dear," murmured Stephen regretfully. "Poor Slummers. It is not
his fault. He is a worthy fellow, but too sympathetic, and my uncle's
illness quite upset him----"

"Hush!" interrupted Mr. Hudsley, holding up his finger and bending down.

"Squire, do you know me? I am Hudsley."

The dying man moved his hand faintly in assent.

"Yes. Have you done as I told you?"

"You have told me nothing yet."

"The safe!--the key!--the pillow!" said the Squire.

Hudsley caught his meaning and felt under the pillow, and Stephen, as if
to assist, thrust his hand under, and withdrew it with the key in his
fingers.

"Why--again?" came the voice, broken and impatient. "You have done it!
you have burnt the first."

"What is he saying?" he asked.

"You have burned it; show me the other--the last; let me--touch it."

Hudsley opened the safe and took the first will from the drawer.

"Two, did he say?" he muttered: "there is only one here--the will;" and
he came to the bed with it.

"There is only one will here, of course, squire," he said, bending down
and speaking slowly and distinctly.

"Yes--you, you have--burned the other. Speak. I cannot see, but I can
hear you."

"I have burned none," said Hudsley. "Have only just come--there is only
one will here."

"Which?" gasped the dying man.

"The will of January--Mr. Stephen----"

Before they could finish, they saw, with horror, the dying man half
raise himself, his face livid, his hands wildly clutching the air, his
eyes, by accident, turned toward Stephen.

"You--you thief!" he gasped. "Give it to me!--give--give--oh, God! Too
late?--too la----"

It was too late. Before the nurse and Jack could rush into the room,
horrified by the shriek which rang from Stephen's white lips, old Ralph
Davenant had fallen back dead!




CHAPTER VII.


Half an hour afterward Stephen Davenant passed down the stairs on
tiptoe, though the tramp of an armed host could not disturb old Ralph
Davenant now--passed down with his hand pressed against his breast
pocket, in which lay the stolen will. Had the sheet of blue foolscap
been composed of red-hot iron instead of paper, Stephen could not have
felt its presence more distinctly and uncomfortably; it seemed to burn
right through his clothes and scorch his heart; he could almost fancy,
in his overstrained state, that it could be seen through his coat.

He paused a moment outside the library door, one white hand fingering
his pale lips, the other vainly striving to keep away from his breast
pocket, and listened to the tramp, tramp of Jack as he walked up and
down the room. Any other face would have been more endurable than
Jack's, with its fiercely frank gaze and outspoken contempt.

At last he opened the door and entered, his handkerchief in his hand.
Jack stopped and looked at him.

"I have been waiting for you," he said.

"My poor uncle!"

Jack looked at him with keen scrutiny, mingled with unconcealed scorn.

"I have been waiting for you, in case you wished to say anything before
I went."

"What?" murmured Stephen, with admirably feigned surprise and regret.
"You will not go, my dear Jack! not to-night."

"Yes, to-night," said Jack quietly. "I couldn't stop in the house--I
shall go to the inn."

"But----"

"No, thanks!" said Jack, cutting him short.

"Oh, do not thank me," murmured Stephen, meekly. "I may have no right to
offer you hospitality, the house may be yours."

"Well, I think you could give a pretty good guess on that point," said
Jack, bluntly; "but let that pass. I am going to the 'Bush.' If you or
Mr. Hudsley want me--where is Hudsley?" he broke off to inquire.

"Mr. Hudsley is up-stairs sealing up the safe and things," said Stephen
humbly. "He wished me to assist him, but I had rather that he should do
it alone--perhaps you would go through the house with him?"

Jack shook his head.

"As you please," murmured Stephen, with a resigned sigh. "Mr. Hudsley is
quite sufficient; he knows where everything of importance is kept. You
will have some refreshments after your journey, my dear Jack?"

"No, thanks," said Jack; "I want nothing--I couldn't eat anything. I'll
go now."

"Are you going, Mr. Newcombe?" said Mr. Hudsley, entering and looking
from one to the other keenly.

"I am going to the 'Bush;' I shall stay there in case I am wanted."

"The funeral had better be fixed for Saturday. You and Mr. Stephen will
be the chief mourners." Then he turned to Stephen. "I have sealed up
most of the things. Is there anything you can suggest?"

"You know all that is required; we leave everything to you, Mr Hudsley.
I think I may speak for my cousin--may I not, Jack?"

Jack did not reply, but put on his gloves.

"I will go now," he said. "Good-night, Mr. Hudsley."

The old lawyer looked at him keenly as he took his hand.

"I shall find you at the 'Bush?'" he said.

"Yes," replied Jack, and was leaving the room when Stephen rose and
followed him.

"Good-night, my dear Jack," he said. "Will you not shake hands on--on
such an occasion?"

Jack strode to the door and opened it without reply, then turned and, as
if with an effort, took the hand which Stephen had kept extended.

"Good-night," he said, dropping the cold fingers, and strode out.

Stephen looked after him a moment with his meek, long-suffering
expression of face changed into a malignant smile of triumph, and his
hand went up to his breast pocket.

"Good-night, beggar!" he murmured, and closed the door.

Mr. Hudsley was still standing by the library-table, toying absently
with the keys, a thoughtful frown on his brow, which did not grow
any lighter as Stephen entered, making great play with the
pocket-handkerchief.

"I think I also may go now, Mr. Stephen," he said. "Nothing more can be
done to-night. I will be here in the morning with my clerk."

"I suppose nothing more can be done. You have sealed up all papers and
jewels? I am particularly anxious that nothing shall be left informal."

"I don't think there is anything unsealed that should have been."

"A very strange scene, the final one, Mr. Stephen."

"Awful, awful, Mr. Hudsley. My poor uncle seemed quite delirious at the
last."

"Hem!" grunted the old lawyer, putting his hat to his lips and looking
over it at the white, smooth face. "You think he was delirious----"

"Don't you, Mr. Hudsley? Do you think that he was conscious of what he
was saying? You have been his legal adviser and confidant for years; you
would know whether there was any meaning in his wild and incoherent
statement about the will. As you are no doubt aware, my poor uncle never
broached the subject of his intentions to me."

"I know of only one will--that of last year. That will I executed for
him; it is the will locked up in the safe up-stairs. I have a copy at
the office," he added, dryly.

"You--you don't think there is any other--any other later will?" he
asked, softly.

"I didn't think so until an hour ago. I am not sure that I think so now.
Do you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "My uncle was not the man to draw up a
will with his own hand, and his confidence, and I may say affection for
you, were so great that he would not have gone to any other legal
adviser to do it for him. No, I do not think there is any other will; of
course, I do not know the contents of the will in the safe."

"Of course not," said Mr. Hudsley, in a tone so dry that it seemed to
rasp his throat.

"And yet I cannot understand, my poor uncle's outbreak, except by
attributing it to delirium."

"Hem!" said Mr. Hudsley. "Well, in case there should have been any
meaning and significance in it, my clerk and I will make a careful
search to-morrow."

"Yes," murmured Stephen, "and I devoutly trust that should a later will
be in existence, you may find it."

"I hope we may," said Mr. Hudsley. "Good-night!"

Stephen accompanied him to the door as he had accompanied the doctor and
Jack, and saw him into the brougham, and then turned back into the house
with a look of release, which, however, gradually changed to one of
lurking fear and indefinite dread.

"Conscience makes cowards of us all."

It makes a worse coward of Stephen Davenant than he was naturally.

As he stood in the deserted hall, and looked round, at its vast dimness,
at the carved gallery and staircase, somber and dull for want of
varnish, and listened to the faint, ghostly noises made by the
awe-stricken servants moving to and fro overhead, a chill crept over
him, and he wished that he had kept one of them, even Jack, to bear him
company.

With fearful gaze he peered into the darkness, scarcely daring to cross
the hall and enter the library. For all the stillness, he fancied he
could hear that last shriek of the dying man ringing through the house;
for all the darkness, the slim, bent figure seemed to be moving to and
fro, the dark piercing eyes turned upon him with furious accusation.
Even when he had summoned up courage to enter the library, locking the
door after him, the eyes seemed to follow him, and with a shudder that
shook him from head to foot he poured out a glass of brandy and drank it
down.

The Spirit of Evil certainly invented brandy for cowards.

Stephen set down the empty glass and looked round the room--another man.

He even smiled in a ghostly kind of fashion as he took the will from his
pocket and opened it.

"Poor Jack!" he murmured, with a sardonic display of the white teeth.
"This no doubt makes you master of Hurst Leigh; but Providence has
decreed that the spendthrift shall be disappointed. Yes, I am the humble
instrument chosen. I am----"

He stopped suddenly with a start, for he had been reading as he
soliloquized, and he had come upon words that struck him to the very
heart's core.

Was he dreaming, or had his senses taken leave of him?

With beating heart and white, parched lips he stared at the paper until
the lines of crabbed handwriting danced before his astounded eyes.

If brevity is the soul of wit, old Ralph Davenant's will was wit itself.
It consisted of five paragraphs.

The first was merely the usual preamble declaring the testator to be of
sound mind.

The second ran thus:

"To John Newcombe I will and bequeath the sum of fifty thousand pounds,
the said sum to be realized by the sale or transfer of bonds and stocks,
at the discretion of James Hudsley."

Enough in this to move Stephen, but it paled into insignificance before
what followed:

"To my nephew, Stephen Davenant, I will and bequeath the set of Black's
sermons in twenty-nine volumes, standing on the second shelf in the
library, having remarked the affection which the said Stephen Davenant
bore the said volumes, and accepting his repeated assertions that his
attendance upon me was wholly disinterested."

An ugly flash and an evil glitter swept over Stephen's white face and
eyes, and his teeth ground together maliciously.

"To each and every one of my servants I bequeath the sum of one hundred
pounds, such sum to be forfeited by each and every one who assumes
mourning for my death, which each and every one has anxiously looked
forward to.

"And lastly, I will and bequeath the remainder of my property of
whatsoever kind, be it money, houses, lands, or property of any
description, to my only daughter and child, Eunice Davenant, the same to
be held in trust for her sole use and benefit by James Hudsley.

"And I hereby inform him, and the world at large, that the said Eunice
Davenant is the only issue of my marriage with Caroline Hatfield; that
the said marriage was celebrated in secret at the Church of Armfield, in
Sussex, in June, 18--. And that the said Eunice Davenant, my daughter,
is in the keeping of one Gideon Rolfe, woodman, of Warden Forest, who
has reared her as his own child, and who is unacquainted with the facts
of my secret marriage, and I decree and appoint James Hudsley sole
guardian, trustee, and ward of the aforesaid Eunice Davenant, and at her
hands I crave forgiveness for my neglect of her mother and herself.

                            "(Signed) RALPH DAVENANT,
                                                "Hurst Leigh.
                              "Witness--George Goodman,
                                      "Coachman, Hurst Leigh.
                                      "Martha Goodman,
                                          "Cook, Hurst Leigh."


White, breathless, Stephen held the paper in his clinched hands and
stared at the astounding contents.

Eunice Davenant the squire's daughter.

His overstrained brain refused to realize it.

Old Ralph Davenant married! Married! It was impossible.

_Oh, yes, that was it._ A smile, a ghastly smile shone on his face. _It
was a joke_--a vile, malicious joke, worthy of the crabbed,
misanthropical old man! A villainous joke, set down just to bring about
litigation, and create trouble and confusion between the two young men,
himself and Jack Newcombe. And yet--and the smile died away and left his
face fearful and haggard--and yet that awful fury of the dying man when
he knew that the will had been stolen.

No, it was no jest. The marriage had taken place; there _was_ a
daughter, and she was the heiress of all that immense, untold wealth,
except the fifty thousand pounds left to Jack Newcombe, while he--he,
Stephen Davenant, the next of kin, the man who had been working, lying,
toadying for the money, was left with a set of musty sermons.

Rage filled his heart; stifling, choking with fury, the disappointed
schemer struck the senseless paper with his clinched fist, and ground
his teeth at it; then, suddenly, as if by a swift inspiration, he
remembered that this accursed will, which would reduce him to beggary,
and leave an unknown girl and his hated cousin wealthy, was in his
hands; that he and he only knew of its existence. With a sudden
revulsion of feeling he sprang to his feet, and held the paper at arm's
length and laughed softly at it, as if it were endued with sense, and
could appreciate its helplessness.

Then he drew the candle near, folded the paper into a third of its size,
held it to the candle--and drew it back again, overcome by that
fascination which almost invariably exercises itself on such
occasions--that peculiar reluctance to destroy the thing whose existence
can destroy the possessor.

The flame flickered and licked the frail paper; the smoke curled round
its edge; and yet--and yet he could not destroy it.

Instead, he sat down, and with clinched teeth unfolded the will and
read it--read it again and again, until every word was burned and seared
into his brain.

"Eunice Davenant! Eunice Davenant! Curse her!" he groaned out.

But even as the words left his lips a sound rose, the unmistakable
tap--tap of something--some finger striking the window-pane.

Biting his bloodless lips to prevent himself calling out in his ecstasy
of fear, he thrust the will into his pocket, caught up the candle, swept
the curtains aside, and started back.

The light fell full upon the face of a young girl.




CHAPTER VIII.


The face at the window was that of a young girl of about two-and-twenty.

It would be hard to say whether Stephen Davenant was pleased or annoyed
by this apparition. That he was surprised there could be no doubt, for
he almost dropped the candle in his astonishment, and fumbled at the
lock of the window for some moments before he could open it.

"Laura!" he exclaimed, "can it be you? Great Heavens! Impossible!"

With a little gasp of relief and suppressed excitement, the girl stepped
into the room, and leaned upon his arm, panting with a commingling of
weariness and fear.

"My dear Laura," he said, still holding the candle, "how did you come
here? Why----"

"Oh, Stephen, is it really you? I was afraid that I had made some
mistake--that I had come all this way----"

"You do not mean to say you have come all the way from London
alone--alone!"

"Yes, I have come all the way from London. Do not be angry with me,
Stephen. I--I could not wait any longer. It seemed so long! Why did you
leave me without a word? I did not know whether you were alive or dead.
Three weeks--think, three weeks! How could you do it?"

"Hush! hush! Do not speak so loud," he whispered. "Did anyone see you
come in?"

"No one. I have been waiting in the shrubs for--oh, hours! I saw the
visitors go away--an old gentleman and a young one--and I saw your
shadow behind the blind," and she pointed to the window. "I have been
outside waiting, and dreading to knock in case you should not be alone."

"You--you saw my shadow?" he said, with an uneasy smile. "Did you see--I
mean, what was I doing?"

"I did not see distinctly; I was listening for voices. Oh, Stephen, I am
so weary!"

He drew a chair for her, and, motioning her to sit, mixed a glass of
brandy-and-water, and stood over her holding her wrist and looking down
at her with an uneasy smile.

"Now," he said, taking the glass from her, "tell me all about it--how
you came, and why? Speak in a whisper."

"You don't need to ask me why, Stephen," she said, leaning forward and
laying her hand upon his arm, her dark eyes fixed on his half-hidden
ones. "Why did you leave me so long without a word?"

"I will tell you directly," he answered. "Tell me how you came--alone!
Great Heaven!"

"Alone, yes; why not? I was not afraid. I came by the train."

"But--but----" he said, with a little flush and a shifting glance, "how
did you know where I was?"

"You would never guess! You do not deserve that I should tell you. Well,
I followed Slummers!"

"Followed Slummers!" he echoed, with a forced smile.

"Yes, I met him in the street; you are going to ask me why I did not ask
him where you were," she broke off with a smile and a shake of her head.

"Because I knew he would not tell me. Stephen, I do not like that man,
and he does not like me. Why do you trust him so?"

"You followed Slummers--well?"

"To the station. I was behind him when he took his ticket, and I took
one for the same place. I was quite close behind him, but he did not see
me. I got into the train at the last moment, and I followed him from the
station here."

"My dear Laura," he murmured, soothingly; "how rash, how thoughtless!"

"Was it?" she said. "Perhaps it was. I did not stop to think."

"But now--now what are you to do?"

"Don't be angry with me, Stephen, now I _am_ here. You must tell me what
I am to do." Then her eyes wandered round the house. "What a large
house! Is it yours, Stephen?"

"Eh?" he said, starting slightly. "I--I--don't know--I mean it was my
uncle's. I was going to write to-night and tell you where I was, and why
I did not write before."

"Why didn't you?" she said, with gentle reproach.

"Because," he replied, "I could not--it was impossible. I could not
leave the house, and could not trust the letter to a servant. My uncle
has been very ill: he--he--lies dead up-stairs."

"Up-stairs! Oh, Stephen!"

"You see," he exclaimed reproachfully, "that I have a good excuse, that
I have not desert--left you without a word for no cause."

"Forgive me, Stephen, dear!" she murmured, penitently. "Do not be angry
with me. Say you are glad to see me now I have come."

"Of course I am glad to see you, but I am not glad you have come, my
dear Laura. What am I to do with you? I am not alone here, you know. The
house is full of servants; any moment someone may come in. Think of the
awkward position in which your precipitancy has placed me--has placed
both of us!"

"I never thought of that--I did not know. Why did you not tell me you
were with your uncle? Oh, Stephen, why have you hidden things from me?"

"Hidden things?" he echoed, with ill-concealed impatience. "I did not
think that it was worth telling. I did not know that I was coming--I was
fetched suddenly. Now that I come to think of it, I told Slummers to
call and tell you."

"And he forgot it--on purpose. I hate Slummers!"

"Poor Slummers!" murmured Stephen. "Never mind him, however. We must
think now of what is to be done with you. You--you cannot stay here."

"Can I not? No, I suppose not. I can go back," she added, with a touch
of bitterness.

"My darling," he said, coaxingly, "I am afraid you must go back. There
is an up-train--the last--in half an hour."

The girl leaned back and clasped her hands in her lap.

"I am very sorry," he said, grasping her arm; "but what can I do? You
cannot stay here. That's impossible. There is only one inn in the place,
and your appearance there would arouse curiosity, and--oh, _that_, too,
is quite impossible! My poor Laura, why did you come?"

"Yes," she said, slowly, "it was foolish to come. You are not glad to
see me, Stephen."

He bent over her and kissed her, but she put him from her with a touch
of her hand, and rose wearily.

"I will go," she said. "Yes, I was wrong to come. Tell me the way," and
she drew her jacket close.

"Don't look so grieved, dear," he murmured. "What am I to do? If there
was any place--but there is not. See, I will come with you to the
station. We shall have to walk, I am afraid; I dare not order a
carriage. My poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties."

"Do not say any more," she interrupted coldly. "I am quite convinced of
my folly and am ready to go."

"Sit down and wait while I get my hat. We must get away unobserved.
Suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. I can't tell
you all, but I will soon. Sit down, my darling; I will not be gone a
moment. If anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal
yourself."

Unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him.

Barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again.

Warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar
so that it hid the lower part of his face.

Locking the door after him, he came up to the table, poured out another
glass of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits.

"Come," he said, "you must eat some of these. Put some in your pocket.
And you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted."

She put back the glass and plate from her with a gesture of denial.

"I could not eat," she said. "I do not want anything, and I shall not be
exhausted. Let us go; this house makes me shudder," and she moved to the
window and passed out.

"Laura, my dear Laura," murmured Stephen, in his most dulcet tones, "why
are you angry with me?"

"I am not angry with you," she said, and the voice, cold and
constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him
a quarter of an hour ago. "I am angry with myself; I am filled with
self-scorn."

"My dear Laura," he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a
gesture.

"You are quite right; I was wrong to come. You have not said so in so
many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so
plainly."

"What have I said?"

"Nothing," she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of
cold conviction. "If you had said angry words, had been harsh and
annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, I could have forgiven
myself, but you were not glad to see me. If I had been in your
place--but I am a woman. Don't say any more. Is the station near?"

"My dear Laura," murmured Stephen for the third time, and now more
softly than ever, "more must be said. I am anxious, naturally anxious,
to learn whether this--this sudden journey can be concealed."

It was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious--on his own account.




CHAPTER IX.


"Come," he said; "it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so
seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should
have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night!
That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you--and yet that would
scarcely be wise--but it is impossible under the circumstances. Come,
give me your arm, my dear Laura."

A little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a
stifled sob.

"Come, come, my darling," he murmured; "don't look back, look forward.
In an hour or two you will be home."

"Do you think I am afraid?" she asked, and her voice trembled, but not
with fear. "No, I am looking back. Oh, Stephen, do you remember when we
met first?"

"Yes, yes," said Stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look
about--to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his
arm on the night of his uncle's death would be the ruin of his carefully
built-up reputation. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "Shall I ever forget? How
fortunate you lost your way, Laura, and that you should have come up to
me to ask it, and that I should have been going in that direction. And
yet the thoughtless speak of chance!"

And he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one
in the dark road to be impressed by it.

"Chance," said the girl, sadly--"an evil or a good chance for me--which?
Stephen, I sometimes wish that we had never met--that I had not crossed
your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober
grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. I went back to the quiet
home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and
life was changed."

"Your grandfather has no suspicion?"

"No, he trusts me entirely. If he asks a question when I go to meet you,
he is satisfied when I tell him that I am going to a neighbor. Stephen,
if I had had a mother, do you think I should have deceived her also?"

"Deceived? Deceived is too harsh a word, my dear Laura. We have been
obliged, for various reasons, to use some reserve--let us say candidly,
to conceal our engagement. You have not mentioned my name to anyone?" he
broke off.

"To no one," she answered.

"Such concealment was necessary. My uncle was a man of rough and hasty
temper, ill-judging and merciless."

"But," she said, with a sudden eagerness, and a slight shudder, "he--he
is dead now, Stephen. There is no need for further concealment."

"Softly, softly, dear Laura. We must be patient--must keep our little
secret a little while longer. I can trust my darling to confide in
me--yes, yes, I know that----"

"Stephen, to-night for the first time--why, I know not--I have
doubted--no, not doubted, for I have fought hard against the suspicion
that I was wrong to trust you."

"My dearest!" he murmured reproachfully.

"You were wrong to leave me for so long without a word--you put my love
to too severe a test. I--I cannot say whether it has stood it or not.
To-night I am full of doubt. Stephen--look at me!"

He turned his face and looked down. He had not far to look, for she was
tall, and in the moment of excitement had drawn herself to her full
height. The moon, sailing from amongst the clouds, shone on her upturned
face; her lips were set, and the dark eyes gleamed from the white face.

"Look at me, Stephen. If--I say if--there is the faintest idea of
treachery lurking in your mind----"

"My dearest----"

"Cast it out! Here, to-night, I warn you to cast it out! Such love as
mine is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways, for love--or hate!
Stephen, I have loved, I have trusted you--for mine, for your own sake,
be true to me!"

He was more impressed than alarmed. This side of her character had been
presented to him to-night for the first time. Hitherto the beautiful
girl had been all smiles and humble devotion. Was she bewitched, or had
he been mistaken in her. Perhaps it was the moon, but suddenly his face
looked paler than ever, and the white eyelids drooped until they hid the
shifting eyes, as he put his arm around her.

"My dearest! What can you mean? Deceive you! Treachery! Can you deem
me--_me_--capable of such things. My dearest, you are overtired! And
your jacket has become unbuttoned. Listen, that is the railway bell.
Laura, you will not leave me with such words on your lips?"

"Forgive me, Stephen."

"I have done so already, dearest, and now we must part! It is very
hard--but--I cannot even go with you to the platform. Someone might see
us. It is for your sake, darling."

"Yes, yes, I know," she said, with a sigh. "Good-bye--you will write or
come to me--when?"

"Soon, in a day or two," he said. "Do not be impatient. There is much to
be done; my poor uncle's funeral, you know. Good-bye. See! I will stay
here and watch the train off. Good-bye, dear, dear Laura!"

She put her arm round him and returned his kiss, and glided away, but at
the turn of the road leading to the station she turned and, holding up
her hand, sent a word back to him.

It was:

"Remember!"

Stephen waited until the train puffed out of the station, and not until
it had flashed some distance did the set smile leave his face.

Then, with a rather puzzled and uneasy expression, he turned and walked
swiftly back to the house.

His brain was in a whirl, the sudden appearance of the young girl coming
on the top of the other causes of excitement bewildered him, and he felt
that he had need of all his accustomed coolness. The sudden peril and
danger of this accursed will demanded all his attention, and yet the
thought of the girl would force itself upon him. He had met her, as she
had said, in the streets, and had commenced an acquaintance which had
resulted in an engagement. Alone and unprotected, save for an old
grandfather, and innocent of the world, Laura Treherne had been, as it
were, fascinated by the smooth, soft-spoken Stephen, from whose ready
tongue vows of love and devotion rolled as easily as the scales from a
serpent in spring-time. And he, for his part, was smitten by the dark
eyes and quick, impulsive way of the warm-hearted girl.

But there had come upon him of late a suspicion that in binding himself
to marry her he had committed a false step; to-night the suspicion grew
into something like certainty.

To tell the truth, she had almost frightened him. Hitherto the dark eyes
had ever turned on his with softened gaze of love and admiration;
to-night, for the first time, the hot, passionate nature had revealed
itself.

The deep-toned "Remember!" which came floating down the lane as she
disappeared rang unpleasantly in his ears. Had he been a true-hearted
man the girl's spirit would have made her more precious in his eyes;
but, coward-like, he felt that hers was a stronger nature than his, and
he began to fear.

"Yes," he muttered, as he unlocked the library window, and sank into a
chair. "It was a weak stroke, a weak stroke! But I can't think of what
is to be done now, not now!"

No, for to-night all his attention must be concentrated on the will.

Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. This time
nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which
stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once--at once. With
feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and
fell back white as death.

_The pocket was empty. The will was not there._

"I--I am a fool!" he muttered, with a smile. "I put it in the other
coat," and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him
that it was not there either.

Wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went on his knees and
felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the
carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself,
shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the
conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room
could the thing be hidden.

Then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips.
Let him think--think--think! Where could it be? He had not dropped it on
the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he
could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study
buttoning up his overcoat. If not in the house, where then?

Throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window,
and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which
he had taken across the lawn--and all to no purpose.

"It is lying in the road," he muttered, the sweat dropping from his
face. "Heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and
ruin me. I must--I will find it! Brandy--I must have some
brandy--this--this is maddening me!"

And indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he
went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head.
Suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the
tall figure of a man standing right in his path. With a wolfish cry of
mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him.

"You--you thief!" he cried, hoarsely; "give it to me--give it me!"

The man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his
throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and,
holding him down writhing, struck a match.

Gasping and foaming, Stephen looked up and saw that it was Jack
Newcombe--Jack Newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise
and suspicion.

"Well," he said contemptuously, "so it's you! Are you out of your mind?"
and he flung the match away and allowed Stephen to rise.

Trembling and struggling for composure, Stephen brushed the dust from
his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for Jack's blow had been
straight from the shoulder.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" said Jack, sternly. "I asked
you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and
behaving like a lunatic?"

Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile
struggled to his face.

"My dear Jack, how you startled me!" he gasped. "I was never so
frightened in my--my life!"

"So it appeared," said Jack, with strong disgust in his voice. "Pick up
the candle--there it is."

And he pointed with his foot. But Stephen was by no means anxious for a
light.

"Never mind the candle," he said. "You are quite right--I must have
seemed out of my mind. I--I am very much upset, my dear Jack."

"Are you hurt?" inquired Jack, but with no great show of concern.

"No, no!" gasped Stephen; "don't distress yourself, my dear Jack--don't,
I beg of you. It was my fault, entirely. The--the fact is that I----"

He paused, for Jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that
the light fell upon Stephen's face.

"Now," he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see
Stephen's face while he made his explanation.

"The fact is," Stephen began again, "I have had the misfortune to lose a
pocketbook--no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper
which I fancied I had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped
out. It--it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had
sent me--of no value, utterly valueless--oh, quite----"

"So I should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man
you met of stealing it," said Jack, with quiet scorn.

Stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under
his eyelids.

"Pray forgive me, my dear Jack," he said, pressing his hand to his brow,
and sighing. "If you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and
overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. I
am much shaken to-night, my dear Jack--very much shaken."

And indeed he was, for the Savage's fist was by no means a soft one.

Jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward
him.

"You had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you
look for the paper," he said. "Good-night."

"Oh, it is of no consequence," said Stephen, eagerly. "Don't go--stop a
moment, my dear Jack. I--I will walk with you as far as the inn."

"No, thanks," said Jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in
Stephen's eyes, he added: "Oh, I see! you are afraid I should pick it up
in the road. You had better come."

Stephen smiled, and laid his hand on Jack's arm.

"You--you are not playing a joke with me, my dear Jack? You haven't got
the--document in your pocket all the time?"

"If I said that I hadn't you wouldn't believe me, you know," he replied.
"There, take your hand off my coat!"

"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh.
"Don't go, my dear Jack; stop at the house to-night. I should feel very
much obliged, indeed, if you would. I am so upset to-night that I--I
want company. Let me beg of you to stop."

And in his dread lest Jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his
arm.

Jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that Stephen was
in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn.

"Go indoors," he said sternly, "and leave me alone. I'd rather not sleep
under the same roof with you. As for your lost paper, whatever it may
be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get
into further trouble," and he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the
candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close
watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same
time. But all to no purpose; Jack reached and entered the inn without
stopping, and neither going nor returning could Stephen see anything of
the missing will.

Two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more
dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain.

Had Jack Newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it?

After a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him
calmer. His acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to
recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had
come to a plan of action.

It was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most
reasonable one he could think of.

There in Warden Forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was
himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. I am sorry to say that
he cursed her as he thought of her. Where was the will? Whoever had got
it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make
them, would go to the real heiress.

Stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away.

But where?

He did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his
eyes, or in the charge--the custody, really--of a trustworthy friend.

The only really trustworthy friend whom Stephen knew was his mother.

"Yes, that is it," he muttered. "Mother shall take this girl as--as--a
companion. Poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will
frighten her into a nervous fit. Poor mother!" And he smiled with a
feeble, malicious pleasure.

There are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who
are devoted to them.

"Dear mother," he wrote, "I have to send you the sad news of my uncle's
death. Need I say that I am utterly overwhelmed in grief. I have indeed
lost a friend!" ("The malicious, mean old wolf," he muttered, in
parenthesis.) "How good he was to me! But, mother, even in the midst of
our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. I have a
little duty to perform, in which I require your aid. I fear it will
necessitate your making a journey to Wermesley station on this line. If
you will come down by the 10:20 on Wednesday, I will meet you at
Wermesley station. Do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must
not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth.
                                "In great affliction,
                                  "Your loving son,
                                    "STEPHEN DAVENANT."


It was a beautiful letter, and clearly proved that Stephen was not only
a bad man, but an extremely clever and dangerous one--for he could
retain command over himself even in such moments as these.




CHAPTER X.


Let us hasten from the gloomy atmosphere of Hurst Leigh, and, leaving
the presence of the thwarted old man lying upstairs, and the no less
thwarted young man writhing in torturing dread in the darkened library,
return to Warden Forest.

With fleet feet Una fled from the lake, the voices of the woodman and
Jack Newcombe ringing in her ears, a thousand tumultuous emotions
surging wildly in her heart.

Until the preceding night Gideon Rolfe had seemed the calmest and most
placable of fathers; nothing had occurred to ruffle his almost studied
impassability. New and strange experiences seemed to crowd upon her so
suddenly that she scarcely accepted them as real. Had she been dreaming,
and would she wake presently to find the handsome young stranger, with
his deep musical voice, and his dark, eloquent eyes, the phantom of a
vision?

As she came in sight of the cottage she turned aside and, plunging into
the depths of the wood, sank down upon a bank of moss and strove to
recall every word, every look, every slight incident, which had passed
since the arrival of the stranger; and, as she did so, she seemed
vaguely conscious that a change, indefinite yet undeniable, had fallen
upon her life. The very trees, the atmosphere itself, seemed changed,
and in place of that perfect, unbroken calm which had hitherto enwrapped
her life, a spirit of unrest, of vague longing, took possession of her.

A meteor had crossed the calm, serene sky of her existence, vanishing as
quickly as it had come, and creating a strange, aching void.

Still it was not at all painful, this novel feeling of wistfulness and
unrest; a faint echo of some mysterious delight rang in the inner
chambers of her young soul, the newly awakened heart stirred within her
like an imprisoned bird, and turned to the new light which had dawned
upon her. That it was the celestial light of love she was completely
ignorant. She only knew and felt, with all the power of mind and soul,
that a spirit had fallen upon her life, that she had, half-blinded, left
the road of gray, unbroken calm, never to return--never to return.

Step by step she recalled all that had passed, and sat revolving the
strange scene with ever-increasing wonder.

What did it mean? Why should her father be angry with the youth? Why
should he accuse and insult him, and drive her away as if from the
presence of some wild animal who was seeking to devour her?

Wild animal! A smile, sad and wistful, flitted over her beautiful face
as she called up the handsome face and graceful form of the youth. Was
it possible that one so base as her father declared him to be could look
as this youth had looked, speak as he had spoken? With a faint,
tremulous, yet unconscious blush, she remembered how graceful he looked
lying at her feet, his lips half parted in a smile, his brow frank and
open as a child's.

And yet he himself had said, half sadly, that he was wild and wicked.
What could it mean?

Innocent as a nun, ignorant of all that belonged to the real living
world, she sat vainly striving to solve this, the first enigma of her
inner life.

Once, as she sat thinking and pondering, her eyes cast down, her brows
knit, her fingers strayed to her right arm with a gentle, almost
caressing touch. It was the arm upon which Jack's hand had rested: even
now she seemed to feel the pressure of the strong fingers just as she
heard the ring of his deep, musical voice, and could feel the gaze of
his dark, flashing eyes; they had looked fierce and savage when she had
first seen them at the open door of the cottage last night, but this
morning they had worn a different expression--a tender, half-pitying,
and wholly gentle expression, which softened them. It was thus she liked
to remember them--thus she would remember them if she never saw them
again.

And as this thought flashed across her mind a wistful sadness fell upon
her, and a vague pain came into her heart. Should she never see him
again? Never! She looked round mournfully, and lo! the whole world
seemed changed; the sun was still shining, the trees were still crowned
in all their glory of summer leafage, but it all looked gray and dark to
her; all the beauty and glory which she had learned to love had
gone--vanished at the mere thought that she should never see him again.

Slowly she rose, and with downcast eyes moved toward the cottage. She
passed in at the open door and looked round the room--that, too, seemed
altered, something was missing; half-consciously she wandered round,
touching with the same half-caressing gesture the chair on which Jack
Newcombe had sat, opened the book at the page which she was reading
while he was eating his supper; a spell seemed to have fallen upon her,
and it was with a start like one awakening from a dream that she turned
as a shadow fell across the room and Gideon Rolfe entered.

She turned and looked at him questioningly, curiously, but without fear.
The cry of alarm when he had broken in upon them by the lake had been on
Jack's account, not her own; never since she could remember had Gideon
Rolfe spoken harshly to her, looked angrily; without a particle of fear,
rather with a vague wonder, she looked and waited for him to speak.

The old man's face wore a strange expression; all traces of the fierce
passion which had convulsed it a short time ago had passed away, and in
its place was a stern gravity which was almost sad in its grim
intensity.

Setting his ax aside, he paced the room for a minute in silence, his
brows knit, his hands clasped behind his back.

Una glided to the window and looked out into the wood, her head leaning
on her arm.

"Una," he said, suddenly, his voice troubled and grave, but not unkind.

She started, and looked around at him; her spirit had fled back to the
lake again, and she had almost forgotten that he was in the room.

"Una, you must not wander in the forest alone again."

"No! Why not?"

He hesitated a moment, as if he did not know how to answer her; then he
said, with a frown:

"Because I do not wish it--because the man you saw here last night, the
man you were with by the lake, may come again"--a faint light of
gladness shone in her eyes, and he saw it, and frowned sternly as he
went on--"and I do not wish you to meet him."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly
clasped in front of her; then she looked up.

"Father, tell me why you spoke so angrily to him--why do you not want
him to come to Warden again?"

"I spoke as he deserved," he answered; "and I would rather that Warden
should be filled with wild beasts than that he should cross your path
again."

Her face paled slightly, and her eyes opened with wonder and pain.

"Is he so very bad and wicked?" she asked, almost inaudibly.

Gideon Rolfe strode to and fro for a moment before he answered. How
should he answer her?--how warn and caution her without destroying the
innocence which, like the sensitive plant, withers at a touch?

"Is it not sufficient that I wish it, Una?" he said. "Why are you not
satisfied? Wicked! Yes, he's wicked; all men are wicked, and he's the
most wicked and base!"

"You know him, father?" she asked. "You would not say so if you did not.
I am sorry he is so bad."

"Look at me, Una," he said.

She turned, her eyes downcast and hidden, her lips trembling for a
moment.

"Yes, father."

"Una," he said, "what is the meaning of this? Why are you changed--why
do you shrink from me?"

She looked up with a curious mixture of innocent pride and dignity.

"I don't shrink from you, father," she said in a low voice.

Gideon's hand dropped from her shoulder, and the frown gave place to a
sad expression. "Has the time I looked forward to with fear and dread
come at last?" he murmured, inaudibly, and he paced to and fro again, as
if endeavoring to arrive at some decision.

Una watched him with dreamy, questioning eyes, in which shone a tender
mournfulness. Why were all men wicked? Why was this one man, with the
handsome face and the musical voice, more wicked than the rest? What was
it that her father knew that should make him hate the youth so? These
were the questions that haunted her as she waited silent and motionless.

At last, with a wave of the hand, as if he were putting some decision on
one side, Gideon Rolfe turned to her and motioned her to the
window-seat. "Una," he said, "last night you were wondering why your lot
should be different from that of other girls; you were wondering why I
have kept you here in Warden, and out of the world. It is so, is it
not?"

She did not answer in words, but her eyes said "yes," plainly.

Gideon Rolfe sighed, and passed his hand over his brow; it was a hand
hardened by toil, but it was not the hand of a peasant, any more than
was his tone or his words those of one.

"Una, I have foreseen this question; I have been expecting it, and I had
resolved that when it came I would answer it. But," and his lips
twitched, "I cannot do it--I cannot," and his brow contracted as if he
were suffering some great, mental anguish. "For my sake, do not press
me. In time to come, sooner or later, you must know the secret of your
life, you must learn why and wherefore your whole life has been spent in
seclusion; you have guessed that there is some mystery, some
story--there is. It must remain a mystery still. For your own sake I
dare not draw aside the veil which conceals; for your own sake my lips
are for the present sealed. Child, can you tell me that, secluded and
lonely as your life has been, it has been an unhappy one?"

"Father!" she murmured, and her eyes filled slowly.

"God forgive me if it has been!" he said, sadly. "I have striven to make
it a happy one."

Silently she rose and laid her hand upon his arm and put up her lips to
kiss him, but with a gentle gesture he put her away from him.

"Una, listen to me. All my life I have had but one aim, one purpose,
your happiness and welfare. For your sake I left the world and an
honored name----" he stopped suddenly, warned by the gentle wonder of
her gaze, and with a faint color in his face hurried on--"for your sake,
and yours only. Do you think that it is by choice that I have kept you
hidden from the world? No, but of necessity. Una, between the world and
you yawns a wide gulf. On this side are peace, and innocence, and
happiness; on the other," and his voice grew grave and solemn, "lie
misery and--shame." White and wondering, she gazed at him, and the
innocent wonder in the beautiful face recalled him to himself. "Enough!
You can trust me, Una; it is no idle, meaningless warning. Remember what
I have said, when your thoughts turn to the world beyond the forest,
when you grow weary and impatient with the quiet life which, though it
may seem sad and weary, is the only one you can ever know without
passing that gulf of which I have spoken."

"And now I want you to give me a promise, Una."

"A promise, father?" she echoed, in a low voice.

"Yes; I want you to promise me that if this--this young man should come,
as he has threatened to do--that if he should come to you, and speak to
you, you will not listen, will not speak to him."

An impatient frown knitted Gideon Rolfe's brow.

"Is this so much to ask you?" he said, in a low voice. "Is it so grave
a thing to demand of you that you should avoid a man whom you have seen
but twice in your life, one whom you know to be wicked and worthless?"

"Girl," he exclaimed, in low, harsh accents, "has the curse fallen upon
you--already? Has he bewitched you? Speak? Why do you not speak? Has all
the careful guarding of years been set at naught and rendered of no
avail by the mere sight of one of his race, by a few idle words spoken
by one of his hateful kin?"

He grasped her shoulder; instantly, with a revulsion of feeling, he
withdrew his hand, and bent his head with a gesture almost of humility.

"Una, forgive me. You see how this unmans me--can you not understand how
great must be the danger from which I wish to save you? Promise me what
I ask you, for your own sake--ay, and for his."

"For his?" she murmured.

"Yes, for his. Let him but attempt to cross your path again, and I will
not hold my hand. I held it once--would to Heaven I had not! I say, for
his sake, promise that you will hold no speech with him!"

"Father, what has he done to make you hate him so?" she asked.

"I cannot, I will not tell you more than this: His race has ruined my
life and yours--ruined it beyond all reparation here and hereafter. No
more. I wait for your promise."

"I promise," she said.

"Good," he said. "I can trust you, child."

"Yes, you can trust me," she said, in a low voice; then with slow,
listless steps she crossed the room and stole up-stairs.




CHAPTER XI.


The Savage, wholly unconscious of, and totally indifferent to, the fact
that his every footstep was watched by Stephen, entered the "Bush" Inn
and went straight to his room, the little knot of regular customers, who
were drinking and smoking in the parlor, either rising respectfully as
he entered or maintaining an equally respectful silence until he was out
of hearing.

"Mr. Jack's a fine fellow," said the landlord, looking at the fire
solemnly. "Did you notice his face as he went through? I'm afraid it's
all over with the old squire. Well, well, rest his soul, I say. I'm not
one to bear grudges against the dead."

There was, if not a hearty, a unanimous assent to this dutiful
sentiment, and the landlord, encouraged, ventured a little further,
looking first over his shoulder to see if the door was shut, and then
glancing at a little wrinkled faced man who sat in the corner by the
fireplace, and looked, in his rusty black suit, like a lawyer's clerk,
as indeed he was.

"All over now, Mr. Skettle," said the landlord, with a little cough. "I
wonder--ahem--who'll be the next squire?"

The old clerk peered out from under his hairless brows, and shook his
head with a dry smile; it was a very fair imitation of his master's, Mr.
Hudsley's, manner, and never failed to impress the company at the
"Bush."

"Aha!" he breathed. "Hem--yes. Time will prove--time will prove,
Jobson."

Jobson, the landlord, looked round and winked with impressive
admiration, as much as to say, "Deep fellow, Skettle; knows all about
it, mind you, but not a word!"

"Well," said the parish clerk, with a shake of the head, "if wishing
would make the mare to go, I know who'd be the Squire o' Hurst," and he
pointed with his pipe to the ceiling, above which the Savage was
thoughtfully pacing to and fro.

"We've had enough o' Davenants," began the miller; but Jobson stopped
him with a warning gesture.

"No names, South--no names; this air a public house, and I'm a man as
minds my own business."

"So was the last squire," retorted the miller, who was not to be put
down--"leastways, he didn't meddle or help his neighbors. Not one
shilling have I took from the Hurst since I was that high. Is there a
man in this room as can say he'll be a penny the worse for Squire
Ralph's death?

"And from what I see it seems to me that if things go on as they appear
to be going, we shan't be much better for the new squire, if the name's
to be the same."

"A nice spoken gentleman, Mr. Stephen," muttered the tailor, from behind
the table.

The miller smiled and shook his head.

"There's some grain as grinds so soft that you can't keep it on the
ground from the wind; but it don't make good bread, neighbor. No! Now
the youngster up above," and he jerked his head toward the ceiling, "he
comes of a different branch--same tree, mind yer, but a healthier
branch. It will be good news for Hurst Leigh if it's found that Master
Jack is to be our head."

"Nothing soft about Mr. Jack. If all we hear be true, it's a pretty wild
branch of the tree he comes from."

"They say he's wild. No doubt; he always was. I can remember him a boy
home for the holidays. He used to come down to the mill and poach my
trout--a bit of a boy no higher than that"--and he put his hand against
the table--"as fine a boy as ever I see. One day I caught him, and told
him I'd either give him a thrashing or tell his uncle; for, do yer see,
we allus called the old squire his uncle.

"'All right,' said he, 'wait till I've landed this fish and we'll settle
it between us like gentlemen.' Another time I found him in the orchard.
'Well, Master Jack,' says I, 'bean't you got enough apples at the Hurst,
but you must come and plague me?' He thought a moment, then he looks up
with that audacious flash in his eyes, and says, quiet enough: 'Stolen
fruit is the sweetest, South. If you feel put upon, take it out of the
Hurst Orchard. I give you leave.' What was to be done with a boy like
that? Fear! He didn't know what fear was. Do any o' you remember that
roan mare as the old parson had? Well, Master Jack hears us talking o'
the spiteful beast one day, and nothing 'ud do but he must go off and
ask the parson to let him ride 'un. Of course the old fellow said no.
Two nights after that the young varmint breaks open the stables, takes
out the mare, saddles her, and rides her out to the common. I was late
at the mill that night, and I hears her come clattering down the yard
like a fire-engine, with Master Jack on her back, his eyes flashing and
his hair a-flying, and him a-laughing as if it was the rarest bit o' fun
in the world. I'd just time to cut across the meadow to the five-barred
fence, and here he come past me, making straight for the fence, waving
his hand and shouting someut about Dick Turpin. Ah, and he took the
fence, too, and when that vicious beast threw him, and we came up to
him, lying all o' a heap, with his arm broke, and the blood streaming
from his face--what's he do but laugh at us, and swear as we'd startled
her! And as for fighting! There warn't a week but what he'd come to the
mill, all cut and mauled, for the missis to wash him and put him to
rights. He'd never go home to the Hurst those times. Even then the old
squire and him didn't agree. The old man called him a Savage, and I hear
as that's what they call him up in London, and yet there warn't a house
in Leigh as he warn't welcome in. Many and many a time he's slept up in
the mill loft after one of his harum-scarum tricks, and many's the time
I've faced the old squire when he's come after him with a horsewhip."

"They say that he run through all the money, as was his by rights, up in
London in fast living," said the parish clerk, gravely.

"May be," said the miller, curtly. "If fast living means open-handed
living, it's like enough; he never could keep a shilling when he was a
boy, the first tramp as passed had it, safe as a gun. What's bred in the
bone must come out in the flesh. Here's to the new squire--if it be
Master Jack," and the sturdy old man raised his glass and emptied its
contents at one vigorous but steady pull.

Meanwhile the subject of the discussion paced to and fro, pulling at his
brier, and indulging in a study of the brownest description.

Never perhaps in his life had Jack been so upset, so serious and so
sobered.

In the first place the sudden--or rather sudden to Jack--death of the
old man with whom he had lived and quarreled as a boy, affected him more
deeply than even he was aware. There in the silent room in the inn, he
recalled all the old man's good qualities, all the little kindnesses he
had done him, Jack, and more than all, the few last solemn and quite
unexpectedly affectionate words which had dropped from his dying lips.

Jack, puffing at his pipe and rubbing his short hair with a puzzled
frown, went over the scene again and again, and with no mercenary
thoughts of the old man's declaration that he had remembered Jack in his
will, but with reference to the mysterious allusions in the disposal of
the large part of the property; then Jack's mind would fly off to the
fearful scene at the actual death.

The wild cry, the white and horrified face of Stephen, the puzzled and
sternly questioning one of the old lawyer. What did it mean?

And still more mysterious, what was the meaning of Stephen's conduct on
the lawn? What was he hunting for with such intense eagerness as to make
him fly at Jack like a madman?

Jack--as no doubt the reader will have surmised--was not clever.

He could not piece this and that together, and from disjointed incidents
form an intelligent whole, as a child does with a box of puzzles.

The whole thing was a mystery to him, and grew more confusing and
bewildering the more he thought of it.

It takes a villain thoroughly to appreciate a villain, a thief to
understand and catch a thief; and Jack, being neither one nor the other,
utterly failed to understand Stephen.

That he disliked him, with a feeling more like contempt than hatred, was
a matter of course, but if any one had told Jack straight out that
Stephen had abstracted the will, Jack would in all probability have
refused to credit it. Will stealing and all such meanness was so
thoroughly out of his line that he would not have understood how
Stephen, led on step by step, could have possibly been guilty of it.

Then again, something else came forcing itself on these thoughts
concerning the strange events at the Hurst. For the life of him he could
not forget the Forest of Warden and all that had happened to him within
its leafy shades.

At one moment it seemed as if years must have elapsed since he lost his
way and forced an entrance at the woodman's hut, at another he was half
inclined to believe that he had dined rather heavily at the club and
dreamed it all. Like Una, he could not realize that they had met,
touched hands and exchanged speech.

Jack could not get the beautiful face out of his mental vision; it
mingled with the wan face of the dying man, with Stephen's pale,
distorted countenance; it seemed to beam and shine upon him from the
dark corners of the room with the same frank, pure, innocent smile with
which it had shone down upon him as he lay at her feet in the woods.

And then the girl's surroundings! The extraordinary father, with his
laborer's dress and his refined speech and bearing. What mystery
enveloped the little group of persons buried in the depths of a wood,
living apart from the world?

Jack rumpled his hair and drew a long breath eloquent of confusion and
bewilderment.

It was certainly extraordinary! Three days ago he had left London,
prosaic London, and was now plunged to the neck in a sea of romance and
secrecy.

On one thing he was, however, resolved. He would keep his threat or
promise. He would go to Warden Forest and see that beautiful face again,
though he had to brave the anger of twenty mysterious woodmen. He
thought at first that he would start on the morrow, but some
feeling--perhaps some reverence and respect for the dead man--made him
change his mind.

"No," he said to himself, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
prepared for bed; "I'll stay here over the funeral, and then----"

But, though he felt tired and worn out, it was hours before he could
sleep, and when he did, his spirit fled back to Warden Forest, and the
face that had haunted him waking hovered about him in dreams.

Was it love; love at first sight? Jack would have been first to laugh at
the idea; but it is worthy of note that all the loves which had occurred
in his wild, reckless life had never, in their warmest epochs, moved him
as the remembrance of Una had done; not one had had the power to disturb
his sleep or to bring him dreams.

Jack kept to his resolution. Five days passed, and he stuck to the
"Bush" manfully. They were, perhaps, the dreariest days he ever spent in
his life, and he never thought of them afterward without a shudder.

Every day he was tempted to take flight and go to London until the day
of the funeral; but his promise to Hudsley kept him at his post. He
would not even leave the "Bush."

On the first day, a note, written on the deepest of mourning paper, had
come from Stephen, begging him to come to the Hurst; but he had written
a firm and what was for him a polite refusal. Of Stephen himself he saw
nothing. Mr. Hudsley had also sent, and asked him to stay at his house;
and this, too, Jack had declined.

The fact was he wanted to be left alone, to think over the strange
adventures in the forest, to dwell with unceasing wistfulness on the
beautiful face and sweet, musical voice.

So he clung to the inn; taking a morning dip in the river; strolling
about, with his brier pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets,
exchanging a word with this man and the other, and bestowing his odd
change on any children he happened to meet. Sometimes he would drop in
at one of the cottages, where he was so welcome when a boy, and smoke
and chat; but usually he kept to his room.

But wherever he went he was the observed of all observers. Every night
the little club that met in the "Bush" parlor talked about him, and
wondered why he didn't go to the Hurst, and whether he would be the new
squire.

The day of the funeral arrived at last--a cold, wet day, that
foreshadowed the approaching autumn; and Jack put on his black
suit--made by the village tailor who had described Stephen as a
nice-spoken gentleman--and went up to the Hurst.

It was the first time he had been near it since the night he had the
scuffle with Stephen on the lawn; and, to Jack's eyes, it looked
gloomier than ever.

As he entered the hall, a shrunken figure in shabby black came to meet
him; it was old Skettle, Hudsley's clerk.

The old man peered at him curiously, and made him a respectful bow in
response to Jack's blunt greeting, and opened the library door.

Mr. Hudsley was standing at the table, and looked up with his wrinkled
face and keen eyes--not a trace of expression beyond keenness in them.
Jack shook hands with him and looked around.

"Where is Stephen?" he said.

As he spoke the door opened and Stephen entered. Jack, frank and candid,
stared at him with astonishment.

"Are we ready?"

And they passed out.

In silence they stood beside the grave while all that was mortal of
Ralph Davenant was consigned to the earth, and in silence they returned
to the library.

With the same stony, impassive countenance, Mr. Hudsley seated himself
at the head of the table; Stephen sank into a chair beside him, and sat
with his eyes hidden under the white lids; Jack stood with folded arms
beside the window, glancing at the far-stretching lawns and watching the
servants as they filed in, a long line of black.

When they had all entered Mr. Hudsley drew from his pocket a folded
parchment, slowly put on his spectacles, and without looking round,
said:

"I am now about to read the last will and testament of Ralph Davenant."

There was a pause, a solemn pause, then he looked up and said:

"This will was drawn up by me on January--last year. It is the last will
of which I have any cognizance. A careful search has been made, but no
other document of the kind has been found. That is so, Mr. Stephen, is
it not?" and he turned to Stephen so suddenly that all eyes followed
his.

Stephen paused a moment, then raised his lids, and with a shake of his
head and a sigh murmured an assent.

Mr. Hudsley allowed his keen eyes to rest on him for an instant, then
slowly looked in the direction of Jack.

"A most careful search," he repeated.

Jack, feeling that the remark was addressed to him, nodded and looked at
the lawn again.

Mr. Hudsley cleared his throat, and opened the crackling parchment.

There was an intense silence, so intense that Stephen's labored
breathing could be heard as plainly as the rain on the windows.

In the same dry, hard voice Mr. Hudsley began to read. Clause by clause,
wrapped in the beautiful legal jargon in which such documents are, for
some inscrutable reasons, worded, no one understanding the import, but
suddenly familiar words struck upon the ear. They were the servants'
legacies, and a mourning ring to Mr. Hudsley; then, in a stillness that
was oppressive, there fell the words:

"To my nephew, Stephen Davenant, I will the whole and sole remainder of
all I possess, be it in lands or money, houses or securities, all and of
every kind of property, deducting only the afore-mentioned legacies."

A thrill ran through the assemblage, every eye turned, as if magnetized,
to the white, death-like face of the heir.

There he sat, the new squire, the owner of Hurst Leigh and the uncounted
thousands of old Ralph Davenant, motionless, white, too benumbed to
tremble.

Slowly Mr. Hudsley read over the signatures, and then slowly commenced
to fold the parchment.

Then, from the shadow of the curtains, Jack emerged, pale, too, but with
cool, calm dignity.

Quite quietly, and with perfect self-possession, he came to the table
and looked at the dry, wrinkled face.

"So I understand, Mr. Hudsley, that the squire has left me--nothing."

Mr. Hudsley looked up, no trace of expression on his face.

"Quite right, Mr. Newcombe," he replied.

"He has not named me," said Jack.

"He has not named you in this will."

Jack bowed, and was turning from the table when Stephen started to his
feet.

For one moment his eyes rested on Jack's face with an awful, piercing
look of scrutiny, then his eyes lit up with a malicious gleam of
triumph, but it disappeared instantly, and with a gesture of honest
generosity and regret, he exclaimed:

"Not named! My dear Jack! But stay! I see how it is. My uncle felt that
he could trust to my feeling in the matter. He knew that you would not
have to look to me in vain."

Jack turned and looked at him with infinite contempt and unbelief, and
then slowly passed out.




CHAPTER XII.


Two days passed since Una had given her promise that should Jack
Newcombe come to seek her she would hold no converse with him. How much
that promise had cost her no one could say; she herself did not know.
She only knew that whereas her life had always seemed dull and
purposeless, it had, since Jack Newcombe's visit, grown utterly dreary
and joyless.

Was it love? She did not ask herself the question. Had she done so, she
could not have answered it.

Any school-girl of fifteen feeling as Una felt would have known that she
was in love, but Una's only schooling had consisted of the few stern
lessons of Gideon Rolfe.

"I can never see him, hear him, speak to him again," was her one sad
reflection; "but if I could be somewhere near him, unseen!"

Then, through her brain, her father's words rang with melancholy
persistence. This youth, whose eyes had seemed so frank and brave, whose
voice rang with music so new and sweet, was, so her father said,
unutterably wicked. One to be avoided as a dangerous animal! It could
not but be true; she thought her father was truth itself.

But if it were so, then how false the world must be, for one to look and
speak so gently, and yet be so wicked!

All day she wandered in the woods, returning to the cottage pale and
listless, to leave her plate untouched or at best trifled with. Gideon
Rolfe saw the change which had befallen her, but held his peace, though
a bitter rage filled his heart; Martha Rolfe chided her for her
listlessness, and tried to tempt her to eat; but Una put chiding and
coaxing aside with a gentle smile, and escaped to the lake where she
could dream alone and undisturbed.

The two days passed--on the third, as she was sitting beside the spot
which had grown sacred in her eyes, with its crushed and broken ferns,
she heard steps behind. Thinking that they were those of her father or
one of the charcoal burners, she did not turn her head. The footsteps
drew nearer, and a man came out from the thick wood and stood on the
margin of the lake, and remained for a moment looking about him.

Una was so hidden by the tall brake that she remained unseen, and sat
holding her breath watching him.

He was tall, thin, and dressed in black, and when he turned his face
toward her, Una saw that he was not ill-looking. She might have thought
him handsome but for that other face which was always in her mental
vision. He was very pale, and looked anxious and ill at ease; and as he
stood looking before him his right hand took his left into custody. It
was Stephen Davenant.

For a few moments he stood with a half-searching, half-absent expression
on his pale face, then turned and entered the wood again.

Pale with wonder and curiosity, Una rose and looked after him, and to
her infinite surprise saw a carriage slowly approaching.

A lady was seated in it, a lady with a face as pale as the man's but
with a still more anxious and deprecating expression.

Una, with the quickness of sight acquired by a life spent in communion
with nature, could see, even at that distance, that the lady's eyes were
like those of the man's, and, furthermore, that she was awaiting his
approach with a nervous timidity that almost amounted to fear.

With fast beating heart Una watched them wondering what could have
brought them to Warden, wondering who and what they were, when suddenly
her heart gave a great bound, for the gentleman, turning to the driver,
said, in a soft, low voice:

"We are looking for the cottage of a woodman, named Gideon Rolfe."

"Never heard of it, sir. Do you know what part of the forest it is in?"

"No," said Stephen.

"Then it's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay," retorted the
man.

"However difficult, it must be found," said Stephen. "Drive on till you
come to some road and follow that. It may lead us to some place where we
can ascertain the direction of this man's cottage."

The man touched his horse with the whip, and still Una stood as if
spell-bound, but, suddenly remembering that they were going in the
opposite direction to the cottage, she was about to step forward, when
she heard the bark of the dog, and almost as if he had sprung from the
ground, Gideon Rolfe stood beside the carriage.

"Ah, here is someone," said Stephen. "Can you tell us the road to the
cottage of Gideon Rolfe, the woodman, my man?" he asked.

"And what may be your business with him?"

"Why do you ask, my good man?" he replied.

"Because I am he you seek," said Gideon.

"You are Gideon Rolfe? How fortunate."

"That's as it may prove," said Gideon, coldly. "What is your business?"

"It is of a nature which, I think, had better be stated in a more
convenient spot. Will you kindly permit me to enter your cottage and
rest?"

Gideon looked searchingly into Stephen's face for a moment that seemed
an age to Una, then nodded curtly, and said: "Follow me."

"Will you not ride?" asked Stephen, suavely.

But Gideon shook his head, and shouldering his ax, strode in front of
the horse, and Stephen motioning to the driver, the carriage followed.

"A charming spot, Mr. Rolfe--charming! Rather shall I say, retired, if
not solitary, however."

"Say what you please, sir," retorted Gideon, grimly and calmly. "I am
waiting to learn the business you have with me."

"Mother," he said--"this lady is my mother, Mr. Rolfe--I think, I really
think you would find it pleasant and refreshing on the bench which I
observed outside the door."

With a little deprecatory air the lady got up and instantly left the
cottage.

Then Stephen's manner changed. Leaning forward he fixed his gray eyes on
Gideon Rolfe's stern face and said:

"Mr. Rolfe--my name is Davenant----"

Gideon started, and, with a muttered oath, raised the ax.

Stephen's face turned as white as his spotless collar, but he did not
shrink.

"My name is Davenant," he repeated--"Stephen Davenant. I am afraid the
name has some unpleasant associations attached to it. I beg to remind
you, if that should be the case, that those associations are not
connected with any fault of mine."

"Go on. Your name is Stephen Davenant?"

"Stephen Davenant. I am the nephew of Squire Davenant--Ralph Davenant.
The nephew of Ralph Davenant. I think you can guess my business with
you."

"Do you come from--him?" he asked, hoarsely.

"In a certain sense, yes," he said. "No doubt you have heard the sad
news. My uncle is dead."

"Dead!" he repeated fiercely.

"Dead. My uncle died three days ago."

"Dead!" repeated Gideon, not in the tone of a man who had lost a friend,
but in that of one who had lost an enemy.

"Yes," said Stephen, wiping his dry eyes with his spotless handkerchief;
"my poor uncle died three days ago. I am afraid I have not broken it as
softly as I should have done. You knew him well?"

"Yes, I knew him well."

"Then you know how great a loss the county has suffered in----"

"Spare your fine phrases. Come to your business with me. What brings you
here?"

"I am here in consequence of a communication made to me by my uncle on
his death-bed. Are you alone?"

Gideon waved his hand with passionate impatience.

"That communication," Stephen continued, "concerns a certain young
lady----"

"He told you?" he exclaimed.

"My uncle told me that I should find a young lady, in whose future he
was greatly interested, in the charge of a certain person named Gideon
Rolfe."

"Well, did he tell you any more than that?"

Stephen made a gesture in the negative.

"So," said Gideon Rolfe, "he left it to me to tell the story of his
crime. You are Ralph Davenant's nephew. You are the nephew of a villain
and a scoundrel!"

It was true, then, that the man knew nothing of the secret marriage of
Ralph Davenant and Caroline Hatfield.

"A scoundrel and a villain!" repeated Gideon, leaning forward and
clutching the table. "You say that he told you the story of his crime,
glossed over and falsified. Hear it from me. Your uncle and I were
schoolfellows and friends. I was the son of the schoolmaster at Hurst.
Your uncle left school to go to college. I remained at Hurst in my
father's house. I could have gone to college also, but I would not leave
Hurst, for I was in love. I loved Caroline Hatfield. She was the
daughter of the gamekeeper on the Hurst estate, and we were to be
married. Two months before the day fixed for our marriage your uncle, my
friend--my friend!--came home to spend the vacation. We were friends
still, and I--cursed fool that I was--took him to the gamekeeper's lodge
to introduce him to my sweetheart. Six weeks afterward he and she had
fled."

Stephen watched him closely, his heart beating wildly.

"They had fled," continued Gideon, in a broken voice. "My life was ended
on the day they brought me the news. I left Hurst Leigh and came here. A
year later she came back to me--came back to me to die. She died and
left me----. She left me her child. I--I loved her still and swore to
protect that child, and I have done so. There is my story. What have you
to say?"

"It is terrible, terrible!" he exclaimed.

"I have kept my vow. Her child has grown up ignorant of the shame which
is her heritage. Here, buried in the heart of the forest, away from the
world, I have kept and guarded her for her mother's sake. There is the
story, told without gloss or falsehood. What have you to say?"

"You have discharged your self-appointed trust most nobly! But--but that
trust has come to an end."

"Who says so?"

"I say so. You have done your duty--more than your duty--I must do mine.
My uncle, on his deathbed, bequeathed his daughter to my charge."

"To yours?"

"To mine," said Stephen, gravely.

"Where is your authority?"

"That I do not come without authority is proven by the mere fact of my
presence here and by my knowledge of my uncle's secret. No one but
yourself, your wife and I know of the real identity of this girl. It was
my uncle's wish that the story of her birth should still remain a
secret--that it should be buried, as it were, in his grave. Why should
the poor girl ever learn the truth, when such knowledge can only bring
her shame and mortification?"

"Grant that," said Gideon, "where could she better be hidden than here?
Her secret, her very existence, have been concealed from the world."

"True, but--but the future, my dear sir--the future! You are not a young
man----"

"I am still young enough to protect her."

"My dear Mr. Rolfe, you may live--you look as if you would--to be a
hundred; you have discharged your self-imposed task most nobly, but you
must not forget that it has now devolved upon one who is bound by ties
of blood to fulfill it, if not so well, certainly with the best
intentions. Mr. Rolfe, I am the young girl's cousin."

"You speak of ties of blood; say rather, the ties of shame! Suppose--I
say suppose--that I refuse to deliver her up to your care?"

"I do not think you will do that. You forget that, after all, we have
little choice in the matter."

Gideon Rolfe eyed him questioningly.

"The young girl is now of age, and----"

"Go on."

"And supposing that you were to refuse to hand her over to my charge, I
should feel compelled to tell the story of her life, and----. Pray--pray
be calm. I beg you to remember that I am not here of my own desire; that
I am merely fulfilling my duty to my uncle, and endeavoring to obey his
last wishes. I do not blame you for your reluctance to part with her. It
does you credit, my dear Mr. Rolfe--infinite credit. But duty--duty; we
must all do our duty."

"Has anyone of your name ever yet done his duty?" repeated Gideon,
sternly.

"For my part, Mr. Rolfe, I have always striven to do mine; yea, even in
the face of great temptation and difficulties. I must do it now. After
all, why should you resist my uncle's wish? Consider, she, who was once
a child, is now a woman. Do you think it possible to keep her imprisoned
in this wood for the whole of her days?"

Gideon Rolfe turned toward the window. For the first time Stephen had
found a weak spot in his armor. It was true! Already she was beginning
to pine and hunger for the world. Could he keep her much longer?

"Come," said Stephen, quick to see the impression he had made. "Do not
let us be selfish; let us think of her welfare, as well as our own
wishes. Candidly, I must confess that I should be perfectly willing to
leave her in her present obscurity."

Gideon Rolfe broke in abruptly.

"Where will you take her?" he asked, hoarsely.

"It is my intention," he said, "to place her in my mother's charge. She
lives in London, alone. There my cousin will find a loving home and a
second mother. Believing that you would naturally have some reluctance
at parting with her, not knowing with whom and where she was going, I
have brought my mother with me."

Gideon glanced at the quiet, motionless figure seated on the bench
outside, and then paced the room again.

"Does she know?" he asked hoarsely.

"She knows nothing," said Stephen. "My mother can trust me implicitly.
She has long wanted a companion, and I have told her that I know of a
young girl in whom I am interested."

"You intend to keep her secret?" said Gideon.

"Most sacredly," responded Stephen, with solemn earnestness.

Gideon went to the door and opened it.

"Wait," he said, and disappeared.




CHAPTER XIII.


Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains
until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and
smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded
in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, mother," he said. "I have been making some
arrangements with the worthy man, her father."

Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which
always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son.

"It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone?
He--he--doesn't he look rather superior for his station, and why does he
look so stern and forbidding?"

"A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved
and cold," replied Stephen, glibly, "and, of course, he feels the
parting from his daughter."

"Poor man--poor girl!" murmured Mrs. Davenant.

Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears
were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe.

"Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee
that the 'poor girl' will not long need anyone's sympathy. You are
already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not
so?"

Mrs. Davenant looked up--just as if she wanted to see what he expected
of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say "yes," said it.

"Yes, I shall be very glad to have a young girl--a good young girl--as a
companion, Stephen. My life has been very lonely since you have been
away."

"And I may be away so much. But, mother, you will not forget what I said
during our drive? There are special reasons why the girl's antecedents
should not be spoken of. The friend who interested me in her wishes her
to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life."

"I understand, Stephen."

"And, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape
you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or
manner. Remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the
forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife."

"Her mother and father?" said Mrs. Davenant.

"I said her mother and father, did I not? Just so--her mother and
father. Well, we must not expect too much. And after all, it will be far
more interesting for you to have a fresh and unsophisticated nature
about you, although she may be rather rough and rustic----"

"I shall be quite content if she is a good girl."

"Just so. Virtue is a precious gem though incased in a rough casket."

Gideon Rolfe had returned, but not alone. Emerging from the deep shadow
of the trees was what looked to their astonished and unprepared eyes a
vision of some wood nymph.

Gideon Rolfe strode forward, his face set hard and sternly cold, and as
he reached the cottage he took Una's hand in his, and looking steadily
into Stephen's eyes, said:

"Mr. Davenant, I have informed my daughter of your mother's offer to
take her under her charge, but I have asked her to postpone her answer
until she saw you."

Stephen bowed, and laid his white hand on his mother's arm.

"Miss Rolfe," he said, in a low voice in which paternal kindness and
social respect were delicately blended, "this lady is my mother. Like
most mothers whose children have flown from the nest, she lives alone
and feels her solitude. She is desirous of finding some young lady who
will consent to share it with her. It is not only a home she offers you,
but--I think I may add, mother--a heart."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Davenant, and as she held out her hand her
voice trembled and a tear shone in her eye.

Una, who had been looking from one to the other, with the breath coming
in little pants through her half parted lips, drew near and put her hand
in the outstretched one, but the next moment turned and clung to
Gideon's arm with a sudden sob.

"Oh, father, I cannot leave you!" she murmured.

Gideon bent his head, perhaps to hide his face, which was working with
emotion.

"Hush! it is for the best. Remember what I have said. You wanted to see
the world----"

"Yes--with you," said Una, audibly.

"The world and I have parted forever, Una."

"But shall I never see you again?"

"Yes, yes, we shall meet now and again."

"I trust, Miss Rolfe, that we shall wean your father from his long
seclusion. You must be the magnet to draw him from his retreat into the
busy haunts of men."

"You will come and see me?" she murmured.

"Yes, Una. Go where you will," and he glanced over her head at Stephen,
"you may feel that I am watching over you, as I have always watched and
guarded you. If any harm comes to you----"

"Harm?" she breathed, and looked up into his face with questioning gaze.

"Come, Mr. Rolfe, you mustn't alarm your daughter," said Stephen,
softly. "She will think that the world is filled with lions and wolves
seeking whom they may devour. I think you may feel safe from any harm
under my mother's protection, Miss Rolfe."

"Yes. I have never had a daughter. If you come you shall be one to me."

"You think me ungrateful?" said Una to her, in her simple, frank way.

"No, my dear," replied Mrs. Davenant. "I think you only show a naturally
affectionate heart. You have never been from home before."

"Never," said Una. "Never out of the woods."

"My poor child. No, I do not think you ungrateful. I like to see that
you feel leaving home so much. For you will come, will you not? I shall
be disappointed and grieved if you do not, now that I have seen you."

"Now that you have seen me," said Una.

"Yes, my dear. For I am sure that I shall love you, and I hope that you
will grow fond of me."

"Do you?" said Una, musingly. "Yes," she said, after a pause, "I shall
love you."

"Will you kiss me, my dear," she said; and Una bent and kissed her.

"And now that you think--that you are sure you will like me--you will
come," said Mrs. Davenant.

Una looked before her thoughtfully, almost dreamily, for a moment, then
replied:

"Yes, my father wishes me to go. Why does he wish me to go into the
world he hates and fears so much? It was only the other day that he
warned me against wishing for it, and told me that I should never be
happy if I left Warden. Why has he changed so suddenly?"

"I--I think it must have been Stephen who persuaded him. I heard them
talking together."

"Stephen--that is your son," said Una.

"Yes, he is my son; he is very good and clever--so very clever! He has
been a most affectionate son to me, and has never caused me a day's
uneasiness."

"All sons are not so?" she asked.

"No, indeed," responded Mrs. Davenant.

"Is he ill?" asked Una, after a pause.

"Ill!"

"Because he is so pale," she said.

"Yes, Stephen is pale. It is because he thinks and reads so much, and
then he is in great trouble now; his uncle died three days ago."

"Is that why he is dressed in black--and you, too? I am very sorry."

"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Davenant, "that was very nice of you to
say that. I can see you have a kind heart. Yes, his uncle is just dead,
Mr. Ralph Davenant--Squire Davenant. Why did you start?"--for Una had
started and turned to her with a sudden flash of intense interest in her
eyes--"did you know him? Ah, no, you could not, if you have not been out
of the forest--how strange it seems!--but you have heard of him,
perhaps?"

"Yes, I have heard of him."

At that moment the door opened, and Stephen and Gideon Rolfe came out.

The usual smile sat upon Stephen's face, in strange contrast to the
stern, set look on his companion's.

Raising his hat to Mrs. Davenant as he approached, Gideon put his hand
on Una's shoulder.

"Go indoors, Una, to your mother," he said quietly.

Una rose, and after a momentary glance at each of their faces, went
inside. Stephen opened and held the door for her, then closed it and
came back to the others.

"Mother," he said, "Mr. Rolfe and I have made our arrangements, and he
agrees with me that it would be wiser, now that the news is broken to
Miss Rolfe, for her to accompany you back to town this afternoon."

Mrs. Davenant nodded, and glanced timidly at Gideon's stern face.

"We have won Mrs. Rolfe over to our side, and she is already making the
few preparations necessary for Miss Rolfe's journey."

Gideon Rolfe inclined his head as if to corroborate this, then he said:

"Will you come inside, madam, and partake of some refreshment?"

"I would rather wait here. Mr. Rolfe, I hope you feel that, in trusting
your daughter to my charge, that she will at least have a happy home, if
I can make one for her?"

"That I believe, madam."

"Yes, I have quite convinced Mr. Rolfe that the change will be
beneficial to Miss Rolfe, and that she will be taken every care of. I
suppose you are quite old friends already, eh, mother?"

"I think she is a beautiful girl whom one could not help loving,"
murmured Mrs. Davenant.

Half an hour passed, and then Una and Martha came out. Una was pale to
the lips, the other was red-eyed with weeping, and her tears broke out
afresh when Mrs. Davenant shook hands with her and assured her that her
daughter should be happy.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Martha. "It's what I said would come to pass.
Gideon couldn't expect to keep her shut up here, like a bird in a cage,
forever and a day. It was against reason, but it is so sudden," and her
sobs broke into her speech and stopped her.

Mrs. Davenant's eyes were wet, and she glanced at Stephen, half inclined
to postpone the journey; but Gideon Rolfe had called the carriage to the
door, and the box was already on the seat.

With the same set calm which he had maintained throughout, Gideon took
Una in his arms, held her for a moment and whispering, "Remember,
wherever you are I am watching over you!" put her in the carriage in
which Stephen had already placed his mother.

He, too, had a word to whisper. It was also a reminder.

"Remember, mother, not another word of the past. Her life begins from
today."

Then he looked at his watch, and said aloud:

"You will just have time to catch the train. Good-bye."

With the most dutiful affection, he kissed his mother, then went round,
and, bare-headed, offered his hand to Una.

"Good-bye, Miss Rolfe," he said. "You are now starting on a new life. No
one, not even your father, can more devoutly wish you the truest and
fullest happiness than I do."

Una, half-blinded with her tears, put her hand in his; but almost
instantly drew it away, with something like a shudder. It was cold as
ice.

The next moment the carriage started, and the two men were left alone.

For fully a minute they stood looking at it, till it had been swallowed
up by the shadows of the trees; then Gideon turned, his face white and
working.

"Stephen Davenant," he said, in slow, measured tones, "one word with you
before we part. You have gained your end--be what it may; I say for your
sake, let it be for good; for if it be for evil, you have one to deal
with who will not hold his hand to punish and avenge. Rather than let
her know the heritage of shame which hangs over her, I have let her go.
If you value your safety, guard her, for at your hands I require her
happiness and well being."

Stephen's face paled, but the smile struggled to its accustomed place.

"My dear Mr. Rolfe," he began, but Gideon stopped him with a gesture.

"Enough. I set no value on your word. There is no need for further
speech between us. From this hour our roads lie apart. Take yours, and
leave me mine."

"This is very sad. Well, well; as you say, I have gained my end, but, as
I would rather put it, I have done my duty, and I must bear your
ungrounded suspicions patiently. Good-bye, my dear sir--good-bye."

"I have sworn never to touch the hand of a Davenant in friendship," he
said, grimly. "There lies your path"--and he pointed to the Wermesley
road--"mine is here, for the present."

And with a curt nod, he turned toward the cottage.

With a gentle sigh and shake of the head, Stephen, after lingering for a
moment, as if he hoped that Gideon's heart might be softened, turned and
entered the wood.

Once in the shadow and out of sight, the smile disappeared, and left his
face careworn, restless and anxious.

"Fate favors me," he muttered. "That boor knows--guesses--nothing of the
truth. I never thought to get the girl out of his clutches so easily!
Now she is under my watch and ken--I hold her in my hand. But--but"--he
mused, his lips twitching, his eyes moving restlessly to and fro--"what
shall I do with her? Beautiful--she is lovely! How long will she escape
notice in London? Someone will see her--some hot-headed fool--and fall
in love. She might marry. Ah!"

And he stooped amongst the brakes and ferns, and looked up, with a
sudden, dull-red flush on his pale cheek, a bright glitter in his light
eyes, while a thought ran like lightning through his cunning brain.

"Marry her! Why--why should not I?"

An answer came quickly enough in the remembrance of the pale dark face
of Laura Treherne, the girl to whom he was pledged.

But with a gesture of impatience he swept the obtrusive remembrance
aside.

"Why not?" he muttered. "Then, at one stroke, I should secure myself. By
Heaven--I will! I will!"

So elated was he by the thought that he stopped and leaned against a
tree and took off his hat, allowing the cool breezes to play upon his
white forehead.

"Beautiful, and the real heiress of Hurst Leigh," he muttered. "Why
should I not? By one stroke I should make myself secure, and set that
cursed will at defiance, let it be where it may! I will! I will!" he
repeated, setting his teeth; then, as he put on his hat, he smiled
pitifully and murmured:

"Poor Laura, poor Laura!"




CHAPTER XIV.


Una saw her last of Warden Forest through a mist of tears; while a tree
remained in sight her face was turned toward it, and in silence she bade
farewell to the leafy world in which her life had passed with so much
uneventfulness--in silence listened to the soughing of the breeze that
seemed to voice her a sad good-bye.

Her companion sat in silence, too, holding the soft, warm hand which
clung to hers with an eloquent supplication for protection and sympathy.

But youth and tears are foes who cannot abide long together, and by the
time the little railway village of Wermesley was reached, Una's eyes
were full of interest and curiosity.

As the fly rumbled over the unkept streets toward the station, past the
few tame shops and the dead-and-alive hotel, her color came and went in
rapid fluctuations.

"Is--is this the world?" she asked, in a low voice.

Mrs. Davenant looked at her with a smile, the first which Una had seen
on the thin, pale face. She had yet to learn that Mrs. Davenant never
smiled in her son's presence.

"The world, my dear?" she replied. "Well, yes; but a very quiet part of
it."

"And yet there are so many people in the streets, and--ah!" she drew
back with an exclamation as the train shrieked into the station.

Mrs. Davenant started--she was nervous herself, and had not yet realized
that she had for companion one who was as ignorant of our modern
high-pressure civilization as a North American Indian.

"That is the train; don't be frightened, my dear," she said.

"Forgive me. I know it is the train--I have read about it. I am not
frightened," she added, quietly, and with a touch of gentle dignity that
puzzled Mrs. Davenant.

"My dear," she said, "I am not finding fault, or chiding you, it is only
natural that you should be surprised, but you will find a great deal
more to be surprised at when we get to London."

Una inclined her head as she mentally registered a resolution to
conceal, at any cost, any surprise or alarm she might feel on the rest
of the journey.

Nevertheless, she kept very close to Mrs. Davenant as they passed to the
train, and shrank back into the corner of the carriage driven there by
the stupid stare of one or two of the passengers.

"Now we are all right," said Mrs. Davenant, gently. "We shall not sleep
now till we get to town."

"To London--we are going to London?" asked Una in a low voice.

"Yes," said Mrs. Davenant. "That is where I live; I live in a great
square at the West-end."

"I know the points of the compass," said Una, with a smile; "my father
taught me," and she sighed--"poor father!"

"I think your father must be a very clever man, my dear. He appears to
have taught you a great deal--I mean"--she hesitated--"you speak so
correctly."

"Do I?" said Una. "Yes, my father is very clever. He knows everything."

"It is very curious," she said. "I mean--I hope you won't be
offended--but men in his position are not generally so well informed."

"Are they not?" said Una, quietly. "I don't know. Perhaps my father
learned all he knows from books."

"And taught you in the same way. Tell me what books you have read."

Una smiled softly, and as she did so, Mrs. Davenant started, and looked
around at her with something like fright in her grave, still eyes.

"What is the matter?" asked Una.

"No--nothing," replied the other. "I--you reminded me of somebody when
you laughed, I can't tell whom. But the books, you were going to tell me
about the books."

"I can't remember all," said Una, and then she mentioned the titles of
some of the well-bound volumes which stood on the little bookshelf in
the hut.

Mrs. Davenant regarded her curiously.

"Those are all books of a world that existed long ago," she said. "You
have never read any novels--any novels of present day life?"

"No, I think not."

"Then you are absolutely ignorant of life as it is," said Mrs. Davenant.

"Yes, I suppose so," assented Una.

"I can understand now how useful fiction really is," murmured Mrs.
Davenant. "It is by it alone that a future age will understand what ours
is. You are entering upon some strange experiences, Miss Rolfe."

Una started; the name was so unfamiliar to her that she hardly
recognized it.

"Please don't call me that," she said, laying her hand on Mrs.
Davenant's arm. "My name is Eunice--Una. Call me Una."

"I will," said Mrs. Davenant.

"You have promised to love me, you know."

"A promise easy to keep, my dear," she said, and her eyes grew moist. "I
little thought when my son Stephen telegraphed to meet him that he was
taking me to a daughter."

"Your son Stephen--he sent for you!" said Una, with frank curiosity.
"How did he know of my existence?"

"Through some friend," said Mrs. Davenant, with much hesitation and
nervous embarrassment. "My son is a very good man, and always
interesting himself in some good cause or other--something that will
benefit his fellow creatures. You--you will like my son when you know
more of him," she added, and though she spoke with pride there was a
touch of something like fear in her voice, which always came when she
mentioned his name or spoke of his goodness.

"Yes," said Una, simply, "I will for your sake."

"Thank you, my dear," murmured Mrs. Davenant.

"But how," went on Una, after thinking a moment, "how did his friend
know anything about me? Did my father----"

"I don't know, Una," said Mrs. Davenant, nervously. "Stephen doesn't
always tell me everything; you see he has so much to think of, and just
now he is in great trouble, you know."

"Ah! yes," said Una, gently; "and he had not time to tell you. But he
will. I am sorry he is in such trouble." Then, after a pause, she said:
"Are you rich?"

Mrs. Davenant started. The question, so unusual and so strange,
bewildered her by its suddenness and its frankness.

"Rich, my dear?" she said. "Yes--I suppose I am rich."

"And he is rich?"

"He will be, perhaps; we do not know until his uncle's will is read."

"I know what a will is," said Una, with a smile. "It is the paper which
a man leaves when he dies, saying to whom he wishes his money to go. And
Stephen----"

"You should say Mr. Stephen, or Mr. Davenant, my dear," she said. "I
don't mind your calling him Stephen, but--but----" She looked round in
despair. How was she to explain to this frank, beautiful girl the laws
of etiquette? "But everyone who speaks of those to whom they are not
related say Mr., or Mrs., or Miss."

"I see," said Una. "Then Mr. Davenant expects to get his uncle's money,
and then he will be rich. I am very glad. And he does not live in the
same house with you?"

"No," replied Mrs. Davenant--and surely there was something like a tone
of relief in her voice--"no; when he is in London he lives in chambers
in rooms by himself; but he has been staying at Hurst Leigh."

"At Hurst Leigh!" echoed Una, softly, and a faint color stole over her
face. How wonderful it was! That other--he whose face was always with
her, was going there!

"At Hurst Leigh," repeated Mrs. Davenant. "Do you know it?"

Una shook her head silently. She longed to ask more, to ask if Mrs.
Davenant knew the youth who had taken shelter in the cottage, but she
simply could not. Love is a wondrous schoolmaster--he had already taught
her frank, out-spoken nature the art of concealment.

"It is a grand place," continued Mrs. Davenant. "A great, huge place,"
and she shivered faintly, "and--and if Squire Davenant has left it to
Stephen, he will live there."

"You don't like it?" said Una, with acute intuition.

"No," replied Mrs. Davenant, with unusual earnestness. "No, oh no! it
frightens me. I was never there but once, and then I was glad--very,
very glad to get away, grand and beautiful as it was!"

"But why?" asked Una, eagerly.

"Because--have you never heard of Ralph Davenant?"

Una hesitated a moment. She had heard of him.

"He was a wonderful man, but terrible to me. His eyes looked through
one, and then he had been so wicked."

She stopped short, and Una sighed. So there was another person who was
wicked.

"Why are men so wicked?" she asked, in a low voice.

"I--I--don't know. What a singular question," said Mrs. Davenant. "No
one knows. Perhaps it is because they have different natures to ours.
But you need not look so grieved, my dear," she added, with a little
smile, "you need not know any wicked men."

"Who can tell? One does not know; wicked men are just like the others,
only we like them better."

Mrs. Davenant stared at her, and utterly overwhelmed by the strange
reply, sank into her corner and into silence.

The panting engine tore along the line, and presently the clear
atmosphere was left behind, and the cloud of smoke which hangs over the
Great City came down upon them and took them in, and infolded them.

To Una's amazement the train seemed to glide over the tops of houses,
houses so thick that there seemed but two, or three inches between them.
With suppressed excitement--she had resolved to express no surprise or
fear--she watched through the window. Sometimes she caught sight of
streets thronged with people, and with commingled alarm and curiosity,
wondered what had happened to draw them all together so.

She would not ask Mrs. Davenant, for wearied by her double journey, she
was leaning back with closed eyes.

Suddenly the train stopped--stopped amidst the noise and confusion of a
large terminus--Mrs. Davenant woke, a porter came to the door, received
instructions as to the luggage and handed them out.

Notwithstanding her resolution, Una felt herself turning pale.

From Warden Forest to a London railway station.

"Keep close to me, dear," said Mrs. Davenant, who seemed only nervous
and helpless in her son's presence. "Come, there is a cab."

In silence Una followed. Men--and women, too,--turned to look at the
tall, graceful figure in its plain white dress, and stared at the lovely
face, with its half-frightened, half-curious, downcast eyes, and Una
felt the eyes fixed on her.

"Why--why do they look at me so?" she asked, when they had entered the
cab.

Mrs. Davenant regarded her with a smile, and evaded the frank, open
eyes. Was it possible that the girl was ignorant of her marvelous
beauty?

"People in London always stare, my dear Una," she replied, "and they see
that you are strange."

"It is my dress," said Una, who had been looking out of the window at
some of the fashionably-attired ladies. "It is different to theirs.
See--look at that lady! Why does she wear so long a dress? she has to
hold it up with one hand."

"It is your dress, no doubt, my dear," she said. "We must alter it when
we get home."

The cab rolled into the street, and Una was rendered speechless.

But for her resolve she would have shrunk back into the farthest corner
of the cab. The number of people, the noise, alarmed her, and yet she
felt fascinated.

Were all the people mad that they hurried on so with such grave and
pre-occupied faces. She had never seen her father hurry unless he had
cut down a tree that had been struck by lightning, and which might
injure others in its fall unless cut down with greatest care.

Presently they passed into one of the leading thoroughfares, already lit
up, its shops gleaming brightly with the gas-light, its ceaseless line
of cabs, and omnibuses, and carriages.

At last, when her eyes were weary with looking, she murmured:
"This--this--is the world then at last."

"Yes," said Mrs. Davenant, with a sigh. "This is the world, Una!"

"And are those palaces!" asked Una, as they passed through the West End
streets and squares.

"No," said Mrs. Davenant; "they are only houses, in which rich people
dwell, as you would call it."

"And the trees! Are there no trees?" asked Una, with, for the first
time, a sigh.

"Not here, dear. There are some in the parks; some even in the middle of
the city itself. You will miss your trees, Una."

"Yes, I shall miss my trees. But this--this world seems so large; I
thought that----"

"Well," said Mrs. Davenant, amused with her bewilderment.

"I thought that people in the world knew each other; but that is
impossible."

And she sighed, as she thought that, after all, now that she was in the
world, she was no nearer that one being who, for her, was the principal
person in it.

"Very few people know each other, Una. It's a big world, this London. I
wonder whether you will be happy?"

Una turned to her with a look upon her face that would have melted a
sterner heart than Mrs. Davenant's.

"I shall be happy, if you will love me," she said.

Something in the frank, simple reply made Mrs. Davenant tremble. What
had she undertaken in the charge of this simple, pure-natured girl,
whose beauty caused people to turn and stare at her, and whose innocence
was that of a child?

Through miles and miles of streets, as it seemed to Una, the cab made
its slow, rumbling way; houses, that were palaces in her eyes, flitted
past; and at last they stopped before a palace, as it seemed to Una, in
a quiet square.

The door of the house opened, and a servant came out and opened the cab
door.

In silent wonderment Una entered the hall, lit with its gas-lamps and
lined with flowers, and followed Mrs. Davenant into what was really the
drawing-room of a house in Walmington Square; but which seemed to Una to
be the principal apartment in some enchanted castle.

But true to her resolve, she stood calm and silent, feeling, rather
than seeing, that the eyes of the servant were fixed upon her with
curious interest.

"Come upstairs, Una, dear," said Mrs. Davenant, and Una followed her
into another fairy chamber. Flowers, of which Mrs. Davenant, like most
nervous persons, was inordinately fond, seemed everywhere: they lined
the staircase and the landing, and bloomed in every available corner.

Mrs. Davenant entered her own room, then opened a door into an adjoining
one.

"This is your room, my dear," she said. "If--if--you like it----"

"Like it!" said Una, with open eyes and beating heart. "Is--is this
really mine?" and she looked round the dainty room with incredulous
admiration.

"If--if you like it, my dear," said Mrs. Davenant.

"How could I do otherwise? It is too beautiful for me----"

"I don't think anything could be too beautiful for you, Una," said Mrs.
Davenant, with a significance that was entirely lost on Una. "If there
is anything you want--I can't give you any trees, you know."

"I shan't want trees while the flowers are here. It is nothing but
flowers."

"I am very fond of them," said Mrs. Davenant, meekly. "You will hear a
bell ring in half an hour; come to me then, I shall wait in the next
room for you. I will not lock the door," and she left her.

Una felt dazed and stunned for a few minutes, then she made what
preparations were possible. She chose from her box, which had been
conveyed to her room by some invisible agency apparently, a plain muslin
dress, and, more by instinct than any prompting of vanity, fastened a
rose in her hair.

She had scarcely completed her simple toilet when the bell rang, and she
went into the next room.

A maid servant--Una noticed that it was not the one who had opened the
door--was in attendance upon Mrs. Davenant, and dropped a courtesy as
Mrs. Davenant said, in her nervous, hesitating fashion:

"This is Miss Rolfe, Jane."

Una smiled, and was about to hold out her hand, but stopped, seeing no
movement of a similar kind on the part of the neatly-dressed girl.

"Jane is my own maid, Una," said Mrs. Davenant. "She will attend to you
when you want her."

Jane dropped another courtesy, but Una detected a glance of curiosity
and scrutiny at the plain white muslin.

"Come," said Mrs. Davenant, "let us go down. Dinner is ready," and she
led the way down-stairs.

Another fairy apartment broke upon Una's astonished vision as they
entered the dining-room.

Small as the houses are in Walmington Square, Una, accustomed only to
the small room in the hut, thought that this dining-room was large
enough to be the banquet hall of princes.

But, whatever surprise Una felt, she, mindful of her resolve, concealed.

Not even the maid in waiting could find anything to condemn. When she
went down-stairs her verdict was favorable.

"Whoever she is," she said, "she's a lady. But where on earth she comes
from, goodness only knows. A plain muslin dress that might have come out
of the ark."

Dinner was over at last. A "last" that seemed to Una an eternity. Mrs.
Davenant rose and beckoned her to follow, and they went into the
drawing-room.

"Are you very tired, Una?"

"No," said Una, thinking of her long wanderings in Warden Forest, "not
tired at all, but very surprised."

"Surprised?" said Mrs. Davenant, questioningly.

"Yes. Do all the people in London live like this--in such beautiful
houses, with people to wait upon them, and with so many things to eat,
and with such pretty things in the houses?"

"Not all," said Mrs. Davenant, watching the tall, graceful figure as it
moved to and fro--"not all. But it would take too long to explain. You
think these are pretty things; what will you say when you see the great
sights--sights which we Londoners think nothing of?"

Una did not answer; she had been looking round the room at the pictures,
mostly portraits, on the walls.

"Are these pictures of friends of yours?" she said. "Who is that?"

"That? That is the portrait of a man I was speaking of in the train.
That is Ralph--Squire Davenant--when he was a young man."

It was a portrait of Ralph Davenant in his best--and worst--days. It had
been painted when men wore their hair long, and brushed from their
foreheads. One hand, white as the driven snow, was thrust in his breast,
the other held a riding-whip.

Una looked at it long and earnestly, and Mrs. Davenant, impressed by her
long silence, rose and stood beside her.

"Yes," she said, "that is Ralph Davenant. It was painted when he was
about your age, my dear. Ah----"

"What is the matter?"

Mrs. Davenant, pale and excited, took up a hand-mirror from one of the
tables and held it in front of Una.

"Look!" she exclaimed.

"Well?" she said.

"Well?" echoed Mrs. Davenant. "Don't you see? Look again. The very
image! It is himself come to life again; it is Ralph Davenant turned
woman!" she exclaimed.

And before Una could glance at the glass a second time Mrs. Davenant
threw it aside.

"Am I so like?" said Una, with a smile. "How mysterious! And that is so
beautiful a face."

"Beautiful eyes, and you are----" said Mrs. Davenant, but stopped in
time, warned by Una's frank, questioning gaze. "If you like to look at
portraits," she said, "there is an album there; look over that."

Una took up the album and turned over its pages; suddenly she stopped,
and the color flew to her face.

With unconcealed eagerness she came toward Mrs. Davenant with the open
album in her hand.

"Look!" she said; "who is that?"

"That," said Mrs. Davenant, peering at it, "that is--Jack Newcombe."

"Jack Newcombe," said Una, breathlessly. "You know him?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Davenant, with a sigh. "Poor Jack! Shut the book, my
dear."

"Why do you say 'Poor Jack?'" said Una, with a hollow look in her
beautiful eyes.

"Because--because he is a wicked young man, my dear," said Mrs.
Davenant. "Poor Jack!"




CHAPTER XV.


Amidst a profound silence Jack walked slowly and quietly out of the
house. There was no anger in his heart against the old man whose
favorite he had once been--for the moment there was scarcely any anger
against Stephen; surprise and bewilderment overwhelmed every other
feeling.

He had not expected a large sum of money--had certainly not expected the
Hurst; and but for the words spoken by the dying man, he would not have
expected anything at all, after having offended him in the matter of the
money-lenders and the post-obit. But most assuredly the squire had
intimated that there would be something--something, however small.

And now he was told that there was nothing, that his name was not even
mentioned.

Apart from any mercenary consideration, Jack was cut up and
disappointed; if there had been a simple mourning ring, a few of the old
guns out of the armory--anything as a token of the old man's
forgiveness, he would have been satisfied; but nothing, not one word.

Then, again, he could not understand it, near his end as he was when he
spoke to him. The squire was as sane and clear-headed as he had been at
any time of his life, or at least so it seemed to Jack; and he certainly
had given him to understand that he had left him some portion of his
immense wealth.

It was another link in the chain of mysteries which had seemed to coil
around Jack since he started from London.

Slowly and thoughtfully he made his way back to the "Bush," and began to
pack up the small portmanteau which had been sent from town.

Hurst Leigh was no place for him; every minute he remained in it seemed
intolerable to him. He would go straight back to town by the next train.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and he paused in his task of packing the
portmanteau, an operation which he reduced to its simplest by thrusting
in anything that came first and jamming it down tight with his fist; he
stopped and looked up with a red flush on his handsome face. Why
shouldn't he go to Warden Forest on his way back?

In a moment, the idea thrilled him with the delight of anticipation, the
next, a shade came over his brow. Why shouldn't he? Rather, why _should_
he? What was the use of his going? If he had no business there before,
he had less excuse now. He was next door to a beggar--and----

Realizing for the first time the blow that had been dealt him by the
squire's neglect, he continued at the jamming process, jumped and kicked
at the portmanteau till it consented to be locked, and then went down to
the bar and called for his bill.

There were several people hanging about--a funeral is a good excuse for
a holiday in a country village--but Jack, in his abstraction, scarcely
noticed the little group of men who sat and stood about, and merely
nodded in response to the respectful and kindly greetings.

"But, Mr. Jack," said Jobson, with a deeply respectful air of surprise,
"you don't think of going right away at once, sir?"

"Yes, I'm off, Jobson," said Jack. "What's the next train?"

"To London?" said a dry, thin voice behind him; and Jack turned and saw
Mr. Hudsley's clerk--old Skettle. "There's no train to London till seven
o'clock; there's a train to Arkdale in an hour, but it stops there."

"All right," he said, "I'll go to Arkdale; and, by the way, Jobson, I
don't want to be bothered with the portmanteau; send it on by rail to my
address--Spider Court, the Temple, you know."

Jobson touched his cap, and while he was making out the bill Jack lit
his pipe and paced up and down, his hands in his pockets, the knot of
men watching him out of the corners of their eyes with sympathetic
curiosity.

Jack paid the bill--so moderate a one that he capped it with half a
sovereign over; and with a "good-day" all round, started off. He had not
got further than the signpost, when he felt a touch on his arm, and,
turning, saw that old Skettle had followed him.

"Halloa," said Jack, in his blunt way, "what's the matter?"

The old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled
at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way.

"I'm very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the Hurst, Master
Jack," he said, respectfully.

"But not more sorry than I am, Skettle, thank you."

"I'm afraid it's rather unexpected, Master Jack," he continued, his
small, keen eyes fixed, not on Jack, but on his second waistcoat-button,
counting from the top.

"Well, yes, it is," said Jack, tugging at his mustache. "Very much so.
I've got a hit in the bread-basket this time, Skettle, and I'm on my
back again."

Old Skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes
that were looking rather ruefully at the ground.

"Hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, Master Jack?" he
asked.

"Eh, what?" said Jack, who had not been paying much attention. "No,
according to the rules; but what do you mean by the question? You are
always such a mysterious old idiot, you know. You can't help it, I
suppose."

Old Skettle smiled, if the extraordinary contortion of the wrinkled face
could be called by so flattering a designation.

"I've seen such mysterious things since I first went into Mr. Hudsley's
office to sweep the floor----"

"Now, then," said Jack, "none of that game; going into the old story,
which I have heard a hundred times, of how you went as an office boy,
and have risen to the proud position of confidential clerk. You're like
one of the old fellows in the play, who draws a chair up to the
footlights, and says, 'It's seven long years ago----' and the people
begin to clear out into the refreshment bar, and wait there till he's
done. Where were you? Oh, 'mysterious experiences.' Well, go on."

But old Skettle had, apparently, nothing to say; he had, while Jack had
been speaking, changed his mind.

"I beg pardon for stopping you, Master Jack," he said. "I felt I
couldn't let you go out of the old place without expressing my
sympathy."

"Thanks, thanks," said Jack, holding out his hand. "You're one of the
right sort, Skettle, and so's Hudsley. I believe he's sorry, too. Looks
a little puzzled, too. Puzzled isn't the word for what I feel. I've got
the sensation one experiences when he's been sitting through one of the
old-fashioned melo-dramas. Not even a mourning-ring, or a walking-stick.
Poor Squire--well, I forgive him. He had a right to do what he liked
with his own."

"Just so, Master Jack, but it's hard for you," said Skettle. "Not a
mourning-ring. By the way, sir," and something like a blush crept over
his wrinkled face. "If--if you should be in want of a little money----"

Jack stared, then laughed grimly.

"Well, you certainly must be mad, Skettle," he interrupted. "Want money!
When didn't I want it? But don't you be idiot enough to lend me any. It
would be a jolly bad speculation, old fellow. There is not a Jew in
London would take my paper. No, Skettle, it would be downright robbery,
and I don't think I could rob you, you know."

"Do you remember the day you swam across the mill-pond, and fished my
little boy out, Master Jack?"

"You take care I shan't forget it, Skettle," said Jack, with a smile.
"It was a noble deed, wasn't it? Every time you mention it, I try to
feel like a hero, but it won't come. How is little Ned?"

"He's well, sir; he's in London now, working his way up. He'd have been
in the church-yard if it hadn't been for you."

"Why, Skettle, this is worse than ''Twas seven long years ago!'"
exclaimed Jack.

"On that day, Master Jack, I swore that if ever a time came when I'd a
chance of serving you, I'd do it. It did not seem very likely then, for
we all thought you'd be the next squire; but now, Master Jack, I should
be grateful if you'd borrow ten pounds of me."

"Nonsense," cried Jack. "Don't be an idiot, Skettle. _You_ a lawyer!
why, you're too soft for anything but a washerwoman. There, good-bye;
remember me to little Ned when you write, and tell him I hope he'll grow
up a little harder than his father. Good-bye," and he shook the thin,
skinny claw heartily.

Old Skettle stood and looked after him, his right hand fumbling in his
waistcoat pocket; and when Jack had got quite out of sight he pulled the
hand out, and with it a small scrap of paper with a few words written on
it, and a seal. It was just such a scrap of paper which might have been
torn from a letter, and the seal was the Davenant seal, with its griffin
and spear plainly stamped.

Old Skettle looked at it a moment curiously, then shook his head.

"No, I was right after all in not giving it to him; it may be
nothing--nothing at all. And yet--it's the squire's handwriting, for
it's his seal, and what was it lying outside the terrace for? Where's
the other part of it, and what was the other part like? I'll keep it. I
don't say that there's any good in it, but I'll keep it. Not a
mourning-ring or a walking-stick! All--house, lands, money--to Mr.
Stephen, with the sneaking face and the silky tongue. Poor Master Jack!
I--I wish he'd taken that ten-pound note; it burns a hole in my pocket.
Not--a--mourning-ring," he muttered. "It's not like the squire, for he
was fond of Master Jack, and if I'm not half the idiot he called me, the
old man hated Mr. Stephen. I seem to feel that there's something wrong.
I'll keep this bit of paper;" and he restored the scrap to its place and
returned to the "Bush" with as much expression on his face as one might
expect to see on a blank skin of parchment.

Jack was more moved than he would have liked to admit by old Skettle's
sympathy and offer of assistance, and in a softened mood, produced by
the little incident, sat and smoked his pipe with a lighter spirit.

After all he was young, and--and--well, things might turn up; at any
rate, if the worst came to the worst, he could earn his living at
driving a coach-and-four, or, say, as a navvy.

"I s

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