Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir

Mrs. Davenant paled and flushed in turn. What would Stephen say – would he be displeased or gratified? What should she do? She could not resist the half-imploring, half-commanding eyes which Lady Bell flashed upon her, and at last murmured a frightened “Yes.”

With a smile that seemed to set the diamonds scintillating, Lady Bell shook hands with Mrs. Davenant, and taking Una’s, held it for a moment in silence, then, with a sudden gravity, she said:

“Good-bye. I will take care of you. I will be your chaperon. We shall meet again,” and was gone.

So interested and absorbed had she been in Una that she had quite forgotten her purpose in entering the shop, and had gone without another word to the jeweler.

He showed no surprise, however, but smiled complacently as he put the jewels back into their cases, being quite used to Lady Bell’s vagaries, and he bowed Mrs. Davenant and Una out with increased respect and deference.

Lady Bell, attended by the two footmen, entered her carriage, and Mrs. Fellowes, her friend and companion, who had been sleeping peacefully, awoke with a little start.

“Well, my dear, have you got the rubies?”

“The rubies?” said Lady Bell. “No, I quite forgot them.”

“Forgot them!” said Mrs. Fellowes.

“Yes. What are stupid rubies compared with an angel?”

“My dear Lady Bell!” exclaimed Mrs. Fellowes, “what are you talking about?”

Lady Bell leaned back with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes musingly staring at nothing.

“Yes, an angel,” she repeated. “I never believed in them until today, but I have seen one this morning – in a jeweler’s shop.”

“Lady Bell, how strangely you talk. I am getting alarmed.”

“You always are,” said Lady Bell, coolly. “I repeat, I have seen an angel. You are always trying to flatter me by talking of my beauty and such nonsense; but I have seen today a real beauty. Not a mere pretty pet mortal like myself, but one of the celestials! With eyes like a wild bird’s, and a lady, too, I’ll be sworn!”

“My dear Bell, what language!” murmured Mrs. Fellowes.

“A perfect lady; her hands, her voice would vouch for that. Her voice is like a harp. If I had been a man I should have fallen in love with her on the spot.”

“Fallen in love,” said Mrs. Fellowes. “My dear Bell,” with a politely suppressed yawn, “I am half inclined to think you have taken leave of your senses, and you will drive me out of mine. One night it is a young man whom we nearly run over; a – I must say – a tipsy young man.”

“No; he had only taken too much wine.”

“Well, if that isn’t being tipsy – ”

“Don’t, don’t,” said Lady Bell, pleadingly; “we might have killed him.”

“I don’t know that he would have been much loss to the world at large,” said Mrs. Fellowes.

“Home!” said Lady Bell to the footman; and she sank back with a brilliant flush on her face.

Mrs. Davenant drove home also, and in considerable perturbation. What had she done? What would Stephen say?

Fortunately for that young man’s peace of mind, he was resting at ease at Hurst Leigh, little dreaming that Lady Bell, or any one else, would meet Una, and coax her out of his mother’s nerveless hands.

Una, with quick sympathy, saw that her companion was distressed, and with a gentle touch of her hand, said:

“You do not like me to go to this lady’s house. I will not go. No; I will not go.”

“My dear,” she replied, with a sigh, “it isn’t in our hands now. You don’t know Lady Bell – nor do I very well; but I know enough of her to be convinced that if you do not go tomorrow night, she would come and fetch you, though she left all her guests to do so.”

“Is she then so – so accustomed to having her own way?”

“Always; she always has her own way. She is rich – very, very rich – and petted; and she is even more than that; she – she – I don’t know how to explain myself. Well, my dear, she is a sort of queen of society, and more powerful than many real queens.”

“So that when she commands such as I am I must obey,” said Una, with her low, musical laugh.

“Just so,” said Mrs. Davenant, with a sigh. “But you will be careful, my dear. I mean, don’t – don’t let her put you forward, remind her of her promise to keep you at her side.”

“I think I would rather not go.”

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” said Mrs. Davenant, kindly; but Una’s calm, steady look of response showed her that there was no fear in the young, innocent heart.

“No, I am not frightened,” she said. “I do not know what I am to fear.”

Having consented to Una’s going, Mrs. Davenant lost no time in making the few necessary preparations. She selected a plain but rich evening dress, set her own maid to make the required alterations, selected from her own store a sort of old Honiton, and gave orders that some white flowers should be bought at Covent Garden the next morning.

“White flowers, my dear,” she said, nervously. “Because I – I am not sure that Stephen would not consider that your being in the house with me you are not in mourning. But, then, you are no relation, my dear.”

“I wish I were,” said Una, kissing her.

CHAPTER XX

At nine o’clock the next evening the quiet-looking green brougham came round to the door, and took them rapidly to Park Lane.

Una had already grown almost weary of staring out of the carriage window, but her wonder and interest revived as she saw in the dusky twilight the green trees and flowers in the most beautiful park in the world, and amazed at the magnificent buildings past which they rolled.

Presently the brougham drew up at a corner house facing the park; an awning was suspended from the gateway to the pavement, and three footmen in splendid liveries, which she recognized as those she had seen worn by the servants attending Lady Bell’s carriage, were standing to receive the guests; one of them opened the brougham door and escorted them into the hall, which seemed to Una, with its flowers and mirrors, its rich hangings and statues, a fairy palace, and was about to usher them into the drawing-room, when, upon hearing Mrs. Davenant’s name, he bowed, and took them into a small room at the side, which was Lady Bell’s boudoir.

“I will tell her ladyship,” he said.

Una had scarcely time to take in the exquisite beauty of the room, with its antique furniture and costly knicknacks, when the door opened and Lady Bell entered. She was exquisitely dressed; diamonds – the diamonds Una had seen at the jeweler’s – glittering in her hair and on her neck and on her arms, and seemed to Una like some vision which at a breath would vanish and leave the room to its subdued twilight again.

With outstretched hands she came toward them, with her eyes dancing and her cheeks flushed.

“You have kept your word and brought my wild bird! I knew you would come,” and she took a hand of each, but suddenly reached up and kissed Una. “Yes, I felt that you would come, but it is good of you all the same, and to show you that I am grateful, I will let you go at once, this minute, dear Mrs. Davenant!”

Mrs. Davenant looked relieved.

“Thank you! thank you, Lady Bell!” she said. “You – you – ”

“Will take care of your bird? Yes, that I will. You may trust her to me; not a feather shall be ruffled.”

Mrs. Davenant murmured something about the time she would come for her, and then with a timid look from one to the other was gone.

“And now,” said Lady Bell, “let me look at you,” as if she had not been doing so ever since she entered the room. “My dear, my dear, you are – ” she stopped short. “No, I’ll not be the first to teach you vanity. But tell me, do you ever look in your glass, Miss Rolfe – Miss Rolfe, I don’t like that name, I mean between you and me. My name is Bell, and yours is – ”

“Mine is Una.”

“Una! That is delightful! And have you your lion? Where is he?”

Una had never read the story of “Una and the Lion,” and looked calmly puzzled.

“Well, if you have not one already, you soon will have. You don’t understand me. I am glad of that. But will you come now? This is a very, very quiet little party, but you may be amused. And I will keep you by my side all the evening. Come,” and she drew Una’s arm through her own white one and led her through the corridor into the ball-room.

It was not a large room. Lady Bell detested huge and crowded assemblies too much to permit them at her own house, but it was, as a ball-room, perfect. There was light, and just enough light, to show the tasteful magnificence of the decorations, and nothing of that fearful glare from innumerable lights, and their reflections in huge mirrors, which make most ball-rooms so trying and unbearable. The band had just commenced as they entered, and the whole scene, the beautiful room with its soft draperies of Persian damask, the Venetian mirrors, the rich dresses of the ladies, and the soul-moving strains of the best band in London, for the moment overawed and startled the girl fresh from the primeval forest.

For a moment her eyes dilated almost with fear, and she unconsciously drew back, but Lady Bell, with a gentle pressure of the arm, drew her forward, and skillfully avoiding the dancers, took her to the further end of the room, where, in a recess lined with ferns and tropical plants, were arranged some seats so placed as to be almost hidden from the room, while they allowed the sitter a full view of it.

Lady Bell drew a fauteuil still further into the recess, and playfully forced Una into it.

“There, my wild bird, is your cage. You can see all the world without being seen, and here you and I will take a peep at it. Now, don’t you want to know all their names and all about them?”

Una smiled. She was a little pale and was trembling slightly.

“No; I am too surprised and astonished at present. How beautiful it is, and how lovely they are.”

“The women?” said Lady Bell, with a laugh, and a glance at the unconscious face beside her, which she knew outshone all others there. “You think so! Well, there are some pretty women here. There is Lady Clarence – the one in light blue and swansdown – and Mrs. Cantrip – she was the beauty last season. You don’t understand?”

“Last season!” said Una. “Who is the beauty this?”

Lady Bell laughed and flushed a little.

“Never mind, child,” she said. “One who doesn’t care a farthing about it, at any rate. But look, do you see that tall lady there, dancing with the short man with whiskers? She is the Countess of Pierrepoint, and he is the Duke of Garnum – ”

“A duke?” said Una, surprised.

“You expected to see a man seven feet high in his ducal robes?” she said. “See those two men who have just come in? The dark one is Sir Arkroyd Hetley, the other, the boy – the baby they call him – is a marquis, the Marquis of Dalrymple. They are always together. They are coming to shake hands with me.”

Una drew further into the shade as the two men, after hunting about the room, came up to the recess, and listened as they paid their compliments and seemed anxious to remain, but Lady Bell sent them off quite plainly and distinctly, and sat looking toward the door, and presently she ceased talking, and her bright, beautiful face grew quiet and almost sad, certainly wistful, and at last she sighed and murmured:

“No, he will not come.”

“Who will not come?” said Una. “Are you expecting any one?”

“Did I speak?” she said. “Yes, I am expecting someone, but he will not come. People one expects and wants never do – never do. You will find that out in time, wild bird; you will find – ah!” and she started and turned pale, and her hand, which had been laid on Una’s arm, closed over it with a sudden grip and flutter.

Una looked up, and her face went deadly white.

The room seemed to spin round with her, and the lights to flood her brain and paralyze her, for there, towering above the throng, stood Jack Newcombe.

Jack Newcombe – not in his rough tweed suit, but in evening dress; Jack, not with the frank, tender, pleasant smile which always rested upon his face as it appeared in her dreams, but with a cold, half-irritable, and wholly bored expression.

Slowly she rose and glided into the shadow of the recess and hid herself, her heart beating wildly, her whole form trembling with a strange ecstasy of mingled fear and delight.

At last she saw him again.

CHAPTER XXI

Poor Jack! How came he to be in Lady Bell’s ball-room?

The morning after she had nearly driven over him he woke to find Leonard Dagle, his friend and fellow lodger, standing beside his bed and looking down at him with a grave smile on his intellectual face.

“Hallo!” said Jack, “the house on fire?”

“Not at present,” said Leonard, “though it would soon be if you lived in it alone. Why don’t you blow your candle out, and not chuck your slippers at it? How are you this morning?”

“How am I?” said Jack, staring. “How should I be? Quite well of course,” which was quite true, for Jack and the headache had not been introduced to each other.

“That’s all right,” said Leonard, with a smile. “Perhaps you remember last night’s tragic occurrence, then?”

Jack thought for a moment, then shook his head gravely.

“Len, I’m an idiot. I always was. It’s a good job idiocy isn’t catching or you’d have caught it of me long ago. I made a confounded idiot of myself last night. It was all Dalrymple and Hetley’s fault, and I wish they’d knock champagne off the club wine list. Did I take too much, Len?”

“What do you think?” said Leonard, grimly.

“I’m afraid I did. For the first time in my life, or nearly – but I didn’t touch a card, Len.”

“I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

“No, a promise is a promise with me,” said Jack. “And I didn’t drink much, Len, ’pon my honor; but I was upset, and when a man is upset he – ”

“He generally tries to get run over,” said Leonard, with a smile.

Jack stared, then he laughed.

“By George! yes. I remember!”

“But always does not get the luck to be rescued by a beautiful young lady – who is an heiress – and who, instead of giving him in charge for blocking the queen’s highway, brings him home in her brougham.”

“It was a kind thing to do, certainly,” said Jack, with a yawn.

“Kind is a mild way of putting it,” remarked Leonard.

“It was more than I deserved,” said Jack; “much more, and she’s a brick.”

“The man who calls Lady Isabel Earlsley a brick should be a bold man.”

At last Jack looked up, and pressing his chair back, said:

“And now, old man, let’s hold a council of war. Subject to be considered: the future of a young man who has been cut off with a shilling – by George! the poor old fellow didn’t even leave me that – who knows no trade, who cannot dig, and to beg is ashamed, and who is penniless.”

“Quite penniless, Jack?” asked Leonard.

Jack rose, and sauntering to a drawer, pulled forth an old tobacco pouch, and pouring the contents on to the table proceeded to count the small – very small – heap of coin.

“Twenty-one pounds six-and-fourpence farthing – no; it’s a brass button – and a brass button.”

“Can’t carry on this way long with that small amount of ammunition, Jack.”

“Just so, old Solomon. Well, what’s to be done?”

“You might enlist.”

“Get shot, and break your heart. No, I’m too fond of you, Len. Go on; anything else?”

“Upon my word, you can’t do anything.”

“Nary thing,” admitted Jack, with frank candor.

“What do men – well-born and high-bred men like you – ”

“What will you take to drink?” said Jack, bowing low.

“Who have no money, and no brains – ”

Jack bowed again, and pitched the sugar tongs at him.

“What do they do? They generally marry an heiress, Jack.”

“I shall never marry.”

“I’ve heard that remark before. The last it was from a man who married a fortnight afterward.”

“I’m not going to marry in a fortnight. Go ahead.”

“I’ve done,” said Leonard with a shrug.

“Solomon is dried up,” said Jack. “You don’t keep a large stock of wisdom on hand, old man.”

“I’ve given you the best I’ve got, and good advice too, with a foundation to go upon. Your heiress is ready to your hand.”

“What do you mean?” said Jack.

Leonard was about to reply, when the housekeeper entered and brought him a card. He looked at it; it bore Lady Isabel Earlsley’s name, and on the back was written:

“To inquire whether Mr. Newcombe was hurt last night?”

Leonard pitched it across the table, as an answer to Jack’s question.

Jack read the card and flushed hotly, then threw it down again.

Leonard took up a piece of paper, and rapidly wrote:

“Mr. Newcombe’s compliments, and he was not in any way injured by last night’s accident, which he deeply regrets as having caused Lady Earlsley so much trouble,” and gave it to the housekeeper.

“What have you written?” asked Jack sulkily.

“What you are too much of a bear to write,” said Leonard, with a smile – “an answer and an apology. Jack, you are a favorite of fortune. Half the men in London would give the forefinger of their right hand to get such a message from Lady Bell. I know her – ”

“So do I,” broke in Jack, roughly; “I heard all about her at the club last night. Hetley and Dalrymple bored me to death about her. She’s a great heiress and a beauty, and all the rest of it. I know, and I don’t want to hear any more.”

Jack went up to Len and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Forgive me, old fellow; but I – my heart is full. Only one woman in the world has any interest for me, and she has gone – up to the sky again, I suppose. What do I care for Lady Bell, or Lady anyone else? I tell you I laid awake half the night thinking of that beautiful face, and dreamed of her eyes the rest of the night; and I’d give all the world if I had it, to find her. And much good it would do me if I succeeded? I couldn’t ask her to share twenty-one pounds six and a brass button!”

“Forgive me, Jack,” said Leonard, quietly. “I know what you mean. I’m in love myself. But – but at any rate you can’t treat Lady Bell rudely. You must call and thank her.”

“Confound her!” said Jack, and hurried out of the room.

Leonard looked after him, and then went on with his work. He saw no more of him until late in the evening, when Jack came in and threw himself into a chair, looking weary if not exhausted.

“What have you been doing, Jack?” asked Leonard.

“Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay,” replied Jack, grimly.

Leonard nodded.

“I’ve been walking about ever since I left you, with scarcely a rest. I’ve walked through every thoroughfare in London. I’ve looked into windows and into shops. I’ve been warned off and told to move on by the police, who thought I was a burglar on the search for a job; and here I am and there is she as far off as ever. And yet I feel – Heavens knows why – that she is here in London. Len, if you smile I shall knock you down.”

“I was never farther from smiling than I am at this moment,” said Leonard quietly.

“Do you know what I would do if – if the squire had left me any money?” went on Jack, fiercely; “I would spend every penny of it in searching for her. I’d have a hundred – a thousand detectives at work. I’d never give them rest night or day till they found her.”

“And then?” said Leonard.

Jack groaned and lit his pipe. Leonard looked at him.

“I thought you had gone to call on Lady Earlsley,” he said.

Jack looked very much as if he really meant to knock him down, and marched off to bed.

When he came in to breakfast the next morning Leonard noticed that he was dressed in proper walking attire, instead of the loose, free and easy, well-worn suit of cheviot, but he said nothing. Jack looked up.

“You are staring at my get-up, Len. Well, I’ll do it; but mind it is only to please you. What should I care what she thinks? though I ought to do it, I know. I’ll call and thank her, and then let there be an end of it. I can’t bear any chaff of that sort even from you, old fellow.”

Leonard nodded without a word, for he saw that the once frank face had lost its careless sang froid expression, and looked harassed and even haggard.

Jack smoked a pipe in silence, watching Leonard’s rapidly moving pen; then, without a word, went out.

Two hours later he came in, and with an air of relief and even a smile, said:

“Well, I’ve done it, and it’s over.”

“Well?” said Leonard, curiously.

“Well, nothing; she wasn’t at home,” said Jack, triumphantly.

“Not at home. What sort of a place was it?”

“The best place in Park Lane,” said Jack. “No end of flunkeys about, and the rest of it. Looks as if she rolled in gold, as she must do to have the place at all.”

“And you didn’t see her?” asked Leonard.

Jack colored and frowned.

“What a curious beggar you are! Yes, I did see her; her carriage drove up just as I was going away.”

“And you spoke to her?”

“No, I just raised my hat and walked away,” said Jack, gravely.

Leonard shrugged his shoulders.

“She will think you a boor.”

“So I am,” said Jack. “What does it matter? Tell me something about yourself. I am sick of myself. What have you been doing?”

Leonard’s pale face flushed.

“I’ve been to Cheltenham Terrace,” he said.

“Well, did you see her?”

“No,” said Leonard, sadly. “I saw that the blinds in the upper windows were down, and I went to the next door, and asked if anyone was ill.”

“Well?”

“Yes, her grandfather, old Mr. Treherne, was ill, they said, and I came away.”

“Well,” said Jack, “at any rate you know where to find her – while I – ”

“I saw her shadow on the blind,” said Leonard, simply. “I could swear to it among a hundred. I watched her beautiful profile for an hour in that railway carriage.”

“Treherne, Laura Treherne,” said Jack. “It is a pretty name. What took her to Hurst Leigh that night, I wonder? The night the squire died. Len, it is a romance, but I envy you. If I knew where Una lived I’d hang about the house night and day until I saw her. Len, do you know what it is to be hungry, to be parched and dried up with thirst so that you would give all you possessed – ten years of your life for a draught of water? That is just how I feel when I think of that beautiful face, with its soft brown eyes and innocent smile! And when do I not think of her?”

“And you didn’t speak to Lady Bell?” said Leonard.

Jack made a hasty explanation and made for the door, nearly running against the housekeeper.

“A letter for you, sir,” she said.

Jack tore it open, read it and threw it to Leonard.

The envelope was a dainty gray color, and stamped with an elaborate coat of arms, with the initials I. E. in cipher underneath, and inside was a card of invitation to a ball, filled in by a lady’s delicate hand, with a line in addition.

“With Lady Earlsley’s compliments and regret that she was from home when Mr. Newcombe called.”

“Jack, what condescension. You must go!”

Jack stammered, and argued, and protested. He was too honest to plead that he was in mourning; but he simply swore that he would not go.

The day came round and the evening fell, and Jack came into the sitting-room in evening dress, his tall form seeming to fill the room.

Leonard used to say that it was a treat to see Jack in evening dress; that he was one of the few men who looked to advantage in it, and he turned from his eternal pen and ink to look at him with an approving smile.

“Yes,” said Jack, fiercely, “I am going; I am a fool, but how can a man stand against such a perpetual old nuisance as you are? But mind, I am just going in and out again, and after this there is an end of it. I shall enlist!” and out he went.

CHAPTER XXII

Jack called a hansom – of course he could have walked, but he had no idea of economy or the value of money – and was driven to Park Lane.

Half a dozen times on the way he felt inclined to stop the cab, jump out and go to the club – anywhere but Lady Bell’s; but nevertheless, he found himself in Park Lane, and ascending the staircase. He saw at once, by a few unmistakable signs, that the party was a small and select one, and furthermore, judging by the tasteful magnificence of the appointments, that Lady Bell’s wealth had not been very much exaggerated.

He made his way slowly, for a dance was just over, and the stairs were lined, as usual, with people mostly whom he knew, and had to stop to speak to. Amongst them were Sir Arkroyd Hetley, and Dalrymple, of course together.