Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir

How lovely it was! If they would only all go away, and leave them alone! He had so much to say – so much to ask.

But Lady Bell showed no sign of going; instead, she threw herself down on the grass beside them, and commenced to talk.

Had he enjoyed the pull up? Why had he not driven down with them? She didn’t believe in particular business; and so on.

Jack pulled at his pipe, and returned absent, scarcely civil answers. At last Lady Bell noticed his abstraction, and turned her head away in silence.

Meanwhile Una sat speechless, her face turned toward the river, her whole soul absorbed by his presence. It frightened her, this feeling of absorption. She found herself waiting and listening for every word that dropped from his lips as if her life depended on it. She trembled lest he should touch her.

His manner filled her with an ecstasy of pleasure that was almost pain. How handsome he looked, stretched out at full length, his tanned face turned to the sky, his tawny mustache sweeping his clear cut lips; she felt, rather than knew, that his eyes sought her face, and she dared not turn her eyes toward him, though she longed to do so.

CHAPTER XXIV

Presently, to the relief of Una, at least, the other boats came back; the third boat was got ready, the hampers put on board, and the ladies seated.

Jack stood near the stern, and took Una’s hand in his to help her to embark.

“Take care,” he said, aloud, then in an undertone, he added: “I shall see you at Richmond.”

“Are you going to row the outrigger down, Savage?” said Dalrymple, eying the first boat enviously.

Jack turned to him eagerly.

“No, I’ll take your place in this boat; I can see you are longing for mine. Here, get in”; and before Dalrymple could refuse, Jack had almost lifted him into the outrigger, and leaped into his place in Lady Bell’s boat.

All the darkness vanished from his brow. He was sitting opposite Una; so near, that when he leaned forward to make the stroke, his hand almost touched her dress.

“Are you coming with us?” said Lady Bell; “I am so glad.”

“So am I,” said Jack; but his eyes went to Una’s face.

“Now, then,” said Jack, as he bent forward.

“Steady, old man,” said Sir Arkroyd; “we haven’t all got blacksmith’s muscles!”

But Jack was wild, delirious with joy, and he pulled, heart and soul, his great, strong arms bare to the elbows.

“What a lovely night!” said Lady Bell. “Won’t anybody sing?”

Of course no one replied.

“Sing something, my dear child,” she said to Una. “You have a singing face. You have no idea how beautiful it sounds on the water.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Una, shrinking modestly.

Jack looked up.

“Sing,” he murmured, pleadingly. As if he had uttered a command, she looked at him with meek obedience, and began the song he had heard her singing in the forest.

Is there anything more exquisite on earth than the voice of a young girl? Una knew nothing of the science of song; she had had no master, no instruction of any sort; but her voice was clear and musical as a young thrush’s and she sang straight from her heart.

No need to tell Jack to pull slower! He ceased rowing, and rested on his oar, his eyes fixed on her face, his lips half apart.

The other boats stopped also as the music of the sweet, young voice floated down the stream, and one and all felt the spell.

Lady Bell sat with lowered lids and pale face, and when the last note died away and she looked up, her eyes were moist.

“My dear,” she said, in a low voice, “where did you learn to sing like that?”

Una, half frightened at the effect she had produced, flushed and sank back into her seat.

“I have never learned,” she said, quietly.

There was a murmur, and Lady Clarence turned and looked at her curiously.

“You have a beautiful voice,” she said, “and exquisite taste, or you could not sing as you do. It is a pity you have not been thoroughly trained. You should have a master.”

“She shall!” said Lady Bell, impulsively. “She shall have the best. It would be criminal to let such a gift be wasted!”

Jack looked up with a flush of pleased gratitude, and Lady Bell happened to catch that glance.

With a slight start she turned pale, and looked from his face all aglow with the fervor of loving admiration to Una’s downcast one, and then, with something like a shudder, she, too, sank back into the seat.

“Isn’t – isn’t it cold?” she said, in a strangely changed voice.

“Is it?” said Jack, musing. “We’ll row on,” and he bent to the oar again.

A peculiar silence fell upon them all; it seemed as if they were still listening to the sweet voice. Lady Bell closed her eyes and remained motionless, and Jack pulled as if he had undertaken to reach Richmond within a given time.

At Richmond tea was brought to them on the terrace while the horses were put to, and very soon they were dashing toward London.

Dalrymple declared that his arms were too stiff to allow him to handle the four grays properly, and Jack was unanimously voted to the box.

He looked rather inclined to refuse, but seeing that Una had been seated close behind him, he climbed up and took the reins without a word.

For the first mile or two he had quite enough to do to keep the nags in hand; but he could feel that Una was close behind him, could feel her breath on his cheek, and hear every word of the clear, low-pitched voice, and he was deliriously happy.

Presently, when he had got the horses into steady working, he turned his head and pointing with his whip, as if he were directing her attention to some object in the landscape, said in a low voice:

“Una, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning forward.

“I have been thinking it all over,” he said, “but I can’t make head or tail of it. It’s all a mystery. However, I know where you are now, and that’s something; and I can come and see you, and that’s everything – to me. Are you angry with me for speaking so – so boldly?”

“No,” she faltered.

“And I may come and see you? I know Mrs. Davenant; she is a good creature, though she thinks me everything that’s bad – and she’s not far wrong, I’m afraid – ”

Una sighed faintly.

“And perhaps she’ll tell me what it means, and why Stephen has sent you to be with her. Why, Una, did your father allow you to come? He loathed me for being a distant relative of the Davenants.”

“I do not know,” said Una, troubled.

“Never mind,” said Jack, hastening to soothe her; “it’s sure to be all right, if he did it. I liked your father, notwithstanding he was so rough with me. I liked him because he took such care of you. Steady, silly!” This was to the near leader, and not to Una. “What a lovely night! Are you enjoying it? – are you happy?”

A sigh, faint and tremulous, was full answer.

“Please Heaven, we’ll have many a night like this. Happy! I could go half mad with delight at having you so near me. Una – I may call you Una?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Can you guess – you sweet, innocent flower – what makes me so happy?”

“Tell me!” she answered, in a low voice, and leaning forward until her soft, silken hair almost touched his.

Jack’s heart beat fast, and his blood bounded in his veins.

“It is because I love you. I love you! Do you understand? Ah, my darling! you don’t know what love is. But I ought not to call you so – not yet. I can’t see your face; perhaps I shouldn’t dare to be so bold if I could. Speak to me, Una; speak to me. Tell me that you are not angry. Tell me that, while I have never had your sweet face out of my mind since that day we parted in Warden, you have thought once or twice of me. I don’t deserve it. I’m a bad lot; but I love you, Una. Do you love me?”

There was no reply; but there was a soft nestle beside him, and then he felt her hand timidly touch his arm.

He slipped the whip and reins into one hand, and seized the little trembling hand and enclosed it as if he meant thus to swallow it up forever.

But, alas! the horses were going down hill, and were fidgeting and pulling; and with impatient exclamation at their stupidity, he was obliged to let the little hand go; but it did not go far; he could feel it touching, softly and timidly, the edge of his coat-sleeve, and that was enough for him. It was a mercy and a miracle that the drag was not upset, for he scarcely knew where or how he was driving, and it was more by instinct and habit that he brought the team safe and sound, but sweating tremendously, before the house in Park Lane.

“You must all come in,” said Lady Bell.

The gentlemen looked at their white flannels apologetically, but Lady Bell laughed.

“Let us pretend that we are our own masters and mistresses for one night,” she said, “and not the slaves of Fashion.”

Jack stood out. He felt that, for the present, it behooved him to be discreet, and he knew that if he were not, it would be impossible for him to conceal the romantic love which burned through and through him. Besides, he knew that there would be no opportunity of speaking to Una there; and he felt that it would be agony for him to assume the conventional air of polite indifference to her for that evening, at least.

So he went. But he stood on the pavement to help her down; and as he held her in his arms, he kept her for one moment poised between heaven and earth; and as he put her down, his lips touched her arm, and she knew it.

“I’ll see to the horses, Dal,” he said; and he leaped up, and drove off as if he were possessed.

“That’s what the Savage calls seeing to them!” grumbled Dalrymple. “He’ll throw ’em down, or run over somebody, and I shall be fined five pounds for furious driving.”

Jack was conscientious – where horses were concerned – and he sat on the rack and saw them rubbed down and fed with the patience of a martyr; then he jumped into a hansom, was driven to Spider Court, and, bursting into the room, fell into a chair and flung his cap at Leonard’s head.

“Mad at last!” said Leonard.

“Yes, stark, staring, ramping mad, old fellow. I’ve found her!”

“No!” said Leonard, turning round.

“Yes! Yes! And I’ve spent the day with her. She’s here in London, and who do you think she is staying with? With Mrs. Davenant, Stephen’s mother!”

“Stephen’s mother!” said Leonard, with surprise. “Nonsense.”

“Fact! What do you make of it?”

Leonard Dagle mused in silence.

“I can make nothing of it,” he said at last.

“Did she know Mrs. Davenant?”

“No; that’s the mystery. Stephen, it seems, is the cause of her being here. He found out her father – how I can’t guess – he must, of course, have known her before; there’s nothing wonderful in that. But what is wonderful is that Stephen should do anyone a good turn, unless – unless – ” and his face darkened suddenly and grew fierce – “unless he had some end in view.”

“What end could he have in view here?” said Leonard.

“That’s what I can’t make out; can you?”

Leonard shook his head.

“It’s a strange story throughout.”

“It is,” said Jack, grimly. “But, Stephen Davenant, if you mean any mischief, look out! I’m on your track, my friend! But, Len, old man, you look rather done up. What’s the matter?”

Leonard passed his hand over his brow.

“Something strange and mysterious also,” he said. “I went to Cheltenham Terrace an hour ago, just on the chance of getting a glimpse of – of – ”

“Of Laura Treherne. Well, old man?”

“And I met with a similar shock to yours in Warden Forest. I found the house shut up, and she – gone, vanished, disappeared!”

“What!” exclaimed Jack.

Leonard paced up and down.

“I went to inquire next door, and I learned that old Mr. Treherne was dead – you remember my telling you that the blinds were down – that the funeral took place yesterday, and Miss Treherne had gone. They only lodged there, it seems, and of course she could go at any moment. Where she has gone no one seems to know. So there is an end to my little romance! But no! it shall not end there.”

“No; take courage by my luck, old man,” said Jack, laying his hand on his shoulder – “take courage by me! Let us talk about it.”

“No, no!” said Leonard, shrinking; “I cannot – yet. You don’t know how I feel. Tell me what happened today. Was she glad to see you? Did you let her see that you cared for her? Of course you did.”

“Yes,” said Jack, with a proud, happy smile. “Yes, I told her that I loved her, and – oh, Len! Len! I know that she cares for me!”

Leonard stared at him gravely, and put down a paper which he had taken up. But Jack saw it and took it off the table.

“What are you reading there, Len?”

Leonard took it out of his hand.

“My poor, light-hearted, unreasoning Jack,” he said. “It’s Levy Moss’ reminder about that bill!”

Jack’s face fell and he dropped into a chair.

“Quite right, Len,” he said, hoarsely. “I am an unreasoning fool! What have I done? I’ve behaved like a blackguard! I’ve got this angel to admit that she loved me – me, a beggar – more than a beggar! But I swear I forgot – I forgot everything when I was near her. Oh, Heaven, Len, it’s hard lines! What shall I do! If the poor old squire had but left me a few hundreds a year, how happy we could be!”

“But he hasn’t,” said Leonard, gravely and gently. “And what are you going to do? There’s the money you lost last night – ”

Jack groaned.

“What an idiot I was. Len, I swear to you that I was nearly driven out of my mind last night. First there was Lady Bell – she was more than civil, and bearing in mind all you said and wanted me to do, I made myself agreeable, and – and – she’s very beautiful, Len, and when she looks right into your eyes and smiles, she seems to do what she likes with you. Len, I was nearly gone when that vision – as I thought it – came into the glass amongst the ferns. I thought it was a vision – I know now that she was there – and it drove me silly. I bolted out and made for the club, and played to forget it all.”

“And made bad matters worse,” said Leonard. “You’re in a hole, Jack, I’m afraid. Moss won’t wait; there are other bills, and there’s the I. O. U. of last night, and you’ve lost the money you had, and you’ve asked this young girl to love you. You mean to marry her – I say, you mean to marry her. On what? How can you go to her father – who already doesn’t seem altogether prepossessed in your favor – and ask him to give his daughter to a penniless gentleman? Mind – a gentleman! If you were a woodman like himself, your being hard up wouldn’t matter. You could take an ax, or whatever they use, and earn your living. But you can’t go and ask him to let her share your over-due bills and I. O. U.’s.”

Jack groaned.

“What shall I do, Len? My darling, my darling!”

Leonard sighed. His heart – the heart of as true a friend as ever the world held – ached for the wild, thoughtless youth.

“Was Lady Bell there?” he asked, quietly.

Jack leaped to his feet.

“Lady Bell! I see what you mean!” he groaned. “Len, you are in love yourself, and yet you ask me to sell myself – ”

Leonard flushed.

“Jack, much as I care for you, I swear that I am thinking as much of her good and happiness as of your own. If you marry her – which, after all, you cannot– if you could you would make her life miserable; if you marry Lady Bell, you will at least make her– happy.”

Jack paced up and down for a moment. Then he turned, white and haggard, and held out his hand:

“You are right. Would to Heaven you were not! I see it, I cannot help it. I will not make her life miserable. But – but – I must go and tell her. Heaven help us both!”

CHAPTER XXV

Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise. Quite ignorant and unconscious of all that was going on in London, Stephen remained down at the Hurst.

What he had written to his mother was quite true; as a matter of fact Stephen was far too clever to write direct falsehoods – he was kept at Hurst Leigh very much against his will.

Squire Ralph had left him everything – money, house, lands, everything excepting the few legacies to servants, and Stephen had been hard at work, and was still hard at work ascertaining how much that everything was.

And, as day followed day, and disclosure succeeded disclosure, he became fascinated and possessed by the immense wealth which had fallen into his hands, or, say rather, which he had seized upon.

For many years the old squire had lived upon less than half his income; the remainder he had invested and speculated with, and as often happens to the miser, the luck of Midas had fallen upon him.

Everything he touched had turned to gold. The most unlikely speculations had proved successful; properties which he had bought for a mere song, and which had been regarded by the most wary as dangerous and profitless, had become profitable and valuable.

Some of these risky speculations he had, not unnaturally, kept concealed from the prudent Hudsley, who only now, by the discovery of scrip and bonds in out-of-the-way desks and bureaus, learned what kind of man his old friend had really been.

Not a day passed but it brought to light some addition to the old man’s gains, and served to swell the immense total.

Even the lands round Hurst had been manipulated by the old man, so that leases ran out almost at his death, and rents were raised.

One speculation will serve as an instance; he had purchased, some fifteen years before his death, the freehold of an estate bordering upon London; and in a locality which was then regarded as hopelessly unfashionable. A great capitalist had ruined himself by building large houses on the property, foreseeing that at some time or other the tide of the great city would reach this hitherto high and dry spot. But he had made a miscalculation, and he died before the tide which was to bring him wealth reached his property; old Ralph had then stepped in and bought it – houses, land, everything. In ten years’ time the tide of fashion rolled that way, and now what had once been a neglected and forgotten quarter was the center of fashionable London.

It reads like a romance, but like many other romances, it was true.

Old Ralph himself had no idea of his own wealth, and that when he died he should leave behind him one of the most colossal fortunes in England.

Almost stunned by the immense total – so far as it had been arrived at – Stephen went about the place silent and overwhelmed.

But one thought was always ringing like a bell in his brain – “And I had nearly lost all this!”

Sometimes, in the quiet of the library, where he sat surrounded by books and papers, by accountants’ statements and estimates, he would grow pale and tremble as he reflected by what a narrow chance he had secured this Midas-like wealth.

But had he secured it? and when the question presented itself, as it did a hundred, aye, a thousand times a day, he would turn ashy pale, and clutch the edge of the table to keep himself from reeling.

Where was that will – the real, true, valid will – which left everything away from him to Una?

Day by day, while going over the accounts, he found himself waiting, watching, expecting someone – whom he could not imagine – coming in and saying: “This is not yours; here is the will. I found it so and so, at such and such a time!” and he felt that if such a moment occurred it would kill him.

But as the days passed and no one came to contest his claim to the property, he grew more confident and assured, and at last he nearly succeeded in convincing himself that he really had burned the will.

“After all,” he mused, over and over again, “that is the only probable, the only possible explanation. Is it likely that if anyone had the accursed thing they would keep it hidden? No! If they were honest, they would have declared it at once; if dishonest, they would have brought it to me and traded upon it. Yes, I was half mad that night. I must have destroyed it at the moment Laura knocked at the window.”

But all the same he determined to make his position secure. Immediately he had arranged matters at the Hurst he would go to London and marry Una.

“She is all safe and sound there,” he mused, with a satisfied smile. “My mother leads the life of a hermit. The girl herself has no friends – not one single soul in London. I shall be her only friend, and – the rest is easy.”

Poor Stephen!

Then he would give a passing thought to Laura, and now and then would take from his pocket half a dozen letters, which she had written to him since the night of her journey to Hurst.

To not one of these had he replied, and the last was dated a week back.

“By this time,” he thought, “she has forgotten me, or what is better, has learned that plain Stephen Davenant and Squire Davenant of Hurst Leigh are two very different men. Poor Laura! Well, well, I must do something for her. I’ll make her a handsome present. Say a thousand pounds; perhaps find a husband for her. She’s a sensible girl, too sensible to dream that I should think of marrying her now. After all, what harm is done? We were very happy, and amused ourselves with innocent flirtation. A mere flirtation, that is all.”

And he tried to forget the pale face and flashing eyes which turned toward him that night at parting with such a strange look of warning. But he did not always succeed in forgetting. Sometimes the remembrance of that face rose like a vision between his eyes and the endless rows of figures, and made him shudder with mingled fear and annoyance.

“It has been a lesson to me,” he would say, after awhile. “It is the only weakness I have ever been guilty of, and see how I am punished. I deserve it, and I must bear it.”

It punished him, and it told upon him. The pallor which had come upon his face the day the will was read had settled there. The old look of composed serenity and “oiliness,” as Jack called it, had gone, and in the place was a look of strained intentness, as if he were always listening, and watching, and waiting.

He was a fine actor, and would have made a fortune on the boards, and he managed to suppress this look at times, but the effort of suppression was palpable; he showed that he was affecting a calmness and serenity which he did not possess.

By two men, of all others, this change in him was especially noticed – by Mr. Hudsley and old Skettle.

The old lawyer and his clerk were necessarily with him every day; Stephen could not move a step without them. He hated Hudsley, whose keen, steel-like eyes seemed to penetrate to his inmost heart; and he detested Skettle, whose quiet, noiseless way of moving about and watching him from under his wrinkled lids, irritated Stephen to such an extent that sometimes he felt an irresistible desire to fling something at him.

But both of the men were indispensable to him at present, and he determined to wait until everything was straight before he cut all connections with them.

“Once let me get matters settled,” he muttered to himself over and over again, “and those two vultures shall never darken my doors again.”

And yet Hudsley was always scrupulously polite and civil, and Skettle always respectful.

With his characteristic graveness, Mr. Hudsley went through the work systematically and machine-like.

But Stephen noticed when he came to announce some fresh edition to the great Davenant property, he never even uttered a formal congratulation, or seemed pleased and gratified.

One day Stephen, nettled beyond his usual caution, said: “You must be tired of all this, Mr. Hudsley. I notice that it seems to annoy you.”

And the old lawyer had looked up with grim impassibility.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Stephen. I am never tired, and I am never annoyed.”

“At least you must be surprised,” said Stephen; “you had no idea that my uncle had left so much.”

“No, I am not even surprised,” retorted Mr. Hudsley, if his calm reply could be called a retort. “I have lived too long to be surprised by anything.”

And there was something in his keen, icy look which silenced Stephen, and made him bend over his papers suddenly.

Others noticed the change which had come over the once sleek, smooth-spoken young man. It got to be remarked that he rarely left the Hurst grounds, and that what exercise he took was on the terrace in front of the library, or on the lawn below it. It was said that he paced up and down this lawn for hours.