Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir

“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.