Jack seized his opportunity. Bending forward, he whispered:
“Una!”
She half turned her face, pale and dreamy.
“Well?”
“Is it really you? How did you come here? Am I dreaming?”
“It is I,” she said, in her low, musical voice.
“But—but,” he said, “how did you come here? I did not know you were in London. I have been looking for you.”
Her heart gave a great leap. He had been looking for her.
“I have been searching for you everywhere, Una. Did you think I should not come back? I went to Warden——”
“Yes,” she said eagerly.
“And I found the cottage shut up and your people gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, gone, and I did not know what to do. So I came to town, and—and I looked for you everywhere. Ah! you thought that I had forgotten you, as you had forgotten me.”
Her lovely face flushed, and she turned her dove-like eyes upon him, with a reproachful look in their depths.
“Forgotten him!”
“I cannot understand it,” he went on, drawing still nearer to her, his eyes eagerly scanning her face.
She smiled faintly. A great joy welled up in her heart, every nerve was tingling with happiness, she scarcely heard him. The words, “I have been searching for you,” rang in her ears.
“I scarcely understand it myself,” she said; “it seems like a dream.”
Jack glanced toward the bank. They had finished the packing, and would interrupt them in another minute.
“Where are you staying? You are on a visit?”
“I am staying with Mrs. Davenant,” said Una, in the same low voice.
Jack started, and the unlit pipe nearly fell from his hand.
“With Mrs. Davenant?” he exclaimed. “With Stephen’s mother?”
Una nodded.
“Yes; he has been very kind and good to me.”
Jack stared breathless.
“Stephen good to you!” he said, fiercely. “What do you mean? Am I dreaming?”
“It was he who came to Warden with Mrs. Davenant,” said Una, vaguely, troubled by the stern look of suspicion which had settled like a cloud on Jack’s face.
“I don’t understand,” he said grimly. “Stephen—Stephen! How did he know of your existence?”
“Some friend,” said Una; “I do not quite know. At any rate, it was through him. And I like Mrs. Davenant.”
Jack nodded.
“Yes, she is a good woman. But Stephen——”
And he passed his hand over his brow.
Una looked at him timidly.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
“Angry! with you!” he exclaimed, bending nearer, with a look of tender devotion. “How could you think it? No, I am not angry—only puzzled. I cannot make it out. Never mind! don’t look so troubled, my dear—Miss Rolfe, I mean. At any rate, I have found you. Oh, Una!—Miss Rolfe, I mean—if you knew how I have searched for you, and”—with a groan—“what a fool I have been!”
“I thought you had forgotten me,” said Una, with that sweet humility of love.
Jack’s eyes gleamed.
“I have not forgotten you for one moment—not for one moment! Una, I——Oh, confound it! here they are.”
He broke off impatiently, as Lady Bell and the rest came back.
“What are we going to do now?” she said, with her bright smile. “Some of them have gone to the palace. Shall we wait for them, or go and meet them! What do you say, Mr. Newcombe?”
But Jack would not stir.
“They’ll come back,” he said, absently, his eyes drawn toward the downcast face.
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.
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 arelonging 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 yourface; 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. “Andwhat 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, youcannot—if you couldyou would make her life miserable; if you marry Lady Bell, you will at least makeher—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!”
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 notyours; 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 sucha 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 evenuttered 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.
It was said, too, that he rarely addressed a servant in or out of the house. All the orders came through the valet Slummers.
Mention has been made of Slummers. It would have been difficult to describe him. He was called in the village “the Shadow,” because he was so thin and noiseless, so silent and death-like.
In addition to his noiselessness, he had a trick of going about with closed eyes, or with his lids so lowered that it looked as if his eyes were closed.
Bets had been made upon the supposed color of those visional organs, but had never been decided, for never by any chance did he look anyone in the face when speaking; and when by some accident those sphinx-like lids were raised they were dropped again so quickly that examination of what lay behind them was impossible.
Secretiveness was part and parcel of this man. He never did anything openly. When he gave an order it was in around-about way. The simplest action of his daily life was enveloped in mystery. Even his meals were taken in a room apart; only a few of the servants knew the room he occupied. Then he seemed ubiquitous. He was everywhere at once, and turned up when least expected.
With noiseless step he came and went about the house; now in the servants’ hall, now in the library closeted with his master, now in the stables looking under his lids at the horses, counting, so said the grooms, every oat that went into the mangers. Not a thing was done in the house but he was acquainted with it.
And he knew everything! Not a secret was kept from him. Had anyone in the village an episode in his life, which he hoped and deemed hidden and forgotten, Slummers knew it, and managed by some dropped word or look to let the miserable man know that he knew it.
Before he had been at Hurst a week he had half the servants and villagers in his power.
Power! That was the secret mainspring of the man’s existence. He loved power.
Give even the fiend his due. This man had one good quality, he was devoted to his master. Saving this one great event of his life—the theft and loss of his will—Stephen trusted him in everything.
And Slummers admired him. In his eyes Stephen was the cleverest man on earth, and being the cleverest man on earth Slummers was content to serve him. Yes, Slummers was devoted to his master, but he made up for it in his detestation of the rest of mankind in general, and of one man in particular—Jack Newcombe.
Between Jack—honest, frank, and reckless Jack—and the serpent-like Slummers there had been a feud which had commenced from the moment of their first introduction.
On that occasion Slummers had been sent with a message to Jack’s room. Jack happened to be out, and Slummers whiled away the tediousness of waiting by opening a drawer in Leonard’s table and reading some unimportant letters. Jack, coming in with his usual suddenness, caught him and kicked him. Jack had forgotten it long ago, but Slummers had not, and he waited for the time till he could return that kick in his own fashion.
The days passed, and Mr. Hudsley’s task appeared to be nearing a conclusion.
One morning he came up to the Hurst, his hands behind his back, his head bent as usual, and asked for Stephen.
Stephen was in the library, and Slummers noiselessly ushered in the lawyer. It happened to be what Stephen would have called one of his bad mornings. He was seated at the table, not at work, but looking at the pile of papers with lack-luster eyes, that saw nothing, and pale, drawn face.
Hudsley had seen him like this before, but his keen eyes looked like steel blades.
Stephen started and put his thin, white hand across his brow.
“Good morning,” he said. “Good morning. Any news? Sit down.”
But Hudsley remained standing.
“I have no news,” he said. “I think I may say that there are no more surprises for us. You know the extent of the fortune which you hold!”
He did not say “which is yours,” or “which your uncle left you.” Simply “which you hold.” On Stephen’s strained mind the phrase jarred. He nodded and kept his eyes downcast.
“The business that lies within my province,” continued Mr. Hudsley, “is completed. What remains is the work of an accountant. My task is done.”
“I am sure,” said Stephen, smoothly, “that you do not need any assurance of my gratitude——”
The old man waved his wrinkled hand.
“I have been the legal adviser of the Davenant family for the last forty years,” he said, “and I know my duty. I trust I have done it so far as you are concerned,” he said, sternly. “And now I have come to you to request you to receive what papers and documents are in my charge—my clerk, Skettle, will hand them to you and take your receipt—and to inform you that I wish to withdraw from my position as your legal adviser.”
Stephen’s pale face winced and shrunk, and he raised his eyes suspiciously.
“Mr. Hudsley, you surprise me! May I ask your reasons for this abrupt withdrawal?”
“My reasons are my own,” said Hudsley, dryly; “I may say that I am growing old, and that I am disinclined to undertake the charge of so large an estate.”
“Oh!” said Stephen, with a sickly smile. “Such a reason is unanswerable. But I deeply regret it—deeply. My uncle always trusted you.”
“He did nothing of the sort,” interrupted Mr. Hudsley, sternly. “He trusted no man.”
“At any rate, I have placed implicit and well-merited confidence in you,” said Stephen.
The old man looked at him and Stephen trembled.
“I—I hope I shall find your bill of costs among the papers?” he said, hoarsely.
“No,” said Mr. Hudsley. “What service I have rendered you I consider as rendered to the estate. The estate has paid me sufficiently hitherto. I need, I will receive no other payment.”
“But——” urged Stephen.
Mr. Hudsley waved his hand.
“I am quite resolved, sir. If you should need any information respecting any business that has occurred up to the present, I am at your service; but for the future I beg to withdraw. Good-morning.”
Stephen rose, and held out his hand.
“At least, Mr. Hudsley,” he said, “we part as friends, notwithstanding this hasty resolution of yours?”
“It is not hasty, sir,” said Hudsley, and just touching the cold, thin hand, he bowed and left the room.
Stephen sank into a chair, and wiped the drops of cold sweat that had accumulated on his brow.
“He suspects me,” he muttered. “He suspects! But he suspects only, and he can do nothing, or he would have done it. Yes; he is powerless. Let him go! let him go!” he repeated; and he paced the room.
Gradually the relief of Hudsley’s withdrawal broke upon him, and his step grew lighter.
“Yes, let him go! Now I am free—I am my own master! master of wealth undreamed of! And I’ll use it! By Heaven, I’ll be happy! Let him go! I meant to get rid ofhim—he has saved me an unpleasant scene. And now to work, to work!”
He ran rather than walked across the room, and rang the bell.
Slummers opened the door almost instantly and stood motionless and silent.
“Has—has that old idiot gone?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, sir,” said Slummers.
Stephen laughed hoarsely.
“Let the past go with him!” he said. “Slummers, go to my room and bring a roll of papers from my bureau-drawer. You know what they are! Plans and estimates. Do you know what I am going to do?”
Slummers raised his eyes.
“Of course you do!” said Stephen with the same laugh. “I’m going to make a clean sweep here, Slummers. I’m going to pull half this beastly place to the ground. Alterations, Slummers—alterations that will make Hurst a place for a man to live in, not a tomb, as it is at present.”
“You are right, sir, it is a tomb,” said Slummers, in his low, hollow voice.
Stephen shuddered.
“Yes, yes; but I mean to alter that. I’ll make it fit to live in, fit to bring a young bride to. Fetch the plans, Slummers; I’ll go over them at once, this minute. Yes, I will change the place till the very trees shall not know it. Fetch the plans! I’ll pull the whole of it down, every stick and stone! I hate it—hate it! I’ll change the name! I can do it. I can do anything now, or what is the use of this money? Fetch the plans! Fetch——” He broke off suddenly and staggered.
Slummers sprang nervously forward and caught him, and putting him into a chair, poured out some neat brandy and gave it to him.
Stephen tugged at his collar and struggled for a moment, then sank back helplessly.
“Stop!” he said, “stay here. Don’t go. I—I can hear voices—an old man’s voice—what is it?”
“Nothing—nothing,” said Slummers. “Be calm, sir.”
“Calm—I am calm!” retorted Stephen. “It’s this beastly house, it’s full of noises! Give me some brandy—and—getthe time table. I’ll go to London to-morrow, Slummers. Yes, I’ll go to London!”
And the master of Hurst, the owner of a million and more, sank back in his chair and fingered the time table with trembling fingers.
“Jack Newcombe!” exclaimed Mrs. Davenant, looking at the card which Mary had brought in. “Jack Newcombe!” she repeated a second time. “My dear, come here!”
Una was sitting beside the open window, a book in her lap, her eyes fixed on the sun setting just behind the chimneys.
“Yes,” she said, her face flushed, her eyes glowing as if the sun were reflected in them; but she did not move.
Mrs. Davenant hurried across the room with the card in her hand.
“Una, dear, see here,” she said, nervously. “Here is Jack Newcombe! You’ve heard me speak of him.”
Una, feeling guilty and deceitful, hung her head.
Her heart beat fast. For two days she had waited and watched for him—never for a moment had he been absent from her mind.
And now he was here, in the next room.
“Yes,” she said, “I—I remember.”
“Well, my dear, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he wants—do you?—but of course you don’t!”
Una flushed crimson to her very neck.
“I think you had better go, my dear,” said Mrs. Davenant, fidgeting with the card.
Una did not move.
“Why?” she asked, raising her eyes for the first time.
Mrs. Davenant moved her head nervously.
“Because—I don’t think Stephen—I mean—Jack Newcombe is the sort of man you ought to know.”
“But,” said Una, softly and with a steady look in her dark eyes, “I do know him already.”
Mrs. Davenant stared.
“You know him? Jack Newcombe?”
Una nodded.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I met him up the river. I saw him at Lady Bell’s—he is a friend of hers——”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” said Mrs. Davenant, looking distressed and frightened.
Una felt guilty.
“I don’t know,” she said in reply. “I think it was because I knew you would feel angry.”
Mrs. Davenant stared at her. It was like the reply of a child in its simple, naked truth.
“Well, well,” she said, with a troubled voice, “of course you couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t help it. And”—here the door opened quietly, and Jack’s head appeared, and Mrs. Davenant started.
Seeing that they were alone, Jack came in with his usual coolness, though his heart beat; and he crossed the room, and took Mrs. Davenant’s hand and kissed her forehead.
And the poor woman melted in a moment, as she always did when Jack was actually present. As a matter of simple truth, she was really as fond of him as if he had been her own son, and but for Stephen, Jack would have seen her oftener.
He had lost his mother in early boyhood, and the kind-hearted, affectionate, timid Mrs. Davenant had often dried his boyish tears and held him in her arms. Even now, notwithstanding Jack’s wickedness, of which Stephen made the most, her heart went out toward him.
He had not been near her for some months, nearly a year, all through Stephen, and she had almost given him up; but Jack’s kiss revived all the old tenderness. And what woman could resist his handsome face and frank, manly way?
“Well, ma’am,” he said—and “ma’am” sounded in her ears and in Una’s almost like “mother”—“and how are you? And aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Yes, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant, nervously.
“Then why do you keep me in the draughty hall for half an hour? Do you want me to catch cold?”
“Half an hour?” murmured Mrs. Davenant. “I’m sure you haven’t been there three minutes.”
“Two minutes and a half too long,” he said, smiling. He was giving Una time to recover herself.
“You never come to see me now, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant, looking up at him sadly.
“And now I do, you keep me outside. Besides, you never ask me. Who’s that in the back room, ma’am?”
Mrs. Davenant started; she had almost forgotten Una.
“You know her!” she said.
Jack had got his cue.
“Oh, it’s Miss Rolfe,” he said, and then he crossed the room and held out his hand.
Una rose, and without a word put her hand in his, her eyes downcast, lest the love which beamed in them should escape against her will.
“Yes,” said Jack, “I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Rolfe once or twice lately.”
Then he turned away from her and began talking to Mrs. Davenant, as if Una were not in the room.
It was just what Una wanted. She felt that she could not speak, and for the present it was happiness enough to have him in the same room with her, and to hear his voice.
And Mrs. Davenant, now that the first shock was over, was glad enough to sit down and listen to the frank, musical voice—so unlike Stephen’s measured, modulated tone.
Presently she said in a low, nervous tone:
“Jack, I am so sorry!”
Jack nodded, and his face dropped.
“About the poor squire? Yes! Never mind. It is all right. No! It’s all wrong for me, but all right for Stephen.”
“But Stephen doesn’t—doesn’t want it all,” she murmured.
Jack looked another way; he had a different opinion.
“Never mind,” he said, “don’t let us worry about it—you and I. It’s all past and gone, and there’s no help for it.”
“But you have worried,” she said. “You don’t look so well as you did, Jack. I hope—I do hope,” and her voice faltered.
Jack’s face flushed for a moment.
“You are going to scold me, as usual,” he said. “Well,go on, it will be your last opportunity, ma’am. I’ve reformed.”
There was something in his tone, something so earnest and grave, that she looked at him anxiously.
“Oh, Jack, I wish—I wish you would be more steady.”
“Wait and see,” he said, gravely, and in a low voice.
Mrs. Davenant wiped her eyes, and glanced at the clock. It was near the dinner hour.
“Do you want me to go?” said Jack, in his blunt way, and he took up his hat and gloves.
Mrs. Davenant hesitated a moment.
“You wouldn’t stop to dinner, if I asked you,” she said, with a faint smile.
Una’s heart gave a great leap.
“Try me,” said Jack. “Yes, I’ll stay. Now don’t look frightened and disappointed, or I’ll go.”
Mrs. Davenant rose, with her rare laugh.
“I must go and tell them,” she said, “or you’d be starved,” and she left the room.
Jack went and stood beside the silent, motionless figure and looked down at her with infinite yearning and infinite sorrow. He had come resolved to tell her the truth and to bid her to forget him.
“Una,” he said, in a low voice.
She raised her eyes, and in an instant his grand resolution, built up with such care for the last two days, crumbled into dust. With something like a groan he was on his knee and caught her to his breast.
For a moment she resigned herself to the exquisite joy of his embrace, and with downcast eyes drooped beneath his passionate kisses, then with an effort she regained possession of the soul which had slipped from her into his, as it were, and gently disengaged herself.
“No, no, you frighten me!” she murmured, as Jack’s arm drew her toward him again.
“My darling! There!” and he kissed her hands. “How can I do it? It is too much to ask of mortal man.”
“Do what?” she murmured.
Jack’s face paled.
“Nothing—nothing,” he said.
“And are you really going to stay?” she murmured, her eyes beaming with pleasure.
“Yes,” he said, “I came on purpose. If she had not asked me I meant to ask her.”
“And you love her, don’t you? Is she not good—and isn’t it cruel to deceive her,” said Una, and she hung her head.
“She’s the dearest old lady in the world,” said Jack, enthusiastically, who would have loved a gorilla, much less Mrs. Davenant, if it had been kind to Una. “Why, she was a second mother to me until Stephen grew up—and she has been kind to you. I can see that for myself. But you must tell me all about it—all about everything tonight. Think, my darling! we shall be together here all the evening! No noisy crowd to prevent us talking—no interference. I shall want to know everything. Hush! here she comes,” and with another swift kiss he rose and went into the next room. Una stole out and upstairs to dress.
Quite unsuspicious, Mrs. Davenant came back smiling. She had ordered one or two of Jack’s favorite dishes, and had come to ask him about the claret.
“There is some of the Chateau la Rose, Jack. Would you like to have it warmed a little?” she asked, anxiously.
“Let them put a bottle in the kitchen somewhere,” said Jack. “It will get right there by dinner time. Eight o’clock you dine, I know. I’ll just run home and dress, and be back punctually to the minute.”
“It will be the first time in your life then,” said Mrs. Davenant.
For the first time in his life then Jack was punctual. At five minutes to eight a hansom dashed up to the door, and Jack, in evening dress, with his light overcoat, strode up the steps and into the drawing-room.
It was empty, but a minute afterward he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress, and turned as Una entered the room. She wore the dress she had worn at Lady Bell’s, and Jack, who had not yet seen her in her “war paint”—as he would have described it—was startled; and Una, as she saw the look of surprise and rapt admiration, felt, like a true woman, a glow of satisfaction and pleasure. It was not that she was beautiful, but that he should think her so.
“My darling,” he murmured, holding her at arm’s length; “what magic charm do you possess that enables you to grow more beautiful every time I see you? Or is it all a mistake, and are you another Una than the Una of Warden Forest?”
Una put her hands on his shoulders trustfully, and turned her face up to him.
“Tell me,” she murmured, “which Una do you like best?”
Jack thought a moment.
“I love them both so well,” he said, “that I can’t decide.” And he kissed her twice. “One is for the Una of the Forest, and one for the Una of the world,” he said.
She had only time to slip from his arms when Mrs. Davenant entered.
“What do you say to punctuality, ma’am?” he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he gave her his arm and lead her into the dining-room.
Jack was a favorite, for all his wickedness, wherever he went. It was no sooner known that he was to dine in the house, that the cook awoke to instant energy and enthusiasm.
“Master Jack’s a gentleman worth cooking a dinner for,” she declared. “It’s a waste of time to worry yourself for women folk; they don’t know a good dinner from a bad one; but Master Jack—oh, that’s a different thing! He knows what clear soup ought to be; and he shall have it right, too.”
Mrs. Davenant herself was surprised at the elaborate little dinner.
“I wish you’d dine with us every day, my dear Jack,” she said.
Jack glanced demurely at Una, in time to catch the sparkle in her dark eyes.
“I’m afraid you’d soon get tired of me,” he said. “But, seriously, I should improve the cooking; not this day’s, I mean, but the usual ones. You’ve got a treasure of a cook, ma’am.”
And, of course, this was carried down by Mary to the empress of the kitchen, and her majesty was rewarded for all her trouble.
“What did I tell you?” she demanded. “Master Jack knows.”
Jack’s appetite was always good, in love or out of it, and this evening would have been the happiest in his life but for certain twinges of conscience.
What should he say to Leonard, the faithful friend, when he got home and was asked how he had parted from Una? However, he stifled conscience—it is always easy to do that at dinner time.
“Will you have some more claret?” asked Mrs. Davenant, as she and Una prepared to leave him. “You can smoke a cigarette, if you like; but open the window afterward.”
“I won’t have any more claret, and I won’t smoke,” said Jack. “I’ll just finish this glass and come with you for a cup of tea.”
Five minutes of solitude spent in going over every look and word of the lovely creature he had won, were enough for Jack.
He found them seated at the window; Una in a low chair, almost at Mrs. Davenant’s feet. They both looked up, as if glad to see him; and Mrs. Davenant at once rang for tea and coffee.
Una rose, and officiated with calm self-possession and accustomed ease—no one would have guessed that her acquaintance with a London drawing-room, and its accompanying forms and ceremonies, was only that of a few weeks—and brought Jack his cup.
In taking it, he tried to touch her hand, and nearly upset the cup.
“Take care, my dear Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant. “Has he spoiled your dress, my dear?”
“No,” said Una, her face red as a rose. “It was my fault.”
“Yes; it was her fault,” said Jack, significantly.
“You always were clumsy, my dear Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant. “You are too big.”
“I’ll get myself cut down a foot or two,” said Jack.
Happy! They were as happy as any two women in London, notwithstanding Jack’s wickedness.
Jack glanced at the piano.
“I wish you could play,” he said to Una.
Mrs. Davenant looked at him.
“How do you know she cannot?” she said.
Jack looked embarrassed.
“I rather fancy I heard U—Miss Rolfe—admit as much. But she can sing, I know.”
“And you can play for her,” said Mrs. Davenant. “You used to play very nicely when you were a boy,” and she sighed.
Jack looked dubious for a moment, then, with sudden assurance and confidence, jumped up.
“Let me try. Will you come, Miss Rolfe?”
Una followed him to the piano, and Jack turned out all the music from the canterbury on the floor.
“Come and see if there is anything you know,” he said, and Una knelt down beside him.
Of course Jack’s hand was on hers in a moment.
“I nearly let the cat out of the bag just then,” he said. “I must be careful.”
“But why?” asked Una. “Why may we not——” she paused, then, having raised her eyes, she continued—“why may she not know?”
“So she shall,” said Jack, “all in good time. I can’t consent to share my secret all in one evening! Besides——”
“Cannot you find anything,” said Mrs. Davenant, sleepily, from the next room.
Jack stuck up some music on the stand and sat down.
He had played well at one time, in a rough fashion, and had a wonderful ear, and, quite regardless of the music, he launched into a prelude.
“Sing the song you sang the other evening, my darling,” he whispered. “I remember every note of it.”
Una obeyed instantly. Free from any spark of vanity, she knew nothing of the shyness which assails self-conscious people. Jack, with his acute ear, played a running accompaniment easily enough; it was true he had remembered every note of it.
“You nightingale,” he whispered, looking up at her, and the fervent admiration of his eyes made her heart throb.
“Now sing something yourself, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant.
Jack thought a moment, his fingers straying over the keys, then softening his full baritone voice as much as possible, he sang—“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”
It was an old English song, one of the sweetest of the old melodies which even now have power to rouse ablaseaudience to enthusiasm.
Una stood behind him entranced, bewitched; he sang every word toher.
“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”
Oh, Heaven, it was too great a joy!
Unconsciously she drew nearer and put her hand upon his shoulder, timidly, caressingly, and as the music ceased, Jack turned and caught it prisoner in his.
“Yes, dear, I love but thee!” he murmured.
“And I”—she breathed, her eyes melting with passionate tenderness—“and I love but thee.”
“My darling,” he whispered, “do you know what you are giving me—your precious self—and to whom you are giving it?”
The voice fell; conscience was awake again.
“Una,” he went on, hurriedly, passionately. “I am not worthy of your love——”
“I love but thee!” she breathed, softly.
“You do not know, you who are so ignorant of the world, what it means to wed a man like myself, penniless, worthless—oh, Heaven, forgive me!”
“I love but thee!” she breathed, for all her answer.
Jack bent his head over her hand.
“What can I do?” he murmured, bitterly. “I cannot give her up.”
Then he looked up.
“Have you no fear, Una? Do you trust me so entirely? Think, can you face poverty and all its trials. Dear, I am very poor, worse than poor.”
She smiled an ineffable smile.
“And I am rich—while I have your love.”
Then suddenly her voice changed, and with a look of terror she bent over him, almost clingingly.
“What is it you are saying? Jack! Jack! you will not leave me?”
Jack started to his feet, and regardless of waking Mrs. Davenant, took her in his arms.
“Never, by Heaven!” he exclaimed.
There was one moment of ecstatic joy, then suddenly Una drew back; and with a gesture of alarm, pointed to the looking-glass. Jack raised his head, and with a sudden cry drew her nearer to him as if to protect her.
Reflected in the glass was the thin figure of Stephen Davenant, looking rather like a ghost than a man—silent, motionless, with pallid face, and set, rigid eyes.