She had evidently run some distance, for she stood panting and
breathless, the color coming and going on her face, which shone out of
the hood which half covered her head.
She was dressed in a plain cotton dress which a woodman's daughter might
wear, and which was short enough in the skirt to reveal a shapely foot,
and scant enough in the sleeves to show a white, shapely arm.
But no one would have wasted time upon either arm or foot after a glance
at her face.
To write it down simply and curtly, it was a beautiful face; but such a
description is far too meager and insufficient. It requires an artist, a
Rembrandt or a Gainsborough, to describe it, no pen-and-ink work can do
it. Beautiful faces can be seen by the score by anyone who chooses to
walk through Hyde Park in the middle of the season, but such a face as
this which was enframed by the doorway of the woodman's hut is not seen
in twenty seasons.
It was a face which baffles the powers of description, just as a sunset
sky laughs to scorn the brush of the ablest painter. It was neither dark
nor fair, neither grave nor sad, though at the moment of its entrance a
smile played over it as the moonbeams play over a placid lake.
To catalogue in dry matter-of-fact fashion, the face possessed dark
brown eyes, bright brown hair, and red, ripe lips; but no catalogue can
give the spirit of the face, no description convey an idea of the swift
and eloquent play of expression which, like a flash of sunlight, lit up
eyes and lips.
Beautiful! The word is hackneyed and worn out. Here was a face more
than beautiful, it was soulful. Like the still pool in the heart of a
wood, it mirrored the emotion of the heart as faithfully as a glass
would reflect the face. Like a glass--joy, sorrow, pleasure, mirth, were
reflected in the eloquent eyes and mobile lips.
Of concealment the face was entirely ignorant; no bird of the forest in
which she lived could be more frank, innocent of guile, and ignorant of
evil.
With her light summer cloak held round her graceful figure, she stood in
the doorway, a picture of grace and youthful beauty.
For a moment she stood silent, looking from the woodman to his wife
questioningly, then she came into the room and threw the hood back,
revealing a shapely head, shining, bronze-like, in the light of the
lamp.
"Did you send Dick for me, father?" she said, and her voice, like her
face, betokened a refinement uncommon in a woodman's daughter. "I was
not far off, only at the pool to hear the frogs' concert. Dick knows
where to find me now, he comes straight to the pond, though he hates
frogs' music; don't you, Dick?"
The dog rubbed his nose against her hand and wagged his tail, and the
girl took her seat at the table.
To match face and voice, her mien and movements were graceful, and she
handled the dinner-napkin like--a lady. It was just that, expressed in a
word. The girl was not only beautiful--but a lady, in appearance, in
tone, in bearing--and that, notwithstanding she wore a plain cotton gown
in a woodman's hut, and called the woodman "father."
"You did not come by your usual path, father," she said, turning from
the deerhound, who sat on his haunches and rested his nose in her lap,
quite content if her hand touched his head, say once during the meal.
"No, Una," he replied, and though he called her by her Christian name,
and without any prefix there was a subtle undertone in his voice and in
his manner of addressing her, which seemed to infer something like
respect. "No, I went astray."
"And you were late," she said. "Was anything the matter?" she added,
turning her eyes upon him, with, for the first time, an air of
interrogation.
"Matter? No," he said, raising himself and coming to the table. "What
should be? Yes, I came home by another path, and I don't think you must
come to meet me after dark, Una," he added, with affected carelessness.
"No?" she asked, looking from one to the other with a smile of surprise.
"Why not? Do you think I should get lost, or have you seen any wolves in
Warden Forest, father? I know every path from end to end, and wolves
have left merry England forever."
"Not quite," said Gideon, absently.
"Yes, quite," and she laughed. "What Saxon king was it who offered
fivepence for every wolf's head? We were reading about it the other
night, don't you remember?"
"Reading! you are always reading," said the woman, as she put a smoking
dish on the table, and speaking for the first time. "It's books, books,
from morn to night, and your father encourages you. The books will make
thee old before thy time, child, and put no pence in thy father's
pocket."
"Poor father!" she murmured, and leaning forward, put her arms round his
neck. "I wish I could find in the poor, abused books the way to make him
rich."
Gideon had put up his rough hand to caress the white one nestling
against his face, but he let his hand drop again and looked at her with
a slight cloud on his brow.
"Rich! who wants to be rich? The word is on your lips full oft of late,
Una. Do _you_ want to be rich?"
"Sometimes," she answered. "As much for your sake as mine. I should like
to be rich enough for you to rest, and"--looking round the plainly
furnished but comfortable room--"and a better house and clothes."
"I am not weary," he said, his eyes fixed on her with a thoughtful air
of concealed scrutiny. "The cot is good enough for me, and the purple
and fine linen I want none of. So much for me; now for yourself, Una?"
"For myself?" she said. "Well, sometimes I think, when I have been
reading some of the books, that I should like to be rich and see the
world."
"It must be such a wonderful place! Not so wonderful as I think it,
perhaps, and that's just because I have never seen anything of it. Is it
not strange that for all these years I have never been outside Warden?"
"Strange?" he echoed, reluctantly.
"Yes; are other girls so shut in and kept from seeing the world that one
reads so pleasantly of?"
"Not all. It would be well for most of them if they were. It has been
well for you. You have not been unhappy, Una?"
"Unhappy! No! How could one be unhappy in Warden? Why, it's a world in
itself, and full of friends. Every living thing in it seems a friend,
and an old friend, too. How long have we lived in Warden, father?"
"Eighteen years."
"And I am twenty-one. Mother told me yesterday. Where did we live before
we came to Warden?"
"Don't worry your father, Una," said Mrs. Rolfe, who had been listening
and looking from one to the other with ill-concealed anxiety; "he is too
weary to talk."
"Forgive me, father. It was thoughtless of me. I should have remembered
that you have had a hard day, while I have been idling in the wood, and
over my books; it was stupid of me to trouble you. Won't you sit down
again and--and I will promise not to talk."
"Say no more, Una. It grieves me to think that you might not be content,
that you were not happy; if you knew as much of the world that raves and
writhes outside as I do, you would be all too thankful that you are out
of the monster's reach, and that all you know of it is from your books,
which--Heaven forgive them--lie all too often! See now, here is
something I found in Arkdale;" and as he spoke he drew from the
capacious pocket of his velveteen jacket a small volume.
The girl sprang to her feet--not clumsily, but with infinite grace--and
leaned over his shoulder eagerly.
"Why, father, it is the poems you promised me, and it was in your pocket
all the while I was wearying you with my foolish questions."
"Tut, tut! Take your book, child, and devour it, as usual."
Once or twice Gideon looked up, roused from his reverie by the rustling
of the trees as the gusts shook them, and suddenly the sky was rent by a
flash of lightning and a peal of thunder, followed by the heavy rattle
of the rainstorm.
"Hark at the night, father!" she said, raising her eyes from the book,
but only for a moment.
"Ay, Una," he said, "some of the old elms will fall to-night. Woodman
Lightning strikes with a keen ax."
Suddenly there came another sound which, coming in an interval of
comparative quiet, caused Una to look up with surprise.
"Halloa there! open the door."
Gideon sprang to his feet, his face pale with anger.
"Go to your room, Una," he said.
She rose and moved across the room to obey, but before she had passed up
the stairs the woodman had opened the door, and the voice came in from
the outside, and she paused almost unconsciously.
"At last! What a time you have been! I've knocked loud enough to wake
the dead. For Heaven's sake, open the door and let me in. I'm drenched
to the skin."
"This is not an inn, young sir."
"No, or it would soon come to ruin with such a landlord. It's something
with four walls and a roof, and I must be content with that. You don't
mean to say that you won't let me come in?"
"I do not keep open house for travelers."
"Oh, come," exclaimed the young man, with a short laugh. "It's your own
fault that I am back here; you told me the wrong turning. I'll swear I
followed your directions. I must have been walking in a circle; anyhow I
lost my way, and here I am, and, with all your churlishness, you can't
refuse me shelter on such a night as this."
"The storm has cleared. It is but an hour's walk to Arkdale; I will go
with you."
"That you certainly will not, to-night, nor any other man," was the
good-humored retort. "I've had enough of your confounded forest for
to-night. Why, man, are you afraid to let me in? It's a nasty thing to
have to do, but----" and with a sudden thrust of his strong shoulder he
forced the door open and passed the threshold.
But the woodman recovered from the surprise in a moment and, seizing him
by the throat, was forcing him out again, when, with a low cry, Una
sprang forward and laid her hand on his arm.
At her touch Gideon's hands dropped to his side. The stranger sprang
upright, but almost staggered out with discomfited astonishment.
For the first time in her life she stood face to face with a man other
than a woodman or a charcoal-burner. And as she looked her heart almost
stopped beating, the color died slowly from her face. Was it real, or
was it one of the visionary heroes of her books created into life from
her own dreaming brain?
With parted lips she waited, half longing, half dreading, to hear him
speak.
It seemed ages before he found his voice, but at last, with a sudden
little shake of the head, as if he were, as he would have expressed it,
"pulling himself together," he took off his wide hat and slowly turned
his eyes from the beautiful face of the girl to the stern and now set
face of the woodman.
"Why didn't you tell me that you had a lady--ladies with you?" half
angrily, half apologetically. Then he turned quickly, impulsively, to
Una. "I hope you will forgive me. I had no idea that there was anyone
here excepting himself. Of course I would rather have got into the first
ditch than have disturbed you. I hope, I do hope you believe that,
though I can't hope you'll forgive me. Good-night," and inclining his
head he turned to the door.
Una, who had listened with an intent, rapt look on her face, as one sees
a blind man listen to music, drew a little breath of regret as he ceased
speaking, and then, with a little, quick gesture, laid her hand on her
father's arm.
It was an imploring touch. It said as plainly as if she had spoken:
"Do not let him go."
"Having forced your way into my house you--may remain."
"Thanks. I should not think of doing so. Good-night."
"No; you must not go. He does not mean it. You have made him angry.
Please do not go!"
The young man hesitated, and the woodman, with a gesture that was one of
resigned despair, shut the door.
Then he turned and pointed to the next room.
"There's a fire there," he said.
"I'd rather be out in the wood by far," he said, "than be here feeling
that I have made a nuisance of myself. I'd better go."
But Gideon Rolfe led the way into the next room, and after another look
from Mrs. Rolfe to Una, the young man followed.
Una stood in the center of the room looking at the door behind which he
had disappeared, like one in a dream. Then she turned to Mrs. Rolfe.
"Shall I go, mother?"
"Yes. No. Wait till your father comes in."
After the lapse of ten minutes the woodman and the woodman's guest
re-entered. The latter had exchanged his wet clothes for a suit of
Gideon's, which, though it was well-worn velveteen, failed to conceal
the high-bred air of its present wearer.
Meanwhile Mrs. Rolfe had been busily spreading the remains of the
supper.
"'Tis but plain fare, sir," she said; "but you are heartily welcome."
"Thanks. It looks like a banquet to me," he added, with the short laugh
which seemed peculiar to him. "I haven't tasted food, as tramps say,
since morning."
"Dear! dear!" exclaimed the wife.
Una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of Ivanhoe,
then--and with a feeling of satisfaction--of Hotspur.
Figure matched face. Though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a
trained athlete--stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all
combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding.
Wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman--in Gideon's suit of
worn velveteen he looked one still.
Silent and motionless, Una watched him.
"Yes," he said, "I got some lunch at the inn--'Spotted Boar' at
Wermesley--about one o'clock, I suppose. I have never felt so hungry in
my life."
"Wermesley?" said the wife. "Then you came from----"
"London, originally. I got out at Wermesley, meaning to walk to Arkdale;
but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?"
Gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear.
"I can't think how I missed the way," he went on. "I found the charcoal
burner's hut, and hurried off to the left----"
"To the right, I said," muttered Gideon.
"Right, did you? Then I misunderstood you. Anyhow, I lost the right
path, and wandered about until I came back to this cottage."
"And you were going to stay at Arkdale? 'Tis but a dull place," said
Mrs. Rolfe.
"No; I meant taking the train from there to Hurst Leigh----Hurst
Leigh," repeated the young man. "Do you know it? Ah," he went on, "don't
suppose you would; it's some distance from here. Pretty place. I am
going to see a relative. My name is Newcombe--Jack Newcombe I am
generally called--and I am going on a visit to Squire Davenant."
Gideon Rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and
strode into the lamplight.
The young man looked up in surprise.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
With an effort Gideon Rolfe recovered himself.
"I--I want a light," he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his
pipe. Then turning toward the window, he said: "Una, it is late; go to
bed now."
She rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held
out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her
with an intent, but wholly respectful look.
But before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them,
and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his
seat with the other.