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.