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.
"Confound it," he muttered, "I must go! I can't be such a cad as to stop
any longer; she oughtn't to say this sort of thing, and yet I--I can't
tell her so! No! I must go!" and he rose and took out his watch.
"I am afraid I must be on the tramp."
"Yes," she assented; "you have stayed too long. I hope you will find
that the Squire Davenant has forgiven you. I think he cannot help it.
And you will have your fortune and will go back into the world, and will
quite forget that you lost your way in Warden Forest. But I shall not
forget it; I shall often think of it."
"No," he said, "I shan't forget it. But in case I should, will you give
me something--no, I won't ask it."
"Why not?" she said, wonderingly. "Were you going to say, will I give
you something to help you to remember?"
"Yes, I will. What shall I give you?" and she looked around.
Jack looked at her. His bad angel whispered in his ear, "Ask her to give
you a kiss," but Jack metaphorically kicked him out of hearing.
"Give me a flower," he said, and his voice was as gentle as its deep
ringing bass could be.
Una nodded, and plucking a dog rose held it out to him.
"There," she said; "at least you will remember it as long as the rose
lasts. But it soon dies," and she sighed.
Jack took it and looked at it hard. Then he put it to his lips.
"There is no smell to a dog rose," said Una.
"Ah no! I forgot. Just so. Well, good-by. We may shake hands, Una. That
is your name, isn't it? How do you spell it?"
"U--n--a," she said, giving him her hand.
"It's a pretty name," he said, looking at her.
"Is it?" she said, dreamily. "Yes, I think it is, now. Say it again."
"Una, good-by. We shall meet again."
"Do you think so? Then you will have to come to Warden again."
"And I will. I will come soon. Oh, yes, we shall meet again. Good-by,"
and, yielding to the temptation, he bent and touched her hand--Heaven
knows, reverently enough--with his lips.
A warm flush spread over the girl's face and neck, and she quivered from
head to foot. It was the first kiss--except those of her father and
mother--that she had ever received.
"Good-by," he repeated, and was slowly relinquishing her hand, the hand
that clung to his, when a hand of firmer texture was laid on his arm and
swung him round.
It was Gideon Rolfe, his face white with passion, his eyes ablaze, and a
heavy stick upraised.
The Savage had just time to step back to avoid the blow and plant his
feet firmly to receive a renewed attack; but with an effort the old man
restrained himself, and struggling for speech, motioned the girl away
with one hand and pointed with the other to Jack.
"You scoundrel!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Go, Una, go. You scoundrel! I
warmed you at my hearth, you viper! and you turn to sting me. Go,
Una--go at once. Do you disobey me?"
White and trembling, the girl shrank into the shade.
"You villain!" went on the old man, struggling with his passion.
"Stop!" exclaimed Jack, the veins in his forehead swelling ominously.
"You must be mad! Don't strike me!--you are an old man!"
"Strike you! No, no; blows are of no avail with such as you! Curs take
no heed of blows! What other way can one punish the scoundrel who repays
hospitality by treachery? Was it not enough that you forced your way
into my house, broke my bread, but you must waylay a credulous girl and
lead her in the first step to ruin. Oh, spare your breath, viper! I know
you and your race too well. Ruin and desolation walk hand in hand with
you; but you have reckoned without your host here. My knowledge of you
arms me with power to protect a weak, innocent girl from your wiles.
Scoundrel!"
"You use strong words," he said, and his voice was low and hoarse. "You
are an old man and--you are her father. You call me a scoundrel; I call
you a fool, for if I were half the scoundrel you think me, you'd be to
blame for any harm I might have done. I've done none. But that's no
thanks to you, who keep such a girl as she is shut up as you do, and
leave her to wander about unprotected. You know me, you say, and you
know no good of me; that's as it may be, but I say when you call me a
scoundrel, you lie!"
"Yes, I know you. I know the stock from whence you sprung, villains all!
I thought that here, at least, I was safe from your kind; but Fate led
you here--thank Fate that I let you go unhurt. Take an old man's advice,
and, unlike your race, for once leave the prey which you thought so easy
to destroy. Go!"
"I am going," he said, grimly. "I shall go, because if I stayed all
night I should not convince you that I am not the scoundrel you suppose
me. But, if you think that I am to be frightened by these sort of
threats, you are mistaken. I have said that I will come back, and I
_will_!" and with a curt nod he strode off.