Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains
until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and
smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded
in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, mother," he said. "I have been making some
arrangements with the worthy man, her father."
Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which
always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son.
"It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone?
He--he--doesn't he look rather superior for his station, and why does he
look so stern and forbidding?"
"A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved
and cold," replied Stephen, glibly, "and, of course, he feels the
parting from his daughter."
"Poor man--poor girl!" murmured Mrs. Davenant.
Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears
were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe.
"Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee
that the 'poor girl' will not long need anyone's sympathy. You are
already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not
so?"
Mrs. Davenant looked up--just as if she wanted to see what he expected
of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say "yes," said it.
"Yes, I shall be very glad to have a young girl--a good young girl--as a
companion, Stephen. My life has been very lonely since you have been
away."
"And I may be away so much. But, mother, you will not forget what I said
during our drive? There are special reasons why the girl's antecedents
should not be spoken of. The friend who interested me in her wishes her
to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life."
"I understand, Stephen."
"And, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape
you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or
manner. Remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the
forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife."
"Her mother and father?" said Mrs. Davenant.
"I said her mother and father, did I not? Just so--her mother and
father. Well, we must not expect too much. And after all, it will be far
more interesting for you to have a fresh and unsophisticated nature
about you, although she may be rather rough and rustic----"
"I shall be quite content if she is a good girl."
"Just so. Virtue is a precious gem though incased in a rough casket."
Gideon Rolfe had returned, but not alone. Emerging from the deep shadow
of the trees was what looked to their astonished and unprepared eyes a
vision of some wood nymph.
Gideon Rolfe strode forward, his face set hard and sternly cold, and as
he reached the cottage he took Una's hand in his, and looking steadily
into Stephen's eyes, said:
"Mr. Davenant, I have informed my daughter of your mother's offer to
take her under her charge, but I have asked her to postpone her answer
until she saw you."
Stephen bowed, and laid his white hand on his mother's arm.
"Miss Rolfe," he said, in a low voice in which paternal kindness and
social respect were delicately blended, "this lady is my mother. Like
most mothers whose children have flown from the nest, she lives alone
and feels her solitude. She is desirous of finding some young lady who
will consent to share it with her. It is not only a home she offers you,
but--I think I may add, mother--a heart."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Davenant, and as she held out her hand her
voice trembled and a tear shone in her eye.
Una, who had been looking from one to the other, with the breath coming
in little pants through her half parted lips, drew near and put her hand
in the outstretched one, but the next moment turned and clung to
Gideon's arm with a sudden sob.
"Oh, father, I cannot leave you!" she murmured.
Gideon bent his head, perhaps to hide his face, which was working with
emotion.
"Hush! it is for the best. Remember what I have said. You wanted to see
the world----"
"Yes--with you," said Una, audibly.
"The world and I have parted forever, Una."
"But shall I never see you again?"
"Yes, yes, we shall meet now and again."
"I trust, Miss Rolfe, that we shall wean your father from his long
seclusion. You must be the magnet to draw him from his retreat into the
busy haunts of men."
"You will come and see me?" she murmured.
"Yes, Una. Go where you will," and he glanced over her head at Stephen,
"you may feel that I am watching over you, as I have always watched and
guarded you. If any harm comes to you----"
"Harm?" she breathed, and looked up into his face with questioning gaze.
"Come, Mr. Rolfe, you mustn't alarm your daughter," said Stephen,
softly. "She will think that the world is filled with lions and wolves
seeking whom they may devour. I think you may feel safe from any harm
under my mother's protection, Miss Rolfe."
"Yes. I have never had a daughter. If you come you shall be one to me."
"You think me ungrateful?" said Una to her, in her simple, frank way.
"No, my dear," replied Mrs. Davenant. "I think you only show a naturally
affectionate heart. You have never been from home before."
"Never," said Una. "Never out of the woods."
"My poor child. No, I do not think you ungrateful. I like to see that
you feel leaving home so much. For you will come, will you not? I shall
be disappointed and grieved if you do not, now that I have seen you."
"Now that you have seen me," said Una.
"Yes, my dear. For I am sure that I shall love you, and I hope that you
will grow fond of me."
"Do you?" said Una, musingly. "Yes," she said, after a pause, "I shall
love you."
"Will you kiss me, my dear," she said; and Una bent and kissed her.
"And now that you think--that you are sure you will like me--you will
come," said Mrs. Davenant.
Una looked before her thoughtfully, almost dreamily, for a moment, then
replied:
"Yes, my father wishes me to go. Why does he wish me to go into the
world he hates and fears so much? It was only the other day that he
warned me against wishing for it, and told me that I should never be
happy if I left Warden. Why has he changed so suddenly?"
"I--I think it must have been Stephen who persuaded him. I heard them
talking together."
"Stephen--that is your son," said Una.
"Yes, he is my son; he is very good and clever--so very clever! He has
been a most affectionate son to me, and has never caused me a day's
uneasiness."
"All sons are not so?" she asked.
"No, indeed," responded Mrs. Davenant.
"Is he ill?" asked Una, after a pause.
"Ill!"
"Because he is so pale," she said.
"Yes, Stephen is pale. It is because he thinks and reads so much, and
then he is in great trouble now; his uncle died three days ago."
"Is that why he is dressed in black--and you, too? I am very sorry."
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Davenant, "that was very nice of you to
say that. I can see you have a kind heart. Yes, his uncle is just dead,
Mr. Ralph Davenant--Squire Davenant. Why did you start?"--for Una had
started and turned to her with a sudden flash of intense interest in her
eyes--"did you know him? Ah, no, you could not, if you have not been out
of the forest--how strange it seems!--but you have heard of him,
perhaps?"
"Yes, I have heard of him."
At that moment the door opened, and Stephen and Gideon Rolfe came out.
The usual smile sat upon Stephen's face, in strange contrast to the
stern, set look on his companion's.
Raising his hat to Mrs. Davenant as he approached, Gideon put his hand
on Una's shoulder.
"Go indoors, Una, to your mother," he said quietly.
Una rose, and after a momentary glance at each of their faces, went
inside. Stephen opened and held the door for her, then closed it and
came back to the others.
"Mother," he said, "Mr. Rolfe and I have made our arrangements, and he
agrees with me that it would be wiser, now that the news is broken to
Miss Rolfe, for her to accompany you back to town this afternoon."
Mrs. Davenant nodded, and glanced timidly at Gideon's stern face.
"We have won Mrs. Rolfe over to our side, and she is already making the
few preparations necessary for Miss Rolfe's journey."
Gideon Rolfe inclined his head as if to corroborate this, then he said:
"Will you come inside, madam, and partake of some refreshment?"
"I would rather wait here. Mr. Rolfe, I hope you feel that, in trusting
your daughter to my charge, that she will at least have a happy home, if
I can make one for her?"
"That I believe, madam."
"Yes, I have quite convinced Mr. Rolfe that the change will be
beneficial to Miss Rolfe, and that she will be taken every care of. I
suppose you are quite old friends already, eh, mother?"
"I think she is a beautiful girl whom one could not help loving,"
murmured Mrs. Davenant.
Half an hour passed, and then Una and Martha came out. Una was pale to
the lips, the other was red-eyed with weeping, and her tears broke out
afresh when Mrs. Davenant shook hands with her and assured her that her
daughter should be happy.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Martha. "It's what I said would come to pass.
Gideon couldn't expect to keep her shut up here, like a bird in a cage,
forever and a day. It was against reason, but it is so sudden," and her
sobs broke into her speech and stopped her.
Mrs. Davenant's eyes were wet, and she glanced at Stephen, half inclined
to postpone the journey; but Gideon Rolfe had called the carriage to the
door, and the box was already on the seat.
With the same set calm which he had maintained throughout, Gideon took
Una in his arms, held her for a moment and whispering, "Remember,
wherever you are I am watching over you!" put her in the carriage in
which Stephen had already placed his mother.
He, too, had a word to whisper. It was also a reminder.
"Remember, mother, not another word of the past. Her life begins from
today."
Then he looked at his watch, and said aloud:
"You will just have time to catch the train. Good-bye."
With the most dutiful affection, he kissed his mother, then went round,
and, bare-headed, offered his hand to Una.
"Good-bye, Miss Rolfe," he said. "You are now starting on a new life. No
one, not even your father, can more devoutly wish you the truest and
fullest happiness than I do."
Una, half-blinded with her tears, put her hand in his; but almost
instantly drew it away, with something like a shudder. It was cold as
ice.
The next moment the carriage started, and the two men were left alone.
For fully a minute they stood looking at it, till it had been swallowed
up by the shadows of the trees; then Gideon turned, his face white and
working.
"Stephen Davenant," he said, in slow, measured tones, "one word with you
before we part. You have gained your end--be what it may; I say for your
sake, let it be for good; for if it be for evil, you have one to deal
with who will not hold his hand to punish and avenge. Rather than let
her know the heritage of shame which hangs over her, I have let her go.
If you value your safety, guard her, for at your hands I require her
happiness and well being."
Stephen's face paled, but the smile struggled to its accustomed place.
"My dear Mr. Rolfe," he began, but Gideon stopped him with a gesture.
"Enough. I set no value on your word. There is no need for further
speech between us. From this hour our roads lie apart. Take yours, and
leave me mine."
"This is very sad. Well, well; as you say, I have gained my end, but, as
I would rather put it, I have done my duty, and I must bear your
ungrounded suspicions patiently. Good-bye, my dear sir--good-bye."
"I have sworn never to touch the hand of a Davenant in friendship," he
said, grimly. "There lies your path"--and he pointed to the Wermesley
road--"mine is here, for the present."
And with a curt nod, he turned toward the cottage.
With a gentle sigh and shake of the head, Stephen, after lingering for a
moment, as if he hoped that Gideon's heart might be softened, turned and
entered the wood.
Once in the shadow and out of sight, the smile disappeared, and left his
face careworn, restless and anxious.
"Fate favors me," he muttered. "That boor knows--guesses--nothing of the
truth. I never thought to get the girl out of his clutches so easily!
Now she is under my watch and ken--I hold her in my hand. But--but"--he
mused, his lips twitching, his eyes moving restlessly to and fro--"what
shall I do with her? Beautiful--she is lovely! How long will she escape
notice in London? Someone will see her--some hot-headed fool--and fall
in love. She might marry. Ah!"
And he stooped amongst the brakes and ferns, and looked up, with a
sudden, dull-red flush on his pale cheek, a bright glitter in his light
eyes, while a thought ran like lightning through his cunning brain.
"Marry her! Why--why should not I?"
An answer came quickly enough in the remembrance of the pale dark face
of Laura Treherne, the girl to whom he was pledged.
But with a gesture of impatience he swept the obtrusive remembrance
aside.
"Why not?" he muttered. "Then, at one stroke, I should secure myself. By
Heaven--I will! I will!"
So elated was he by the thought that he stopped and leaned against a
tree and took off his hat, allowing the cool breezes to play upon his
white forehead.
"Beautiful, and the real heiress of Hurst Leigh," he muttered. "Why
should I not? By one stroke I should make myself secure, and set that
cursed will at defiance, let it be where it may! I will! I will!" he
repeated, setting his teeth; then, as he put on his hat, he smiled
pitifully and murmured:
"Poor Laura, poor Laura!"