It was Una's first night in London. Weary as she was she could not find
sleep; the dull roar of the great city--which those who are used to take
no heed of--rang in her ears and kept her awake. Her brain was busy,
too; and even as she closed her eyes the endless questions, which the
strange events of the day had given birth to, pursued and tormented her.
She could scarcely realize that she had left Warden Forest, that she was
here in London, the place of her most ardent dreams! And then how
singular, how mysterious was that coincidence which had brought it
about.
Until Jack Newcombe, the young stranger, had come to Warden, she had
never heard the name of Davenant, and now she was actually living under
the roof of Stephen Davenant's mother.
With half-closed eyes she recalled all that Jack had said about Stephen
Davenant, and it did not require much effort to recall anything Jack had
said, for every word was graven on her heart, and it had seemed to her
as if he had spoken disparagingly of this Stephen, and had implied that
he was not as good as he was supposed to be.
She herself, as she lay, her beautiful head pillowed on her round white
arm, was conscious of a strange feeling which had taken possession of
her in Stephen's presence--not of dislike, but something of doubt,
something also of a vague fear.
And yet he could not but be good and generous, for was it not to him
that she owed all that had happened to her? And did not his mother, the
timid, gentle woman who had already won Una's heart, speak of him as
great and good?
Alas! and a faint flush stole over her cheek, and a long sigh stole from
her lips--alas! it was that other--Jack Newcombe--who was bad; it was he
whom she was to avoid.
And so, notwithstanding that she was in the very city of her dreams, she
fell asleep with a vague sadness in her heart.
Quiet as Walmington Square is, the noise of the market carts passing to
Covent Garden awoke her soon after dawn.
She looked round with a stare of amazement as her eyes fell upon the
dainty room, with its costly furniture and rich hangings, and listened
for a moment, as if expecting to hear the rustle of the great oaks which
surrounded the cottage at Warden; then she remembered the change that
had befallen her, and springing out of bed, ran to the window.
All the square was asleep; the blinds were closely drawn in all the
houses, and only the birds on the trees seemed thoroughly awake.
She could hear the market carts rumbling in the great thoroughfare
beyond, and as she had gone asleep with the rattle of wheels in her
ears, she asked herself, wonderingly:
"Does London never rest?"
She remembered that Mrs. Davenant had showed her a bathroom
communicating by a door from her own room, and then--with her cold water
was as necessary as air--went and had her bath; then she dressed
herself, and, opening her door, went downstairs.
To her amazement, all the house seemed wrapped in slumber.
At home, at the cottage at Warden, Gideon and all of them were up with
the lark, and life began with the morning sun.
She stole into the drawing-room, and, unfastening the shutters with some
little difficulty, opened the window and leaned out to breathe the fresh
air; but it seemed as if the air was asleep, too, or, in its journey
from the country, had lost itself in the maze of houses, and failed to
reach Walmington Square.
Una looked out dreamily, wondering who and what sort of people lived in
the huge blocks of dwellings that surrounded her, and wondered, faintly,
whether she could be looking at the spot where Jack Newcombe dwelt.
She could not guess that Jack had not come back from Hurst Leigh yet,
but was waiting for the squire's funeral.
Instinctively she turned to the table and took up the album and went
back to the window with the book open at the page which contained Jack's
portrait.
How beautiful the face was! And yet, she thought, with a warm glow in
her eyes, that she had seen it look still more beautiful, as she had
looked down at it the morning he lay sleeping at her feet.
Presently a servant came into the room, and startled at the sight of the
white figure by the window, uttered an exclamation.
"Good-morning," said Una.
Closing the book she came forward and held up her face to be kissed, as
she had always done to Mrs. Rolfe.
The maid--a pretty young girl, fresh from Devonshire--stared at her and
looked half-frightened, while a crimson flush of embarrassment came into
her face.
"Good-morning, miss," she said, nervously, and hastily turned and fled.
Una looked after her a moment, and pondered; and she would have made a
superb study for a painter at that moment.
How had she frightened the pretty girl, and why had she declined to kiss
her?
Una could not understand it. Hitherto she had lived only with equals,
and could not be expected to guess that it was a breach of the
proprieties to kiss this pretty, daintily-dressed little hand-maiden.
As for Mary, the maid, she flew into the kitchen and sank into a chair,
gasped at the cook, speechless for a moment.
"What do you think, cook?" she exclaimed, "that young lady--Una, as the
mistress calls her--is up already. I found her in the drawing-room,
and--and she said 'Good-morning,' and came up to me as if she--she
wanted me to kiss her."
"You must be out of your mind, Mary," said the cook, sternly.
But Mary stuck to her assertion, and at last it was decided that Una was
either out of _her_ mind, or that she was no lady.
"And that I am sure she is," exclaimed Mary, and the other servants
assented heartily. "If there ever was a true lady, this one is, whoever
or whatever she may be. Perhaps she's just come from boarding-school."
But the cook scoffed at the idea.
"Boarding-school!" she exclaimed incredulously. "Do you think they don't
know the difference between mistress and servants there? It's the first
thing that is taught them."
Meanwhile, quite unconscious of the discussion which her ingenuous
conduct had caused, Una wandered about the room, examining, with
unstinted curiosity, the exquisite china and valuable paintings, the
Collard and Collard grand piano, and the handsomely-bound books.
An hour or two passed in this way; then she heard a bell ring and Mary
entered, and, eying her shyly, said:
"Mistress says will you be kind enough to step up to her room, miss."
Una went upstairs and knocked at Mrs. Davenant's door, and in answer to
the "come in," entered, and found Mrs. Davenant in the hands of her maid
Jane.
Una crossed the room with her swift, light step, and kissed the face
turned up to her with a timid, questioning smile on it.
"My child," exclaimed Mrs. Davenant, "have you been up all night? I sent
Jane to your room to help you dress."
Una started, and a smile broke over her face.
"To help me dress?" she repeated, Jane regarding her with wide open
eyes the while. "Why should she do that? I have always dressed myself
ever since I can remember."
Mrs. Davenant flushed nervously.
"I--meant to brush your hair and tie your ribbons--as she does mine; but
it does not matter if you would rather not have her."
"I should not like to trouble her," said Una.
"And how long have you been up, my dear?"
"Since five," said Una, quietly.
Mrs. Davenant stared aghast, and Jane nearly dropped the hair-brush.
"Since five! My dear child! Ah! I see, you--you have been used to rising
early. I am afraid you will soon lose that good habit. We Londoners
don't rise with the lark."
"I don't think there are any larks here," remarked Una, gravely; "and at
this time of the year the lark begins to sing at four. I have often
watched him rise from his nest in the grass."
"My poor child, you will miss the country so much."
"No," said Una; "I am so anxious to see the world, you know."
"Well, we will begin today."
"Una, you know I wish you to be quite--to be very happy with me.
And--and I hope if there is anything that you want you will ask for it
without hesitation."
"Anything I want?" repeated Una, with a smile. "Is it possible that any
one could want anything more than is here? There seems to be everything.
I was thinking, as you spoke, of what my father would say if he saw this
table, with all the things to eat, and the silver and glass."
"My dear child, this is nothing. I live very simply. If you saw, as you
will see, some of the homes of the wealthy, some of the homes of the
aristocracy, you would discover that what you deem luxury is merely
comfort."
"I was never uncomfortable at the cottage," said Una, gravely.
"That is because you were unused to anything better, and--and--you must
not speak of the past life too much, Una. I mean to strangers. Strangers
are so curious, and--and my son, Stephen, does not wish everyone to know
where you come from and how you lived."
"Does he not? Well, I will not speak of it; but I do not
understand--quite----"
"Neither do I. I am afraid I do not always understand Stephen; but--but
I always do as he tells me."
And she looked up with the anxious, questioning expression which Una
noticed was always present when Stephen Davenant was mentioned. Was Mrs.
Davenant afraid of her son?
Una mused for a minute in silence; then she looked up and said:
"I ought to do what Mr. Stephen wishes. Do you know what he wants me to
do?"
"You are to be companion to me, my dear."
"I am very fond of fairy tales," she said; "but I have never read one
more strange and beautiful than this."
"Let me show you how to put on your gloves, dear," she said. "Yes, you
have got a small hand, and a beautifully-shaped one, too. Strange, small
hands are a sure sign of high birth."
"Perhaps I am a princess in disguise. No! I am a woodman's daughter in
the disguise of a princess, that is it."
Mrs. Davenant looked at her curiously.
"You are not ashamed of being a woodman's daughter, Una," she said; "but
yet--perhaps the time will come when you will----"
Una's opened-eyed surprise stopped her.
"Ashamed?" she echoed, with mild astonishment. "Why?"
"I--I don't know. Never mind, my dear," said Mrs. Davenant, as the
brougham stopped.
"You are a strange child, and--and you say such strange things so
naturally that I am puzzled to know how to speak to you."