Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir. Garvice Charles

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      CHAPTER IV

      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?”

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