CHAPTER IX
“Come,” he said; “it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night! That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you – and yet that would scarcely be wise – but it is impossible under the circumstances. Come, give me your arm, my dear Laura.”
A little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a stifled sob.
“Come, come, my darling,” he murmured; “don’t look back, look forward. In an hour or two you will be home.”
“Do you think I am afraid?” she asked, and her voice trembled, but not with fear. “No, I am looking back. Oh, Stephen, do you remember when we met first?”
“Yes, yes,” said Stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look about – to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his arm on the night of his uncle’s death would be the ruin of his carefully built-up reputation. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Shall I ever forget? How fortunate you lost your way, Laura, and that you should have come up to me to ask it, and that I should have been going in that direction. And yet the thoughtless speak of chance!”
And he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one in the dark road to be impressed by it.
“Chance,” said the girl, sadly – “an evil or a good chance for me – which? Stephen, I sometimes wish that we had never met – that I had not crossed your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. I went back to the quiet home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and life was changed.”
“Your grandfather has no suspicion?”
“No, he trusts me entirely. If he asks a question when I go to meet you, he is satisfied when I tell him that I am going to a neighbor. Stephen, if I had had a mother, do you think I should have deceived her also?”
“Deceived? Deceived is too harsh a word, my dear Laura. We have been obliged, for various reasons, to use some reserve – let us say candidly, to conceal our engagement. You have not mentioned my name to anyone?” he broke off.
“To no one,” she answered.
“Such concealment was necessary. My uncle was a man of rough and hasty temper, ill-judging and merciless.”
“But,” she said, with a sudden eagerness, and a slight shudder, “he – he is dead now, Stephen. There is no need for further concealment.”
“Softly, softly, dear Laura. We must be patient – must keep our little secret a little while longer. I can trust my darling to confide in me – yes, yes, I know that – ”
“Stephen, to-night for the first time – why, I know not – I have doubted – no, not doubted, for I have fought hard against the suspicion that I was wrong to trust you.”
“My dearest!” he murmured reproachfully.
“You were wrong to leave me for so long without a word – you put my love to too severe a test. I – I cannot say whether it has stood it or not. To-night I am full of doubt. Stephen – look at me!”
He turned his face and looked down. He had not far to look, for she was tall, and in the moment of excitement had drawn herself to her full height. The moon, sailing from amongst the clouds, shone on her upturned face; her lips were set, and the dark eyes gleamed from the white face.
“Look at me, Stephen. If – I say if – there is the faintest idea of treachery lurking in your mind – ”
“My dearest – ”
“Cast it out! Here, to-night, I warn you to cast it out! Such love as mine is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways, for love – or hate! Stephen, I have loved, I have trusted you – for mine, for your own sake, be true to me!”
He was more impressed than alarmed. This side of her character had been presented to him to-night for the first time. Hitherto the beautiful girl had been all smiles and humble devotion. Was she bewitched, or had he been mistaken in her. Perhaps it was the moon, but suddenly his face looked paler than ever, and the white eyelids drooped until they hid the shifting eyes, as he put his arm around her.
“My dearest! What can you mean? Deceive you! Treachery! Can you deem me —me– capable of such things. My dearest, you are overtired! And your jacket has become unbuttoned. Listen, that is the railway bell. Laura, you will not leave me with such words on your lips?”
“Forgive me, Stephen.”
“I have done so already, dearest, and now we must part! It is very hard – but – I cannot even go with you to the platform. Someone might see us. It is for your sake, darling.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, with a sigh. “Good-bye – you will write or come to me – when?”
“Soon, in a day or two,” he said. “Do not be impatient. There is much to be done; my poor uncle’s funeral, you know. Good-bye. See! I will stay here and watch the train off. Good-bye, dear, dear Laura!”
She put her arm round him and returned his kiss, and glided away, but at the turn of the road leading to the station she turned and, holding up her hand, sent a word back to him.
It was:
“Remember!”
Stephen waited until the train puffed out of the station, and not until it had flashed some distance did the set smile leave his face.
Then, with a rather puzzled and uneasy expression, he turned and walked swiftly back to the house.
His brain was in a whirl, the sudden appearance of the young girl coming on the top of the other causes of excitement bewildered him, and he felt that he had need of all his accustomed coolness. The sudden peril and danger of this accursed will demanded all his attention, and yet the thought of the girl would force itself upon him. He had met her, as she had said, in the streets, and had commenced an acquaintance which had resulted in an engagement. Alone and unprotected, save for an old grandfather, and innocent of the world, Laura Treherne had been, as it were, fascinated by the smooth, soft-spoken Stephen, from whose ready tongue vows of love and devotion rolled as easily as the scales from a serpent in spring-time. And he, for his part, was smitten by the dark eyes and quick, impulsive way of the warm-hearted girl.
But there had come upon him of late a suspicion that in binding himself to marry her he had committed a false step; to-night the suspicion grew into something like certainty.
To tell the truth, she had almost frightened him. Hitherto the dark eyes had ever turned on his with softened gaze of love and admiration; to-night, for the first time, the hot, passionate nature had revealed itself.
The deep-toned “Remember!” which came floating down the lane as she disappeared rang unpleasantly in his ears. Had he been a true-hearted man the girl’s spirit would have made her more precious in his eyes; but, coward-like, he felt that hers was a stronger nature than his, and he began to fear.
“Yes,” he muttered, as he unlocked the library window, and sank into a chair. “It was a weak stroke, a weak stroke! But I can’t think of what is to be done now, not now!”
No, for to-night all his attention must be concentrated on the will.
Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. This time nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once – at once. With feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and fell back white as death.
The pocket was empty. The will was not there.
“I – I am a fool!” he muttered, with a smile. “I put it in the other coat,” and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him that it was not there either.
Wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went on his knees and felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself, shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room could the thing be hidden.
Then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips. Let him think – think – think! Where could it be? He had not dropped it on the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study buttoning up his overcoat. If not in the house, where then?
Throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window, and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which he had taken across the lawn – and all to no purpose.
“It is lying in the road,” he muttered, the sweat dropping from his face. “Heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and ruin me. I must – I will find it! Brandy – I must have some brandy – this – this is maddening me!”
And indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head. Suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the tall figure of a man standing right in his path. With a wolfish cry of mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him.
“You – you thief!” he cried, hoarsely; “give it to me – give it me!”
The man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and, holding him down writhing, struck a match.
Gasping and foaming, Stephen looked up and saw that it was Jack Newcombe – Jack Newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise and suspicion.
“Well,” he said contemptuously, “so it’s you! Are you out of your mind?” and he flung the match away and allowed Stephen to rise.
Trembling and struggling for composure, Stephen brushed the dust from his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for Jack’s blow had been straight from the shoulder.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” said Jack, sternly. “I asked you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and behaving like a lunatic?”
Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile struggled to his face.
“My dear Jack, how you startled me!” he gasped. “I was never so frightened in my – my life!”
“So it appeared,” said Jack, with strong disgust in his voice. “Pick up the candle – there it is.”
And he pointed with his foot. But Stephen was by no means anxious for a light.
“Never mind the candle,” he said. “You are quite right – I must have seemed out of my mind. I – I am very much upset, my dear Jack.”
“Are you hurt?” inquired Jack, but with no great show of concern.
“No, no!” gasped Stephen; “don’t distress yourself, my dear Jack – don’t, I beg of you. It was my fault, entirely. The – the fact is that I – ”
He paused, for Jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that the light fell upon Stephen’s face.
“Now,” he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see Stephen’s face while he made his explanation.
“The fact is,” Stephen began again, “I have had the misfortune to lose a pocketbook – no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper which I fancied I had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped out. It – it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had sent me – of no value, utterly valueless – oh, quite – ”
“So I should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man you met of stealing it,” said Jack, with quiet scorn.
Stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under his eyelids.
“Pray forgive me, my dear Jack,” he said, pressing his hand to his brow, and sighing. “If you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. I am much shaken to-night, my dear Jack – very much shaken.”
And indeed he was, for the Savage’s fist was by no means a soft one.
Jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward him.
“You had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you look for the paper,” he said. “Good-night.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence,” said Stephen, eagerly. “Don’t go – stop a moment, my dear Jack. I – I will walk with you as far as the inn.”
“No, thanks,” said Jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in Stephen’s eyes, he added: “Oh, I see! you are afraid I should pick it up in the road. You had better come.”
Stephen smiled, and laid his hand on Jack’s arm.
“You – you are not playing a joke with me, my dear Jack? You haven’t got the – document in your pocket all the time?”
“If I said that I hadn’t you wouldn’t believe me, you know,” he replied. “There, take your hand off my coat!”
“Stop! stop!” exclaimed Stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh. “Don’t go, my dear Jack; stop at the house to-night. I should feel very much obliged, indeed, if you would. I am so upset to-night that I – I want company. Let me beg of you to stop.”
And in his dread lest Jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his arm.
Jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that Stephen was in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn.
“Go indoors,” he said sternly, “and leave me alone. I’d rather not sleep under the same roof with you. As for your lost paper, whatever it may be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get into further trouble,” and he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same time. But all to no purpose; Jack reached and entered the inn without stopping, and neither going nor returning could Stephen see anything of the missing will.
Two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain.
Had Jack Newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it?
After a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him calmer. His acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had come to a plan of action.
It was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most reasonable one he could think of.
There in Warden Forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. I am sorry to say that he cursed her as he thought of her. Where was the will? Whoever had got it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make them, would go to the real heiress.
Stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away.
But where?
He did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his eyes, or in the charge – the custody, really – of a trustworthy friend.
The only really trustworthy friend whom Stephen knew was his mother.
“Yes, that is it,” he muttered. “Mother shall take this girl as – as – a companion. Poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will frighten her into a nervous fit. Poor mother!” And he smiled with a feeble, malicious pleasure.
There are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who are devoted to them.
“Dear mother,” he wrote, “I have to send you the sad news of my uncle’s death. Need I say that I am utterly overwhelmed in grief. I have indeed lost a friend!” (“The malicious, mean old wolf,” he muttered, in parenthesis.) “How good he was to me! But, mother, even in the midst of our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. I have a little duty to perform, in which I require your aid. I fear it will necessitate your making a journey to Wermesley station on this line. If you will come down by the 10:20 on Wednesday, I will meet you at Wermesley station. Do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth.
“In great affliction,“Your loving son,“Stephen Davenant.”
It was a beautiful letter, and clearly proved that Stephen was not only a bad man, but an extremely clever and dangerous one – for he could retain command over himself even in such moments as these.
CHAPTER X
Let us hasten from the gloomy atmosphere of Hurst Leigh, and, leaving the presence of the thwarted old man lying upstairs, and the no less thwarted young man writhing in torturing dread in the darkened library, return to Warden Forest.
With fleet feet Una fled from the lake, the voices of the woodman and Jack Newcombe ringing in her ears, a thousand tumultuous emotions surging wildly in her heart.
Until the preceding night Gideon Rolfe had seemed the calmest and most placable of fathers; nothing had occurred to ruffle his almost studied impassability. New and strange experiences seemed to crowd upon her so suddenly that she scarcely accepted them as real. Had she been dreaming, and would she wake presently to find the handsome young stranger, with his deep musical voice, and his dark, eloquent eyes, the phantom of a vision?
As she came in sight of the cottage she turned aside and, plunging into the depths of the wood, sank down upon a bank of moss and strove to recall every word, every look, every slight incident, which had passed since the arrival of the stranger; and, as she did so, she seemed vaguely conscious that a change, indefinite yet undeniable, had fallen upon her life. The very trees, the atmosphere itself, seemed changed, and in place of that perfect, unbroken calm which had hitherto enwrapped her life, a spirit of unrest, of vague longing, took possession of her.
A meteor had crossed the calm, serene sky of her existence, vanishing as quickly as it had come, and creating a strange, aching void.
Still it was not at all painful, this novel feeling of wistfulness and unrest; a faint echo of some mysterious delight rang in the inner chambers of her young soul, the newly awakened heart stirred within her like an imprisoned bird, and turned to the new light which had dawned upon her. That it was the celestial light of love she was completely ignorant. She only knew and felt, with all the power of mind and soul, that a spirit had fallen upon her life, that she had, half-blinded, left the road of gray, unbroken calm, never to return – never to return.
Step by step she recalled all that had passed, and sat revolving the strange scene with ever-increasing wonder.
What did it mean? Why should her father be angry with the youth? Why should he accuse and insult him, and drive her away as if from the presence of some wild animal who was seeking to devour her?
Wild animal! A smile, sad and wistful, flitted over her beautiful face as she called up the handsome face and graceful form of the youth. Was it possible that one so base as her father declared him to be could look as this youth had looked, speak as he had spoken? With a faint, tremulous, yet unconscious blush, she remembered how graceful he looked lying at her feet, his lips half parted in a smile, his brow frank and open as a child’s.
And yet he himself had said, half sadly, that he was wild and wicked. What could it mean?
Innocent as a nun, ignorant of all that belonged to the real living world, she sat vainly striving to solve this, the first enigma of her inner life.
Once, as she sat thinking and pondering, her eyes cast down, her brows knit, her fingers strayed to her right arm with a gentle, almost caressing touch. It was the arm upon which Jack’s hand had rested: even now she seemed to feel the pressure of the strong fingers just as she heard the ring of his deep, musical voice, and could feel the gaze of his dark, flashing eyes; they had looked fierce and savage when she had first seen them at the open door of the cottage last night, but this morning they had worn a different expression – a tender, half-pitying, and wholly gentle expression, which softened them. It was thus she liked to remember them – thus she would remember them if she never saw them again.
And as this thought flashed across her mind a wistful sadness fell upon her, and a vague pain came into her heart. Should she never see him again? Never! She looked round mournfully, and lo! the whole world seemed changed; the sun was still shining, the trees were still crowned in all their glory of summer leafage, but it all looked gray and dark to her; all the beauty and glory which she had learned to love had gone – vanished at the mere thought that she should never see him again.
Slowly she rose, and with downcast eyes moved toward the cottage. She passed in at the open door and looked round the room – that, too, seemed altered, something was missing; half-consciously she wandered round, touching with the same half-caressing gesture the chair on which Jack Newcombe had sat, opened the book at the page which she was reading while he was eating his supper; a spell seemed to have fallen upon her, and it was with a start like one awakening from a dream that she turned as a shadow fell across the room and Gideon Rolfe entered.
She turned and looked at him questioningly, curiously, but without fear. The cry of alarm when he had broken in upon them by the lake had been on Jack’s account, not her own; never since she could remember had Gideon Rolfe spoken harshly to her, looked angrily; without a particle of fear, rather with a vague wonder, she looked and waited for him to speak.
The old man’s face wore a strange expression; all traces of the fierce passion which had convulsed it a short time ago had passed away, and in its place was a stern gravity which was almost sad in its grim intensity.
Setting his ax aside, he paced the room for a minute in silence, his brows knit, his hands clasped behind his back.
Una glided to the window and looked out into the wood, her head leaning on her arm.
“Una,” he said, suddenly, his voice troubled and grave, but not unkind.
She started, and looked around at him; her spirit had fled back to the lake again, and she had almost forgotten that he was in the room.
“Una, you must not wander in the forest alone again.”
“No! Why not?”
He hesitated a moment, as if he did not know how to answer her; then he said, with a frown:
“Because I do not wish it – because the man you saw here last night, the man you were with by the lake, may come again” – a faint light of gladness shone in her eyes, and he saw it, and frowned sternly as he went on – “and I do not wish you to meet him.”
She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly clasped in front of her; then she looked up.
“Father, tell me why you spoke so angrily to him – why do you not want him to come to Warden again?”
“I spoke as he deserved,” he answered; “and I would rather that Warden should be filled with wild beasts than that he should cross your path again.”
Her face paled slightly, and her eyes opened with wonder and pain.
“Is he so very bad and wicked?” she asked, almost inaudibly.
Gideon Rolfe strode to and fro for a moment before he answered. How should he answer her? – how warn and caution her without destroying the innocence which, like the sensitive plant, withers at a touch?
“Is it not sufficient that I wish it, Una?” he said. “Why are you not satisfied? Wicked! Yes, he’s wicked; all men are wicked, and he’s the most wicked and base!”
“You know him, father?” she asked. “You would not say so if you did not. I am sorry he is so bad.”
“Look at me, Una,” he said.
She turned, her eyes downcast and hidden, her lips trembling for a moment.
“Yes, father.”
“Una,” he said, “what is the meaning of this? Why are you changed – why do you shrink from me?”
She looked up with a curious mixture of innocent pride and dignity.
“I don’t shrink from you, father,” she said in a low voice.
Gideon’s hand dropped from her shoulder, and the frown gave place to a sad expression. “Has the time I looked forward to with fear and dread come at last?” he murmured, inaudibly, and he paced to and fro again, as if endeavoring to arrive at some decision.
Una watched him with dreamy, questioning eyes, in which shone a tender mournfulness. Why were all men wicked? Why was this one man, with the handsome face and the musical voice, more wicked than the rest? What was it that her father knew that should make him hate the youth so? These were the questions that haunted her as she waited silent and motionless.
At last, with a wave of the hand, as if he were putting some decision on one side, Gideon Rolfe turned to her and motioned her to the window-seat. “Una,” he said, “last night you were wondering why your lot should be different from that of other girls; you were wondering why I have kept you here in Warden, and out of the world. It is so, is it not?”
She did not answer in words, but her eyes said “yes,” plainly.
Gideon Rolfe sighed, and passed his hand over his brow; it was a hand hardened by toil, but it was not the hand of a peasant, any more than was his tone or his words those of one.
“Una, I have foreseen this question; I have been expecting it, and I had resolved that when it came I would answer it. But,” and his lips twitched, “I cannot do it – I cannot,” and his brow contracted as if he were suffering some great, mental anguish. “For my sake, do not press me. In time to come, sooner or later, you must know the secret of your life, you must learn why and wherefore your whole life has been spent in seclusion; you have guessed that there is some mystery, some story – there is. It must remain a mystery still. For your own sake I dare not draw aside the veil which conceals; for your own sake my lips are for the present sealed. Child, can you tell me that, secluded and lonely as your life has been, it has been an unhappy one?”
“Father!” she murmured, and her eyes filled slowly.
“God forgive me if it has been!” he said, sadly. “I have striven to make it a happy one.”
Silently she rose and laid her hand upon his arm and put up her lips to kiss him, but with a gentle gesture he put her away from him.
“Una, listen to me. All my life I have had but one aim, one purpose, your happiness and welfare. For your sake I left the world and an honored name – ” he stopped suddenly, warned by the gentle wonder of her gaze, and with a faint color in his face hurried on – “for your sake, and yours only. Do you think that it is by choice that I have kept you hidden from the world? No, but of necessity. Una, between the world and you yawns a wide gulf. On this side are peace, and innocence, and happiness; on the other,” and his voice grew grave and solemn, “lie misery and – shame.” White and wondering, she gazed at him, and the innocent wonder in the beautiful face recalled him to himself. “Enough! You can trust me, Una; it is no idle, meaningless warning. Remember what I have said, when your thoughts turn to the world beyond the forest, when you grow weary and impatient with the quiet life which, though it may seem sad and weary, is the only one you can ever know without passing that gulf of which I have spoken.”
“And now I want you to give me a promise, Una.”
“A promise, father?” she echoed, in a low voice.
“Yes; I want you to promise me that if this – this young man should come, as he has threatened to do – that if he should come to you, and speak to you, you will not listen, will not speak to him.”
An impatient frown knitted Gideon Rolfe’s brow.
“Is this so much to ask you?” he said, in a low voice. “Is it so grave a thing to demand of you that you should avoid a man whom you have seen but twice in your life, one whom you know to be wicked and worthless?”
“Girl,” he exclaimed, in low, harsh accents, “has the curse fallen upon you – already? Has he bewitched you? Speak? Why do you not speak? Has all the careful guarding of years been set at naught and rendered of no avail by the mere sight of one of his race, by a few idle words spoken by one of his hateful kin?”
He grasped her shoulder; instantly, with a revulsion of feeling, he withdrew his hand, and bent his head with a gesture almost of humility.
“Una, forgive me. You see how this unmans me – can you not understand how great must be the danger from which I wish to save you? Promise me what I ask you, for your own sake – ay, and for his.”
“For his?” she murmured.
“Yes, for his. Let him but attempt to cross your path again, and I will not hold my hand. I held it once – would to Heaven I had not! I say, for his sake, promise that you will hold no speech with him!”
“Father, what has he done to make you hate him so?” she asked.
“I cannot, I will not tell you more than this: His race has ruined my life and yours – ruined it beyond all reparation here and hereafter. No more. I wait for your promise.”
“I promise,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “I can trust you, child.”
“Yes, you can trust me,” she said, in a low voice; then with slow, listless steps she crossed the room and stole up-stairs.