Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir

CHAPTER I

One summer’s evening a young man was tramping through the Forest of Warden. “Forest of Warden” sounds strange, old-fashioned, almost improbable; but, thank Heaven, there yet remain, in over-crowded England, some spots, few and far between though they may be, still untouched by the greedy fingers of the destroyers, whom men call Progress and Civilization.

To this grand old forest, for instance, whose dim shades echo the soft pit-pat of the deer and the coo of the wood-pigeon, comes not the tourist, with hideous knapsack and suit of startling check; no panting locomotive belches out its cloud of coal smoke to dim the brightness of the sky and choke the elms and oaks which reared their stately heads before their fell enemy, the steam engine, was dreamt of.

So remote and unfrequented is the forest that there is scarcely a road from end to end of its umbrageous length, for the trail made by the rough carts of the woodmen and charcoal burners could scarcely be dignified by the title of thoroughfare, and a few footpaths that wind about the glades are so faint and seldom used as to be scarcely distinguished from the undergrowth of ferny moss around.

Along one of the footpaths the young man tramped, occasionally stopping for a moment to look up at the sky which shone redly through the openings of the trees or to watch some frightened hare scamper across the glade.

Every now and then a herd of deer would flit through the undergrowth, turning toward him distended eyes of alarm and curiosity, for of the two kinds of men with whom they were acquainted – charcoal burners and woodmen – he was neither; nor did he belong to the tribe of tourists, for he carried no knapsack, and instead of the inevitable check and knickerbockers, was clad in a loose Cheviot suit, which, though well worn, bore about it the unmistakable stamp of Saville Row.

That he was young and light-hearted was evident from the fact that he broke out into an occasional snatch of an air from the last new popular opera bouffe, notwithstanding that the evening was closing in and he had most completely and emphatically lost his way.

Now, to lose your way in a forest reads rather romantic and entertaining than otherwise, but like shipwreck, or falling into the hands of Greek banditti, it is a much pleasanter thing on paper than in reality.

A bed of moss, though very charming in the daytime, is not nearly so comfortable as a spring mattress, and is sure to be damp, and primeval oaks, majestic and beautiful as they are, do not keep out the draught. The worst room in the worst inn is preferable to a night’s lodging in the grandest of forests.

But, though he had never been in the Warden Forest before, the young man knew it would be midsummer madness to hope for an inn and was wandering along on the chance of coming across some woodman’s hut, or by meeting a stray human being of whom he could inquire his way.

He was tired – he had been walking since morning, and he was hungry and athirst, but he tramped on, and smoked and sang as carelessly as if he were strolling down the shady side of Pall Mall.

Slowly the sun set, and the glades, which had been dusky an hour ago, grew dark. The faint footpath grew still more indistinct, the undergrowth denser and more difficult for persons walking.

The pedestrian fought on for some time, but at last, as he stumbled over one of the gnarled roots which a grand chestnut had thrust up through the ground, he stopped and, looking round, shook his head.

“A regular babe in the wood, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “I shall have to make a night of it, I expect. Wonder whether the robins will be good enough to cover me over in the proper nursery-book style? Is it any good halloing, I wonder? I tried that an hour ago, much to the disgust of the live animals; and I don’t think I can kick up a row at this time of night. Let’s see how the ’bacca goes. Hem! about three – perhaps four pipes. I wish I had something to eat and drink; what a fool I was to leave that piece of steak at breakfast. Steak! I mustn’t think of it – that way madness lies. Well, this looks about as sheltered a spot as I could find – I’ll turn in. I wonder if anybody has, ever since the world began, hit upon a short cut? I never have, and hang me if I’ll try it again. By George! the grass is wet already. Such a likely place for snakes – find my pocket full when I wake, no doubt.”

Then, with a laugh, he dropped down amongst the long brake; but the idea of going to bed in a forest, at the early hour of nine, was too much for him, and instead of composing himself to rheumatic slumber, he began to sing:

Scarcely had he finished the line when there came through the darkness, as if in response, a short, sharp bark of a dog.

The wanderer leapt to his feet as if something had bitten him, and after listening intently for a moment, exclaimed:

“Another chance, by Jove!” and sent up a shout that, ringing through the stillness, echoed from tree to tree, and at last called forth the answering bark from the distant dog.

Knocking out his pipe as he ran, he made his way as best he could toward the sound, shouting occasionally and listening warily to the dog’s response.

At last, after many a stumble, he found himself in a narrow glade, at the end of which, faintly defined against the patch of sky, stood the figure of a man.

“Saved, by George!” exclaimed the youth, with mock melodramatic emphasis.

“Halloa! Hi! Wait a moment there, will you?” he shouted.

The figure stopped and turned its head, then, after what seemed a moment’s hesitation, brought back the dog, which was running toward the belated youth, and suddenly disappeared.

The wanderer pulled up and stared about the glade with an astonishment which immediately gave place to wrath.

“Confound his impudence!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “I’ll swear he saw me! What on earth did he mean by going off like that? Did the fool think I was a ghost? I’ll show him I’m a ghost that carries a big stick if I come up with him. Confound him, where – ” Then, as a sudden thought struck him, he set off running down the glade, barking like a dog.

No live, real dog could withstand such an invitation. The dog ahead set up an angry echo, through which the youth could hear the man’s angry attempt to silence the animal, and guided by the two voices, the wanderer struck into a footpath, and running at a good pace, came suddenly into a small clearing, in which stood a small wooden hut, before the door of which man and dog were standing as if on guard.

For a moment the two men stood and regarded each other in silence, the youth hot and angry, the man calm and grim.

Each, in his way, was a fine specimen of his class; the man, with his weather-beaten face and his thick-set limbs, clad in woodman’s garb; the youth, with his frankly handsome countenance and patrician air.

“What the deuce do you mean by leaving a man in the lurch like this?” demanded the young man, angrily. “Did you take me for a ghost?”

The woodman, half leaning on his long-handled axe, regarded him grimly.

“No. I don’t come at every man’s beck and call, young sir. What’s your will with me?”

“Why didn’t you stop when I called to you just now?” retorted the youth, ignoring the question.

“Because it didn’t suit me,” said the man, not insolently, but with simple, straightforward candor. “You are answered, young sir; now, what do you want?”

The young man looked at him curiously, conquering his anger.

“Well, I’ve lost my way,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“Where are you going?” was the quiet response.

“To Arkdale.”

The woodman raised his eyes, and looked at him for a moment.

“Arkdale? Yes, you are out of the way. Arkdale lies to the west. Follow me, young sir, and I’ll show you the road.”

“Stop a moment,” said the other; “though you declined to wait for me just now, you would not refuse to give me a glass of water, I suppose.”

The man turned, he had already strode forward, and laid his hand on the latch of the cottage door.

The young man was following as a matter of course; but the woodman, with his hand still on the latch, pointed to a wooden seat under the window.

“Take your seat there, sir,” he said, with grim determination.

The other stared, and the hot blood rose to his face; but he threw himself on the bench.

“Very well,” he said; “I see you still think me a ghost; you’ll be more easy when you see me drink. Look sharp, my good fellow.”

The woodman, not a whit moved by this taunt, entered the cottage, and the young man heard a bolt shot into its place.

A few moments passed, and then the man came out with a plate and a glass.

“Thanks,” said the young man. “What’s this?”

“Cider – cake,” was the curt answer.

“Oh, thanks,” repeated the other; “jolly good cider, too. Come, you’re not half a bad fellow. Do you know I meant to give you a hiding when I came up to you?”

“Very like,” said the man, calmly. “Will you have any more?”

“Another glass, thanks.”

With his former precaution in the way of bolting and barring, the man entered the cottage and reappeared with a refilled glass.

This the young man drank more leisurely, staring with unconcealed curiosity at his entertainer.

It was a kind of stare that would embarrass six men out of ten, and madden the remaining four; but the woodman bore it with the calm impassiveness of a wooden block, and stood motionless as a statue till the youth set down the glass, then he raised his hand and pointed to the west.

“Yonder lies Arkdale.”

“Oh! How far?”

“Four miles and a half by the near road. Follow me, and I will put you into it.”

“All right, lead on,” said the other; but as he rose he turned, and while refilling his pipe stared at the closely locked cottage.

“Comfortable kind of crib that, my man.”

The woodman nodded curtly.

“You are a woodman?”

Another nod.

“And poacher too, eh? No offense,” he added, coolly. “I only supposed so from the close way in which you keep your place locked up.”

“Suppose what you please,” retorted the woodman, if words so calmly spoken could be called a retort. “Yonder lies your road, you’d best be taking to it.”

“No hurry,” retorted the young man, thrusting his hands in his pockets and smiling at the ill-concealed impatience which struggled through the grave calm on the weather-beaten face. “Well, I’m coming. You’re not half such a bad sort, after all. What have you got inside there that you keep so close, eh? Some of the crown jewels or some of the Queen’s venison? Take my advice, old fellow – if you don’t want people to be curious, don’t show such anxiety to keep ’em out of your crib.”

The man, pacing on ahead, knit his brows as if struck by the idea.

“Curious folk don’t come this way, young sir,” he said, reluctantly.

“So I should think,” retorted the other. “Well, I’m not one of the curious, though you think I am. I don’t care a button what you’ve got there. Will you have a pipe? I’ve got some ’bacca.”

The man shook his head, and they walked on in silence for some minutes, the footpath winding in and out like a dimly-defined serpent. Presently it widened, and the woodman stopped short and pointed down the leafy lane.

“Follow this path,” he said, “until you come to a wood pile; take the path to the left of it, and it will bring you to Arkdale. Good-night, young sir.”

“Here, stop!” said the young man, and he held out his hand with a dollar in it. “Here’s a trifle to drink my health with.”

The woodman looked at the coin, then shook his head slowly; and with another “good-night” turned and tramped off.

Not at all abashed the young man restored the coin to his pocket, laughed, and strode on.

The woodman walked back a few yards, then stopped, and looked after the stalwart figure until it deepened in the gloom, a thoughtful, puzzled expression upon his face, as if he were trying to call up some recollection.

With a shake of his head, denoting failure, he made his way to the cottage, unlocked it and entered.

The door opened into what appeared to be the living room. It was small and plainly furnished, after the manner of a woodman’s hut, and yet, after a moment’s glance, a stranger would have noticed a subtle air of refinement in common with better habitations.

The table and chairs were of plain deal, the walls were of pine, stained and varnished, but there was a good thick carpet on the floor, and on one side of the room hung a bookcase filled with well-bound volumes.

Beside the table, on which was spread the supper, stood a chair, more luxurious than its fellows, and covered with a pretty chintz. The knife and fork laid opposite this chair was of a better quality than the others on the table; and beside the knife and fork lay a white napkin and a daintily engraved glass; the other drinking vessels on the table were of common delf. As the woodman entered, a woman, who was kneeling at a fire in an adjoining room, looked round through the doorway.

“Is’t you, Gideon?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Where is Una?”

“Una? Isn’t she with you? I heard voices. Who was it?”

“Where is Una?” he said, ignoring her question.

“In the clearing, I suppose,” said the woman. “She went out a few minutes ago. I thought she went to meet you?”

The man opened the door and called the dog, who had been wandering round the room in an uneasy fashion.

“Go, Dick,” he said. “Go fetch her!”

Then he came and stood by the fire thoughtfully.

“No,” he said, “it was not Una. I wish she wouldn’t leave the cot after dusk.”

“Why not? What’s the fear? What has happened? Who was that I heard with you?”

“A stranger,” he said, “a young gentleman lost his way. How long has she been gone?”

“Not ten minutes. A young gentleman. Think of that! How came he here?”

“Lost his way. He followed me through the Chase. He has gone on to Arkdale.”

“Lost his way,” repeated the woman. “Poor fellow! Five miles it is to Arkdale! A gentleman! A gentleman, did thee say?”

“Ay,” responded the man, frowning. “An outspoken one, too; I heard him at the bottom of the Chase and thought to give him the slip, but he was cunning, he teased the dog and ran us down. I had hard work to get rid of him; he looked sore tired. No matter, he’s gone,” and he gave a sigh of relief. “’Tis the first stranger that has come upon us since she came.”

“Lost his way,” murmured the woman, as she lifted a saucepan from the fire, “and a gentleman. It is a rare sight in Warden Forest. Why, Gideon, what has happened to thee?” and saucepan in hand, she stared at her husband’s cloudy brow.

“Tut – nothing!” he answered, thrusting a projecting log into the fire with his foot. “The young man’s face seemed – as I thought – ’twas but a passing fancy – but I thought it was familiar. It was the voice more than the face. And a bold face it was. I wish,” he broke off, “that the lass would come in. From to-night I will have no more wanderings after sunset! One stranger follows another, and it is not safe for her to be out so late – ”

“Hush!” interrupted the woman, holding up a forefinger. “Here she comes.”

“Not a word!” said Gideon, warningly.

As he spoke the door opened, the dog bounded in with a short yelp of satisfaction, and close behind him, framed like a picture in the dark doorway, stood a young girl.

CHAPTER II

She had evidently run some distance, for she stood panting and breathless, the color coming and going on her face, which shone out of the hood which half covered her head.

She was dressed in a plain cotton dress which a woodman’s daughter might wear, and which was short enough in the skirt to reveal a shapely foot, and scant enough in the sleeves to show a white, shapely arm.

But no one would have wasted time upon either arm or foot after a glance at her face.

To write it down simply and curtly, it was a beautiful face; but such a description is far too meager and insufficient. It requires an artist, a Rembrandt or a Gainsborough, to describe it, no pen-and-ink work can do it. Beautiful faces can be seen by the score by anyone who chooses to walk through Hyde Park in the middle of the season, but such a face as this which was enframed by the doorway of the woodman’s hut is not seen in twenty seasons.

It was a face which baffles the powers of description, just as a sunset sky laughs to scorn the brush of the ablest painter. It was neither dark nor fair, neither grave nor sad, though at the moment of its entrance a smile played over it as the moonbeams play over a placid lake.

To catalogue in dry matter-of-fact fashion, the face possessed dark brown eyes, bright brown hair, and red, ripe lips; but no catalogue can give the spirit of the face, no description convey an idea of the swift and eloquent play of expression which, like a flash of sunlight, lit up eyes and lips.

Beautiful! The word is hackneyed and worn out. Here was a face more than beautiful, it was soulful. Like the still pool in the heart of a wood, it mirrored the emotion of the heart as faithfully as a glass would reflect the face. Like a glass – joy, sorrow, pleasure, mirth, were reflected in the eloquent eyes and mobile lips.

Of concealment the face was entirely ignorant; no bird of the forest in which she lived could be more frank, innocent of guile, and ignorant of evil.

With her light summer cloak held round her graceful figure, she stood in the doorway, a picture of grace and youthful beauty.

For a moment she stood silent, looking from the woodman to his wife questioningly, then she came into the room and threw the hood back, revealing a shapely head, shining, bronze-like, in the light of the lamp.

“Did you send Dick for me, father?” she said, and her voice, like her face, betokened a refinement uncommon in a woodman’s daughter. “I was not far off, only at the pool to hear the frogs’ concert. Dick knows where to find me now, he comes straight to the pond, though he hates frogs’ music; don’t you, Dick?”

The dog rubbed his nose against her hand and wagged his tail, and the girl took her seat at the table.

To match face and voice, her mien and movements were graceful, and she handled the dinner-napkin like – a lady. It was just that, expressed in a word. The girl was not only beautiful – but a lady, in appearance, in tone, in bearing – and that, notwithstanding she wore a plain cotton gown in a woodman’s hut, and called the woodman “father.”

“You did not come by your usual path, father,” she said, turning from the deerhound, who sat on his haunches and rested his nose in her lap, quite content if her hand touched his head, say once during the meal.

“No, Una,” he replied, and though he called her by her Christian name, and without any prefix there was a subtle undertone in his voice and in his manner of addressing her, which seemed to infer something like respect. “No, I went astray.”

“And you were late,” she said. “Was anything the matter?” she added, turning her eyes upon him, with, for the first time, an air of interrogation.

“Matter? No,” he said, raising himself and coming to the table. “What should be? Yes, I came home by another path, and I don’t think you must come to meet me after dark, Una,” he added, with affected carelessness.

“No?” she asked, looking from one to the other with a smile of surprise. “Why not? Do you think I should get lost, or have you seen any wolves in Warden Forest, father? I know every path from end to end, and wolves have left merry England forever.”

“Not quite,” said Gideon, absently.

“Yes, quite,” and she laughed. “What Saxon king was it who offered fivepence for every wolf’s head? We were reading about it the other night, don’t you remember?”

“Reading! you are always reading,” said the woman, as she put a smoking dish on the table, and speaking for the first time. “It’s books, books, from morn to night, and your father encourages you. The books will make thee old before thy time, child, and put no pence in thy father’s pocket.”

“Poor father!” she murmured, and leaning forward, put her arms round his neck. “I wish I could find in the poor, abused books the way to make him rich.”

Gideon had put up his rough hand to caress the white one nestling against his face, but he let his hand drop again and looked at her with a slight cloud on his brow.

“Rich! who wants to be rich? The word is on your lips full oft of late, Una. Do you want to be rich?”

“Sometimes,” she answered. “As much for your sake as mine. I should like to be rich enough for you to rest, and” – looking round the plainly furnished but comfortable room – “and a better house and clothes.”

“I am not weary,” he said, his eyes fixed on her with a thoughtful air of concealed scrutiny. “The cot is good enough for me, and the purple and fine linen I want none of. So much for me; now for yourself, Una?”

“For myself?” she said. “Well, sometimes I think, when I have been reading some of the books, that I should like to be rich and see the world.”

“It must be such a wonderful place! Not so wonderful as I think it, perhaps, and that’s just because I have never seen anything of it. Is it not strange that for all these years I have never been outside Warden?”

“Strange?” he echoed, reluctantly.

“Yes; are other girls so shut in and kept from seeing the world that one reads so pleasantly of?”

“Not all. It would be well for most of them if they were. It has been well for you. You have not been unhappy, Una?”

“Unhappy! No! How could one be unhappy in Warden? Why, it’s a world in itself, and full of friends. Every living thing in it seems a friend, and an old friend, too. How long have we lived in Warden, father?”

“Eighteen years.”

“And I am twenty-one. Mother told me yesterday. Where did we live before we came to Warden?”

“Don’t worry your father, Una,” said Mrs. Rolfe, who had been listening and looking from one to the other with ill-concealed anxiety; “he is too weary to talk.”

“Forgive me, father. It was thoughtless of me. I should have remembered that you have had a hard day, while I have been idling in the wood, and over my books; it was stupid of me to trouble you. Won’t you sit down again and – and I will promise not to talk.”

“Say no more, Una. It grieves me to think that you might not be content, that you were not happy; if you knew as much of the world that raves and writhes outside as I do, you would be all too thankful that you are out of the monster’s reach, and that all you know of it is from your books, which – Heaven forgive them – lie all too often! See now, here is something I found in Arkdale;” and as he spoke he drew from the capacious pocket of his velveteen jacket a small volume.

The girl sprang to her feet – not clumsily, but with infinite grace – and leaned over his shoulder eagerly.

“Why, father, it is the poems you promised me, and it was in your pocket all the while I was wearying you with my foolish questions.”

“Tut, tut! Take your book, child, and devour it, as usual.”

Once or twice Gideon looked up, roused from his reverie by the rustling of the trees as the gusts shook them, and suddenly the sky was rent by a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder, followed by the heavy rattle of the rainstorm.

“Hark at the night, father!” she said, raising her eyes from the book, but only for a moment.

“Ay, Una,” he said, “some of the old elms will fall to-night. Woodman Lightning strikes with a keen ax.”

Suddenly there came another sound which, coming in an interval of comparative quiet, caused Una to look up with surprise.

“Halloa there! open the door.”

Gideon sprang to his feet, his face pale with anger.

“Go to your room, Una,” he said.

She rose and moved across the room to obey, but before she had passed up the stairs the woodman had opened the door, and the voice came in from the outside, and she paused almost unconsciously.

“At last! What a time you have been! I’ve knocked loud enough to wake the dead. For Heaven’s sake, open the door and let me in. I’m drenched to the skin.”

“This is not an inn, young sir.”

“No, or it would soon come to ruin with such a landlord. It’s something with four walls and a roof, and I must be content with that. You don’t mean to say that you won’t let me come in?”