“That you certainly will not, to-night, nor any other man,” was the good-humored retort. “I’ve had enough of your confounded forest for to-night. Why, man, are you afraid to let me in? It’s a nasty thing to have to do, but——” and with a sudden thrust of his strong shoulder he forced the door open and passed the threshold.
But the woodman recovered from the surprise in a moment and, seizing him by the throat, was forcing him out again, when, with a low cry, Una sprang forward and laid her hand on his arm.
At her touch Gideon’s hands dropped to his side. The stranger sprang upright, but almost staggered out with discomfited astonishment.
For the first time in her life she stood face to face with a man other than a woodman or a charcoal-burner. And as she looked her heart almost stopped beating, the color died slowly from her face. Was it real, or was it one of the visionary heroes of her books created into life from her own dreaming brain?
With parted lips she waited, half longing, half dreading, to hear him speak.
It seemed ages before he found his voice, but at last, with a sudden little shake of the head, as if he were, as he would have expressed it, “pulling himself together,” he took off his wide hat and slowly turned his eyes from the beautiful face of the girl to the stern and now set face of the woodman.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a lady—ladies with you?” half angrily, half apologetically. Then he turned quickly, impulsively, to Una. “I hope you will forgive me. I had no idea that there was anyone here excepting himself. Of course I would rather have got into the first ditch than have disturbed you. I hope, I do hope you believe that, though I can’t hope you’ll forgive me. Good-night,” and inclining his head he turned to the door.
Una, who had listened with an intent, rapt look on her face, as one sees a blind man listen to music, drew a little breath of regret as he ceased speaking, and then, with a little, quick gesture, laid her hand on her father’s arm.
It was an imploring touch. It said as plainly as if she had spoken:
“Do not let him go.”
“Having forced your way into my house you—may remain.”
“Thanks. I should not think of doing so. Good-night.”
“No; you must not go. He does not mean it. You have made him angry. Please do not go!”
The young man hesitated, and the woodman, with a gesture that was one of resigned despair, shut the door.
Then he turned and pointed to the next room.
“There’s a fire there,” he said.
“I’d rather be out in the wood by far,” he said, “than be here feeling that I have made a nuisance of myself. I’d better go.”
But Gideon Rolfe led the way into the next room, and after another look from Mrs. Rolfe to Una, the young man followed.
Una stood in the center of the room looking at the door behind which he had disappeared, like one in a dream. Then she turned to Mrs. Rolfe.
“Shall I go, mother?”
“Yes. No. Wait till your father comes in.”
After the lapse of ten minutes the woodman and the woodman’s guest re-entered. The latter had exchanged his wet clothes for a suit of Gideon’s, which, though it was well-worn velveteen, failed to conceal the high-bred air of its present wearer.
Meanwhile Mrs. Rolfe had been busily spreading the remains of the supper.
“ ’Tis but plain fare, sir,” she said; “but you are heartily welcome.”
“Thanks. It looks like a banquet to me,” he added, with the short laugh which seemed peculiar to him. “I haven’t tasted food, as tramps say, since morning.”
“Dear! dear!” exclaimed the wife.
Una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of Ivanhoe, then—and with a feeling of satisfaction—of Hotspur.
Figure matched face. Though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a trained athlete—stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding.
Wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman—in Gideon’s suit of worn velveteen he looked one still.
Silent and motionless, Una watched him.
“Yes,” he said, “I got some lunch at the inn—‘Spotted Boar’ at Wermesley—about one o’clock, I suppose. I have never felt so hungry in my life.”
“Wermesley?” said the wife. “Then you came from——”
“London, originally. I got out at Wermesley, meaning to walk to Arkdale; but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?”
Gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear.
“I can’t think how I missed the way,” he went on. “I found the charcoal burner’s hut, and hurried off to the left——”
“To the right, I said,” muttered Gideon.
“Right, did you? Then I misunderstood you. Anyhow, I lost the right path, and wandered about until I came back to this cottage.”
“And you were going to stay at Arkdale? ’Tis but a dull place,” said Mrs. Rolfe.
“No; I meant taking the train from there to Hurst Leigh—— Hurst Leigh,” repeated the young man. “Do you know it? Ah,” he went on, “don’t suppose you would; it’s some distance from here. Pretty place. I am going to see a relative. My name is Newcombe—Jack Newcombe I am generally called—and I am going on a visit to Squire Davenant.”
Gideon Rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and strode into the lamplight.
The young man looked up in surprise.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
With an effort Gideon Rolfe recovered himself.
“I—I want a light,” he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his pipe. Then turning toward the window, he said: “Una, it is late; go to bed now.”
She rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her with an intent, but wholly respectful look.
But before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them, and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his seat with the other.
CHAPTER III.
A hearty meal after a long fast invariably produces intense sleepiness.
No sooner had the young gentleman who was called, according to his own account, Jack Newcombe, finished his supper than he began to show palpable signs of exhaustion.
He felt, indeed, remarkably tired, or be sure he would have demanded the reason of the woodman’s refusal to allow his daughter to shake hands.
For once in a way, Jack—who was also called “The Savage” by his intimate friends—allowed the opportunity for a quarrel to slide by, and very soon also allowed the pipe to slide from his mouth, and his body from the chair.
Rousing himself with a muttered apology, he found that the woodman alone remained, and that he was sitting apparently forgetful of his guest’s presence.
“Did you speak?” said Jack, rubbing his eyes, and struggling with a very giant