Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir. Garvice Charles
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?”
“Yes – very much so,” he replied.
“And you are going back to it. You will never come into the forest again, while I shall go on living here till I die, and never see the world in which you have lived. Does that sound strange to you?”
“Do you mean to say that you have never been outside this forest?” he said, raising himself on his elbow to stare at her.
“Yes. I have never been out of Warden since we came into it.”
“But – why not?” he demanded.
“I do not know,” she replied, simply.
“But there must be some reason for it? Haven’t you been to Arkdale or Wermesley?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “Tell me what they are like. Are they gay and full of people, with theaters and parks, and ladies riding and driving, and crowds in the streets?”
“Oh, this is too much!” under his breath. “No, no – a thousand times no!” he exclaimed; “they are the two most miserable holes in creation! There are no parks, no theaters in Arkdale or Wermesley. You might see a lady on horseback – one lady in a week! They are two county towns, and nothing of that kind ever goes on in them. You mean London, and – and places like that when you speak of theaters and that sort of thing!”
“Yes, London,” she says, quietly. “Tell me all about that – I have read about it in books.”
“Books!” said the Savage, in undisguised contempt; “what’s the use of them! You must see life for yourself – books are no use. They give it to you all wrong; at least, I expect so; don’t know much about them myself.”
“Tell me,” she repeated, “tell me of the world outside the forest; tell me about yourself.”
“About myself? Oh, that wouldn’t interest you.”
“Yes,” she said, simply, “I would rather hear about yourself than about anything else.”
“Look here, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Tell me all you can think of,” she said, calmly; “about your father and mother.”
“Haven’t got any,” he said; “they’re both dead.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Yes, they’re dead,” he said; “they died long ago.”
“And have you any brothers and sisters?”
“No; I have a cousin, though,” and he groaned.
“I am so glad,” she said, in a low voice.
“Don’t be. I’m not. He’s a – I don’t like him; we don’t get on together, you know.”
“You quarrel, do you mean?”
“Like Kilkenny cats,” assented the Savage.
“Then he must be a bad man,” she said, simply.
“No,” he said, quietly; “everybody says that I am the bad one. I’m a regular bad lot, you know.”
“I don’t think that you are bad,” she said.
“You don’t; really not! By George! I like to hear you say that; but,” with a slow shake of the head, “I’m afraid it’s true. Yes, I am a regular bad lot.”
“Tell me what you have done that is so wrong,” she said.
“Oh – I’ve – I’ve spent all my money.”
“That’s not so very wrong; you have hurt only yourself.”
“Jove, that’s a new way of looking at it,” he muttered. “And” – aloud – “and I’ve run into debt, and I’ve – oh, I can’t tell you any more; I don’t want you to hate me!”
“Hate you? I could not do that.”
He sprang to his feet, paced up and down, and then dropped at her side again.
“Well, that’s all about myself,” he said; “now tell me about yourself.”
“No,” she said; “not yet. Tell me why you are going to Arkdale?”
“I’m going to Arkdale to take a train to Hurst Leigh to see my uncle, cousin, or whatever he is – Squire Davenant.”
“Is he an old man?”
“Yes, a very old man, and a bad one, too. All our family are a bad lot, excepting my cousin, Stephen Davenant.”
“The one you do not like?”
“The same. He is quite an angel.”
“An angel?”
“One of those men too good to live. He’s the only steady one we’ve got, and we make the most of him. He is Squire Davenant’s heir – at least he will come into his money. The old man is very rich, you know.”
“I see,” she said, musingly; then she looked down at him and added, suddenly: “You were to have been the heir?”
“Yes, that’s right! How did you guess that? Yes, I was the old man’s favorite, but we quarreled. He wanted it all his own way, and, oh – we couldn’t get on. Then Cousin Stephen stepped in, and I am out in the cold now.”
“Then why are you going there now?” she asked.
“Because the squire sent for me,”