Two days passed since Una had given her promise that should Jack Newcombe come to seek her she would hold no converse with him. How much that promise had cost her no one could say; she herself did not know. She only knew that whereas her life had always seemed dull and purposeless, it had, since Jack Newcombe’s visit, grown utterly dreary and joyless.

Was it love? She did not ask herself the question. Had she done so, she could not have answered it.

Any school-girl of fifteen feeling as Una felt would have known that she was in love, but Una’s only schooling had consisted of the few stern lessons of Gideon Rolfe.

“I can never see him, hear him, speak to him again,” was her one sad reflection; “but if I could be somewhere near him, unseen!”

Then, through her brain, her father’s words rang with melancholy persistence. This youth, whose eyes had seemed so frank and brave, whose voice rang with music so new and sweet, was, so her father said, unutterably wicked. One to be avoided as a dangerous animal! It could not but be true; she thought her father was truth itself.

But if it were so, then how false the world must be, for one to look and speak so gently, and yet be so wicked!

All day she wandered in the woods, returning to the cottage pale and listless, to leave her plate untouched or at best trifled with. Gideon Rolfe saw the change which had befallen her, but held his peace, though a bitter rage filled his heart; Martha Rolfe chided her for her listlessness, and tried to tempt her to eat; but Una put chiding and coaxing aside with a gentle smile, and escaped to the lake where she could dream alone and undisturbed.

The two days passed—on the third, as she was sitting beside the spot which had grown sacred in her eyes, with its crushed and broken ferns, she heard steps behind. Thinking that they were those of her father or one of the charcoal burners, she did not turn her head. The footsteps drew nearer, and a man came out from the thick wood and stood on the margin of the lake, and remained for a moment looking about him.

Una was so hidden by the tall brake that she remained unseen, and sat holding her breath watching him.

He was tall, thin, and dressed in black, and when he turned his face toward her, Una saw that he was not ill-looking. She might have thought him handsome but for that other face which was always in her mental vision. He was very pale, and looked anxious and ill at ease; and as he stood looking before him his right hand took his left into custody. It was Stephen Davenant.

For a few moments he stood with a half-searching, half-absent expression on his pale face, then turned and entered the wood again.

Pale with wonder and curiosity, Una rose and looked after him, and to her infinite surprise saw a carriage slowly approaching.

A lady was seated in it, a lady with a face as pale as the man’s but with a still more anxious and deprecating expression.

Una, with the quickness of sight acquired by a life spent in communion with nature, could see, even at that distance, that the lady’s eyes were like those of the man’s, and, furthermore, that she was awaiting his approach with a nervous timidity that almost amounted to fear.

With fast beating heart Una watched them wondering what could have brought them to Warden, wondering who and what they were, when suddenly her heart gave a great bound, for the gentleman, turning to the driver, said, in a soft, low voice:

“We are looking for the cottage of a woodman, named Gideon Rolfe.”

“Never heard of it, sir. Do you know what part of the forest it is in?”

“No,” said Stephen.

“Then it’s like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay,” retorted the man.

“However difficult, it must be found,” said Stephen. “Drive on till you come to some road and follow that. It may lead us to some place where we can ascertain the direction of this man’s cottage.”

The man touched his horse with the whip, and still Una stood as if spell-bound, but, suddenly remembering that they were going in the opposite direction to the cottage, she was about to step forward, when she heard the bark of the dog, and almost as if he had sprung from the ground, Gideon Rolfe stood beside the carriage.

“Ah, here is someone,” said Stephen. “Can you tell us the road to the cottage of Gideon Rolfe, the woodman, my man?” he asked.

“And what may be your business with him?”

“Why do you ask, my good man?” he replied.

“Because I am he you seek,” said Gideon.

“You are Gideon Rolfe? How fortunate.”

“That’s as it may prove,” said Gideon, coldly. “What is your business?”

“It is of a nature which, I think, had better be stated in a more convenient spot. Will you kindly permit me to enter your cottage and rest?”

Gideon looked searchingly into Stephen’s face for a moment that seemed an age to Una, then nodded curtly, and said: “Follow me.”

“Will you not ride?” asked Stephen, suavely.

But Gideon shook his head, and shouldering his ax, strode in front of the horse, and Stephen motioning to the driver, the carriage followed.

“A charming spot, Mr. Rolfe—charming! Rather shall I say, retired, if not solitary, however.”

“Say what you please, sir,” retorted Gideon, grimly and calmly. “I am waiting to learn the business you have with me.”

“Mother,” he said—“this lady is my mother, Mr. Rolfe—I think, I really think you would find it pleasant and refreshing on the bench which I observed outside the door.”

With a little deprecatory air the lady got up and instantly left the cottage.

Then Stephen’s manner changed. Leaning forward he fixed his gray eyes on Gideon Rolfe’s stern face and said:

“Mr. Rolfe—my name is Davenant——”

Gideon started, and, with a muttered oath, raised the ax.

Stephen’s face turned as white as his spotless collar, but he did not shrink.

“My name is Davenant,” he repeated—“Stephen Davenant. I am afraid the name has some unpleasant associations attached to it. I beg to remind you, if that should be the case, that those associations are not connected with any fault of mine.”

“Go on. Your name is Stephen Davenant?”

“Stephen Davenant. I am the nephew of Squire Davenant—Ralph Davenant. The nephew of Ralph Davenant. I think you can guess my business with you.”

“Do you come from—him?” he asked, hoarsely.

“In a certain sense, yes,” he said. “No doubt you have heard the sad news. My uncle is dead.”

“Dead!” he repeated fiercely.

“Dead. My uncle died three days ago.”

“Dead!” repeated Gideon, not in the tone of a man who had lost a friend, but in that of one who had lost an enemy.

“Yes,” said Stephen, wiping his dry eyes with his spotless handkerchief; “my poor uncle died three days ago. I am afraid I have not broken it as softly as I should have done. You knew him well?”

“Yes, I knew him well.”

“Then you know how great a loss the county has suffered in——”

“Spare your fine phrases. Come to your business with me. What brings you here?”

“I am here in consequence of a communication made to me by my uncle on his death-bed. Are you alone?”

Gideon waved his hand with passionate impatience.

“That communication,” Stephen continued, “concerns a certain young lady——”

“He told you?” he exclaimed.

“My uncle told me that I should find a young lady, in whose future he was greatly interested, in the charge of a certain person named Gideon Rolfe.”

“Well, did he tell you any more than that?”

Stephen made a gesture in the negative.

“So,” said Gideon Rolfe, “he left it to me to tell the story of his crime. You are Ralph Davenant’s nephew. You are the nephew of a villain and a scoundrel!”

It was true, then, that the man knew nothing of the secret marriage of Ralph Davenant and Caroline Hatfield.

“A scoundrel and a villain!” repeated Gideon, leaning forward and clutching the table. “You say that he told you the story of his crime, glossed over and falsified. Hear it from me. Your uncle and I were schoolfellows and friends. I was the son of the schoolmaster at Hurst. Your uncle left school to go to college. I remained at Hurst in my father’s house. I could have gone to college also, but I would not leave Hurst, for I was in love. I loved Caroline Hatfield. She was the daughter of the gamekeeper on the Hurst estate, and we were to be married. Two months before the day fixed for our marriage your uncle, my friend—my friend!—came home to spend the vacation. We were friends still, and I—cursed fool that I was—took him to the gamekeeper’s lodge to introduce him to my sweetheart. Six weeks afterward he and she had fled.”

Stephen watched him closely, his heart beating wildly.

“They had fled,” continued Gideon, in a broken voice. “My life was ended on the day they brought me the news. I left Hurst Leigh and came here. A year later she came back to me—came back to me to die. She died and left me——. She left me her child. I—I loved her still and swore to protect that child, and I have done so. There is my story. What have you to say?”

“It is terrible, terrible!” he exclaimed.

“I have kept my vow. Her child has grown up ignorant of the shame which is her heritage. Here, buried in the heart of the forest, away from the world, I have kept and guarded her for her mother’s sake. There is the story, told without gloss or falsehood. What have you to say?”

“You have discharged your self-appointed trust most nobly! But—but that trust has come to an end.”

“Who says so?”

“I say so. You have done your duty—more than your duty—I must do mine. My uncle, on his deathbed, bequeathed his daughter to my charge.”

“To yours?”

“To mine,” said Stephen, gravely.

“Where is your authority?”

“That I do not come without authority is proven by the mere fact of my presence here and by my knowledge of my uncle’s secret. No one but yourself, your wife and I know of the real identity of this girl. It was my uncle’s wish that the story of her birth should still remain a secret—that it should be buried, as it were, in his grave. Why should the poor girl ever learn the truth, when such knowledge can only bring her shame and mortification?”

“Grant that,” said Gideon, “where could she better be hidden than here? Her secret, her very existence, have been concealed from the world.”

“True, but—but the future, my dear sir—the future! You are not a young man——”

“I am still young enough to protect her.”

“My dear Mr. Rolfe, you may live—you look as if you would—to be a hundred; you have discharged your self-imposed task most nobly, but you must not forget that it has now devolved upon one who is bound by ties of blood to fulfill it, if not so well, certainly with the best intentions. Mr. Rolfe, I am the young girl’s cousin.”

“You speak of ties of blood; say rather, the ties of shame! Suppose—I say suppose—that I refuse to deliver her up to your care?”

“I do not think you will do that. You forget that, after all, we have little choice in the matter.”

Gideon Rolfe eyed him questioningly.

“The young girl is now of age, and——”

“Go on.”

“And supposing that you were to refuse to hand her over to my charge, I should feel compelled to tell the story of her life, and——. Pray—pray be calm. I beg you to remember that I am not here of my own desire; that I am merely fulfilling my duty to my uncle, and endeavoring to obey his last wishes. I do not blame you for your reluctance to part with her. It does you credit, my dear Mr. Rolfe—infinite credit. But duty—duty; we must all do our duty.”

“Has anyone of your name ever yet done his duty?” repeated Gideon, sternly.

“For my part, Mr. Rolfe, I have always striven to do mine; yea, even in the face of great temptation and difficulties. I must do it now. After all, why should you resist my uncle’s wish? Consider, she, who was once a child, is now a woman. Do you think it possible to keep her imprisoned in this wood for the whole of her days?”

Gideon Rolfe turned toward the window. For the first time Stephen had found a weak spot in his armor. It was true! Already she was beginning to pine and hunger for the world. Could he keep her much longer?

“Come,” said Stephen, quick to see the impression he had made. “Do not let us be selfish; let us think of her welfare, as well as our own wishes. Candidly, I must confess that I should be perfectly willing to leave her in her present obscurity.”

Gideon Rolfe broke in abruptly.

“Where will you take her?” he asked, hoarsely.

“It is my intention,” he said, “to place her in my mother’s charge. She lives in London, alone. There my cousin will find a loving home and a second mother. Believing that you would naturally have some reluctance at parting with her, not knowing with whom and where she was going, I have brought my mother with me.”

Gideon glanced at the quiet, motionless figure seated on the bench outside, and then paced the room again.

“Does she know?” he asked hoarsely.

“She knows nothing,” said Stephen. “My mother can trust me implicitly. She has long wanted a companion, and I have told her that I know of a young girl in whom I am interested.”

“You intend to keep her secret?” said Gideon.

“Most sacredly,” responded Stephen, with solemn earnestness.

Gideon went to the door and opened it.

“Wait,” he said, and disappeared.