“Jack Newcombe!” exclaimed Mrs. Davenant, looking at the card which Mary had brought in. “Jack Newcombe!” she repeated a second time. “My dear, come here!”

Una was sitting beside the open window, a book in her lap, her eyes fixed on the sun setting just behind the chimneys.

“Yes,” she said, her face flushed, her eyes glowing as if the sun were reflected in them; but she did not move.

Mrs. Davenant hurried across the room with the card in her hand.

“Una, dear, see here,” she said, nervously. “Here is Jack Newcombe! You’ve heard me speak of him.”

Una, feeling guilty and deceitful, hung her head.

Her heart beat fast. For two days she had waited and watched for him—never for a moment had he been absent from her mind.

And now he was here, in the next room.

“Yes,” she said, “I—I remember.”

“Well, my dear, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what he wants—do you?—but of course you don’t!”

Una flushed crimson to her very neck.

“I think you had better go, my dear,” said Mrs. Davenant, fidgeting with the card.

Una did not move.

“Why?” she asked, raising her eyes for the first time.

Mrs. Davenant moved her head nervously.

“Because—I don’t think Stephen—I mean—Jack Newcombe is the sort of man you ought to know.”

“But,” said Una, softly and with a steady look in her dark eyes, “I do know him already.”

Mrs. Davenant stared.

“You know him? Jack Newcombe?”

Una nodded.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I met him up the river. I saw him at Lady Bell’s—he is a friend of hers——”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” said Mrs. Davenant, looking distressed and frightened.

Una felt guilty.

“I don’t know,” she said in reply. “I think it was because I knew you would feel angry.”

Mrs. Davenant stared at her. It was like the reply of a child in its simple, naked truth.

“Well, well,” she said, with a troubled voice, “of course you couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t help it. And”—here the door opened quietly, and Jack’s head appeared, and Mrs. Davenant started.

Seeing that they were alone, Jack came in with his usual coolness, though his heart beat; and he crossed the room, and took Mrs. Davenant’s hand and kissed her forehead.

And the poor woman melted in a moment, as she always did when Jack was actually present. As a matter of simple truth, she was really as fond of him as if he had been her own son, and but for Stephen, Jack would have seen her oftener.

He had lost his mother in early boyhood, and the kind-hearted, affectionate, timid Mrs. Davenant had often dried his boyish tears and held him in her arms. Even now, notwithstanding Jack’s wickedness, of which Stephen made the most, her heart went out toward him.

He had not been near her for some months, nearly a year, all through Stephen, and she had almost given him up; but Jack’s kiss revived all the old tenderness. And what woman could resist his handsome face and frank, manly way?

“Well, ma’am,” he said—and “ma’am” sounded in her ears and in Una’s almost like “mother”—“and how are you? And aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Yes, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant, nervously.

“Then why do you keep me in the draughty hall for half an hour? Do you want me to catch cold?”

“Half an hour?” murmured Mrs. Davenant. “I’m sure you haven’t been there three minutes.”

“Two minutes and a half too long,” he said, smiling. He was giving Una time to recover herself.

“You never come to see me now, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant, looking up at him sadly.

“And now I do, you keep me outside. Besides, you never ask me. Who’s that in the back room, ma’am?”

Mrs. Davenant started; she had almost forgotten Una.

“You know her!” she said.

Jack had got his cue.

“Oh, it’s Miss Rolfe,” he said, and then he crossed the room and held out his hand.

Una rose, and without a word put her hand in his, her eyes downcast, lest the love which beamed in them should escape against her will.

“Yes,” said Jack, “I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Rolfe once or twice lately.”

Then he turned away from her and began talking to Mrs. Davenant, as if Una were not in the room.

It was just what Una wanted. She felt that she could not speak, and for the present it was happiness enough to have him in the same room with her, and to hear his voice.

And Mrs. Davenant, now that the first shock was over, was glad enough to sit down and listen to the frank, musical voice—so unlike Stephen’s measured, modulated tone.

Presently she said in a low, nervous tone:

“Jack, I am so sorry!”

Jack nodded, and his face dropped.

“About the poor squire? Yes! Never mind. It is all right. No! It’s all wrong for me, but all right for Stephen.”

“But Stephen doesn’t—doesn’t want it all,” she murmured.

Jack looked another way; he had a different opinion.

“Never mind,” he said, “don’t let us worry about it—you and I. It’s all past and gone, and there’s no help for it.”

“But you have worried,” she said. “You don’t look so well as you did, Jack. I hope—I do hope,” and her voice faltered.

Jack’s face flushed for a moment.

“You are going to scold me, as usual,” he said. “Well, go on, it will be your last opportunity, ma’am. I’ve reformed.”

There was something in his tone, something so earnest and grave, that she looked at him anxiously.

“Oh, Jack, I wish—I wish you would be more steady.”

“Wait and see,” he said, gravely, and in a low voice.

Mrs. Davenant wiped her eyes, and glanced at the clock. It was near the dinner hour.

“Do you want me to go?” said Jack, in his blunt way, and he took up his hat and gloves.

Mrs. Davenant hesitated a moment.

“You wouldn’t stop to dinner, if I asked you,” she said, with a faint smile.

Una’s heart gave a great leap.

“Try me,” said Jack. “Yes, I’ll stay. Now don’t look frightened and disappointed, or I’ll go.”

Mrs. Davenant rose, with her rare laugh.

“I must go and tell them,” she said, “or you’d be starved,” and she left the room.

Jack went and stood beside the silent, motionless figure and looked down at her with infinite yearning and infinite sorrow. He had come resolved to tell her the truth and to bid her to forget him.

“Una,” he said, in a low voice.

She raised her eyes, and in an instant his grand resolution, built up with such care for the last two days, crumbled into dust. With something like a groan he was on his knee and caught her to his breast.

For a moment she resigned herself to the exquisite joy of his embrace, and with downcast eyes drooped beneath his passionate kisses, then with an effort she regained possession of the soul which had slipped from her into his, as it were, and gently disengaged herself.

“No, no, you frighten me!” she murmured, as Jack’s arm drew her toward him again.

“My darling! There!” and he kissed her hands. “How can I do it? It is too much to ask of mortal man.”

“Do what?” she murmured.

Jack’s face paled.

“Nothing—nothing,” he said.

“And are you really going to stay?” she murmured, her eyes beaming with pleasure.

“Yes,” he said, “I came on purpose. If she had not asked me I meant to ask her.”

“And you love her, don’t you? Is she not good—and isn’t it cruel to deceive her,” said Una, and she hung her head.

“She’s the dearest old lady in the world,” said Jack, enthusiastically, who would have loved a gorilla, much less Mrs. Davenant, if it had been kind to Una. “Why, she was a second mother to me until Stephen grew up—and she has been kind to you. I can see that for myself. But you must tell me all about it—all about everything tonight. Think, my darling! we shall be together here all the evening! No noisy crowd to prevent us talking—no interference. I shall want to know everything. Hush! here she comes,” and with another swift kiss he rose and went into the next room. Una stole out and upstairs to dress.

Quite unsuspicious, Mrs. Davenant came back smiling. She had ordered one or two of Jack’s favorite dishes, and had come to ask him about the claret.

“There is some of the Chateau la Rose, Jack. Would you like to have it warmed a little?” she asked, anxiously.

“Let them put a bottle in the kitchen somewhere,” said Jack. “It will get right there by dinner time. Eight o’clock you dine, I know. I’ll just run home and dress, and be back punctually to the minute.”

“It will be the first time in your life then,” said Mrs. Davenant.

For the first time in his life then Jack was punctual. At five minutes to eight a hansom dashed up to the door, and Jack, in evening dress, with his light overcoat, strode up the steps and into the drawing-room.

It was empty, but a minute afterward he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress, and turned as Una entered the room. She wore the dress she had worn at Lady Bell’s, and Jack, who had not yet seen her in her “war paint”—as he would have described it—was startled; and Una, as she saw the look of surprise and rapt admiration, felt, like a true woman, a glow of satisfaction and pleasure. It was not that she was beautiful, but that he should think her so.

“My darling,” he murmured, holding her at arm’s length; “what magic charm do you possess that enables you to grow more beautiful every time I see you? Or is it all a mistake, and are you another Una than the Una of Warden Forest?”

Una put her hands on his shoulders trustfully, and turned her face up to him.

“Tell me,” she murmured, “which Una do you like best?”

Jack thought a moment.

“I love them both so well,” he said, “that I can’t decide.” And he kissed her twice. “One is for the Una of the Forest, and one for the Una of the world,” he said.

She had only time to slip from his arms when Mrs. Davenant entered.

“What do you say to punctuality, ma’am?” he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he gave her his arm and lead her into the dining-room.

Jack was a favorite, for all his wickedness, wherever he went. It was no sooner known that he was to dine in the house, that the cook awoke to instant energy and enthusiasm.

“Master Jack’s a gentleman worth cooking a dinner for,” she declared. “It’s a waste of time to worry yourself for women folk; they don’t know a good dinner from a bad one; but Master Jack—oh, that’s a different thing! He knows what clear soup ought to be; and he shall have it right, too.”

Mrs. Davenant herself was surprised at the elaborate little dinner.

“I wish you’d dine with us every day, my dear Jack,” she said.

Jack glanced demurely at Una, in time to catch the sparkle in her dark eyes.

“I’m afraid you’d soon get tired of me,” he said. “But, seriously, I should improve the cooking; not this day’s, I mean, but the usual ones. You’ve got a treasure of a cook, ma’am.”

And, of course, this was carried down by Mary to the empress of the kitchen, and her majesty was rewarded for all her trouble.

“What did I tell you?” she demanded. “Master Jack knows.”

Jack’s appetite was always good, in love or out of it, and this evening would have been the happiest in his life but for certain twinges of conscience.

What should he say to Leonard, the faithful friend, when he got home and was asked how he had parted from Una? However, he stifled conscience—it is always easy to do that at dinner time.

“Will you have some more claret?” asked Mrs. Davenant, as she and Una prepared to leave him. “You can smoke a cigarette, if you like; but open the window afterward.”

“I won’t have any more claret, and I won’t smoke,” said Jack. “I’ll just finish this glass and come with you for a cup of tea.”

Five minutes of solitude spent in going over every look and word of the lovely creature he had won, were enough for Jack.

He found them seated at the window; Una in a low chair, almost at Mrs. Davenant’s feet. They both looked up, as if glad to see him; and Mrs. Davenant at once rang for tea and coffee.

Una rose, and officiated with calm self-possession and accustomed ease—no one would have guessed that her acquaintance with a London drawing-room, and its accompanying forms and ceremonies, was only that of a few weeks—and brought Jack his cup.

In taking it, he tried to touch her hand, and nearly upset the cup.

“Take care, my dear Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant. “Has he spoiled your dress, my dear?”

“No,” said Una, her face red as a rose. “It was my fault.”

“Yes; it was her fault,” said Jack, significantly.

“You always were clumsy, my dear Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant. “You are too big.”

“I’ll get myself cut down a foot or two,” said Jack.

Happy! They were as happy as any two women in London, notwithstanding Jack’s wickedness.

Jack glanced at the piano.

“I wish you could play,” he said to Una.

Mrs. Davenant looked at him.

“How do you know she cannot?” she said.

Jack looked embarrassed.

“I rather fancy I heard U—Miss Rolfe—admit as much. But she can sing, I know.”

“And you can play for her,” said Mrs. Davenant. “You used to play very nicely when you were a boy,” and she sighed.

Jack looked dubious for a moment, then, with sudden assurance and confidence, jumped up.

“Let me try. Will you come, Miss Rolfe?”

Una followed him to the piano, and Jack turned out all the music from the canterbury on the floor.

“Come and see if there is anything you know,” he said, and Una knelt down beside him.

Of course Jack’s hand was on hers in a moment.

“I nearly let the cat out of the bag just then,” he said. “I must be careful.”

“But why?” asked Una. “Why may we not——” she paused, then, having raised her eyes, she continued—“why may she not know?”

“So she shall,” said Jack, “all in good time. I can’t consent to share my secret all in one evening! Besides——”

“Cannot you find anything,” said Mrs. Davenant, sleepily, from the next room.

Jack stuck up some music on the stand and sat down.

He had played well at one time, in a rough fashion, and had a wonderful ear, and, quite regardless of the music, he launched into a prelude.

“Sing the song you sang the other evening, my darling,” he whispered. “I remember every note of it.”

Una obeyed instantly. Free from any spark of vanity, she knew nothing of the shyness which assails self-conscious people. Jack, with his acute ear, played a running accompaniment easily enough; it was true he had remembered every note of it.

“You nightingale,” he whispered, looking up at her, and the fervent admiration of his eyes made her heart throb.

“Now sing something yourself, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant.

Jack thought a moment, his fingers straying over the keys, then softening his full baritone voice as much as possible, he sang—“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”

It was an old English song, one of the sweetest of the old melodies which even now have power to rouse a blase audience to enthusiasm.

Una stood behind him entranced, bewitched; he sang every word to her.

“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”

Oh, Heaven, it was too great a joy!

Unconsciously she drew nearer and put her hand upon his shoulder, timidly, caressingly, and as the music ceased, Jack turned and caught it prisoner in his.

“Yes, dear, I love but thee!” he murmured.

“And I”—she breathed, her eyes melting with passionate tenderness—“and I love but thee.”

“My darling,” he whispered, “do you know what you are giving me—your precious self—and to whom you are giving it?”

The voice fell; conscience was awake again.

“Una,” he went on, hurriedly, passionately. “I am not worthy of your love——”

“I love but thee!” she breathed, softly.

“You do not know, you who are so ignorant of the world, what it means to wed a man like myself, penniless, worthless—oh, Heaven, forgive me!”

“I love but thee!” she breathed, for all her answer.

Jack bent his head over her hand.

“What can I do?” he murmured, bitterly. “I cannot give her up.”

Then he looked up.

“Have you no fear, Una? Do you trust me so entirely? Think, can you face poverty and all its trials. Dear, I am very poor, worse than poor.”

She smiled an ineffable smile.

“And I am rich—while I have your love.”

Then suddenly her voice changed, and with a look of terror she bent over him, almost clingingly.

“What is it you are saying? Jack! Jack! you will not leave me?”

Jack started to his feet, and regardless of waking Mrs. Davenant, took her in his arms.

“Never, by Heaven!” he exclaimed.

There was one moment of ecstatic joy, then suddenly Una drew back; and with a gesture of alarm, pointed to the looking-glass. Jack raised his head, and with a sudden cry drew her nearer to him as if to protect her.

Reflected in the glass was the thin figure of Stephen Davenant, looking rather like a ghost than a man—silent, motionless, with pallid face, and set, rigid eyes.