A dim light was burning in the drawing-room of the Hurst. Outside, the storm was raging wild and pitiless, making the warm room seem like a harbor of refuge. Beside the fire sat Mrs. Davenant, half dozing over a piece of finest needlework for the village working club. She was alone in the room, and every now and then glanced anxiously toward the door. Presently it opened, and the tall figure of Stephen entered and crossed over to her.

“Mother,” he said, and there was a tremulous ring in his voice and a quiver in his lips that were in marked contrast to his usual smooth calm.

Mrs. Davenant looked up with a glance of alarm. “Una!” she exclaimed.

“Hush!” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Una,” and his voice dwelt on the name. “Una is asleep. She has gone to her own room for a little while. Mother,” he said, slowly, “she has consented.”

Mrs. Davenant looked up and trembled: “Oh, Stephen!”

He nodded, and stood before the fire, looking up with a smile of undisguised triumph and joy. “Yes, she has consented. It was—well, hard work; but my love overmastered her. I told her that you agreed with me that the sooner the marriage took place the better. You do, do you not?”

“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Davenant.

“She wants change; nothing but entire change of life and thought will do her good. Mother, if she remained here, if something were not done, she would”—he paused, and went on hoarsely, “she would die!”

Mrs. Davenant shuddered and her eyes filled. “My poor, poor Una!” she murmured.

Stephen moved impatiently. “She will not need your pity, mother. A few weeks hence and you will have no reason to pity her. I’ll stake my life that I bring her back here with the roses in her cheeks, with the smile in her eyes, as of old. Mother, you do not know what such love as mine can do!” and his voice trembled with suppressed passion.

Mrs. Davenant looked up at him, tearfully.

“You—you are much changed, Stephen,” she murmured.

“I am,” he said, with a curt laugh. “I am changed, am I not? I scarcely know myself. And she has done it. She! My beautiful queen, my lily! Yes, she shall be happy, if man can make her.” He was silent a moment, dwelling on his love and future, and looked, as he spoke, much changed. Then he awoke at a question from his mother.

“When is it to be, Stephen?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, quietly.

“Tomorrow!” gasped. Mrs. Davenant. “Impossible!”

“Not at all,” he said, curtly. “Remember, I told you not to be surprised, that it would come suddenly.”

“But——”

He made a movement of impatience.

“Do you think I have not made preparations? See,” and he took a paper from his pocket, “I have had the license for a week past. It is no ordinary marriage. We want no bridesmaid and wedding favors. She would not have them—or me, if you insisted upon it. It is principally on the condition that the ceremony shall be quite private—secret almost—that she has consented.”

Mrs. Davenant stared at the fire.

Stephen smiled.

“You do not understand me, even yet, mother,” he said. “Did you ever know anything fail me?”

Mrs. Davenant shuddered, or was it the play of the fire-light?

“Never,” she said, in a low voice.

Stephen smiled again.

“I have seen this coming, have seen my way to it for months past; I have swept every barrier away——” He stopped suddenly and bit his lip—“and now for our plans, mother. Try and collect yourself; this has surprised and upset you,” he said, sharply.

Mrs. Davenant sat up and looked at him attentively.

“Tomorrow we start, without fuss or bother, for Clumley. I have ordered them to take a pair of horses to the half-way house, so that we can change without loss of time. I have also sent a letter to the clergyman telling him to be prepared for us, and keep his own counsel. We shall reach Clumley, traveling easily, by half-past ten. There will be no wedding breakfast—thank Heaven! no fuss or ceremony. We shall go straight from the church to London, and thence to Paris. Excepting ourselves and clergyman no one can know anything of the matter until the marriage is over, then——” and he drew a long breath and smiled.

Mrs. Davenant, pale and trembling, stared up at him.

“And—and Una? Does she agree to all this?”

“Una agrees to everything,” he said, impatiently. “She herself stipulated that it should be done quietly, and”—with a smile—“if this is not quietly, I do not know what is. And now, my dear mother, go and make what preparations are absolutely necessary, and make them yourself, and unaided. Remember there must be no approach to any wedding party. We are only going to take an outing for a day or two. You understand?”

“I understand,” she faltered; “and when will you be back, Stephen?” she asked, pitiably. “I—I—you won’t be away long, Stephen? I shall miss her so.”

Stephen patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid, mother. We shall not be away too long. I am too proud of my beautiful bride to hide her away. I want to see her here, mistress of the Hurst. My wife! my wife! Hush! here she comes. Do not upset her.”

And, with a quick, noiseless step, he went out as Una entered.

Framed in the doorway, she stood for a moment like a picture. Paler and slighter than in the old days, she had lost none of her beauty. Stephen had cause to be proud of his bride. There would be no lovelier woman in Wealdshire than the future mistress of the Hurst. And yet, if Jack could have seen her that moment, what agony her face would have cost him; for his eyes, quickened by his passionate love, would have read and understood that subtle change that had fallen on the beautiful face; would have read the settled melancholy which sat enthroned on the dark eyes, and gave them the dreamy, far-away look which never left them for a moment.

Slowly she crossed the room, and stood just where Stephen had stood, and looked into the fire; but not as he had looked—triumphantly, joyfully; but with an absent, dreamy air.

Mrs. Davenant put out her hand, and touched her arm.

“Una!”

She turned her head, and looked at her questioningly, with a weary, uninterested gaze.

“Una, he—Stephen has told me. Oh, my darling, I hope you will be happy!”

Una smiled—a cold, mechanical smile.

“Happy? Yes, he says I shall be happy. Do you think,” and she looked calmly at the anxious, nervous face, “do you think I shall be happy?”

Mrs. Davenant drew her toward her.

“My dear, you frighten me. You—you are so—so strange and cold. Cold! Your hands are like ice. Oh, Una, do you know what it means—this that you are going to do? It is not too late. Think, Una. You know how I love you, dear. That I would give all the world to call you—what you are, my heart of hearts—my own daughter. But, oh, Una! if you think, if you are not quite sure that you will be happy——”

Una looked straight at the fire.

“He says so,” she said, in the same hard, cold voice; “he is clever and wise. He is your son; why do you doubt him?”

Mrs. Davenant shivered.

“I—I don’t doubt him, dear. Yes, he is my son; he has been a good son to me. But you are to be his wife; think.”

“I have thought,” said Una, quietly. “It will make him happy—he says so; and the rest does not matter to me. Yes, I have thought; I am tired with thinking”; and she put her hand to her brow with a sharp gesture, half wild, half weary. “I will make him happy, and I shall always be with you, whom I love. What does the rest matter?”

Mrs. Davenant uttered a little moan.

“And—and have you quite forgotten?”

Una looked at her calmly, but with a faint shadow in her eyes and a touch of pain on her lips.

“Forgotten! No, I shall not forget until I am dead; perhaps not then; who knows?” and the dreamy look came back. “But that cannot matter. He, Stephen, is content; I have told him all, and he is content. He is easily satisfied.” And for the first time a smile of bitterness crossed her lips. “Why should he love me so?” she said, curtly. “Why should he be so anxious to make me his wife? I cannot understand it. Is it because he thinks that I am beautiful? I looked in the glass just now, and it seemed a dead face.”

“Una!”

She turned and smiled.

“It is true. But I have made you cry. Don’t do that, dear. At least, we shall be together, shall we not?”

In answer, the poor woman took her in her arms, and cried over her; but Una shed not a single tear.

No, Stephen was not likely to fail. There were not likely to be any hitches in anything he undertook.

Even the weather seemed to conform to his plans and wishes, for the morning broke clear and bright, so that he might say:

“Happy is the bride whom the sun shines on.”

Without fuss or bustle, the traveling chariot, with its pair of handsome bays, drew up to the door; a couple of portmanteaus, no larger than was necessary for a day or two’s outing, were put in the box; and Slummers, in his tall hat and black overcoat, looking very much like the old-fashioned banker’s clerk, stood with the carriage door in his hand.

Presently Stephen came down the steps, dressed in a traveling suit, and looking as calm as usual, but for the touch of color in his face. He had grown younger in appearance, less prim and formal, and altogether better-looking. If he could have lost the trick of looking from under his lowered eyelids, he would have been worth calling handsome. He exchanged a word with Slummers.

“All right, sir. The horses are at Netherton; everything is arranged exactly according to your wishes.”

“And no one suspects anything?”

“Not a soul,” said Slummers, with a smile.

This morning’s work was the sort of thing Slummers liked. He was enjoying himself, and as happy as his master.

Stephen went into the house again, and presently Mrs. Davenant and Una appeared. Notwithstanding Stephen’s warning, Mrs. Davenant’s eyes were red; but Una showed no traces of emotion; pale, almost white, she looked calmly around her.

In the night she had started out of her sleep, calling wildly, piteously, on Jack to come and save her. But there was no Jack here—only Stephen, smiling and watchful as he came to meet her and help her into the carriage. For a moment her hand touched his bare wrist, and he felt it cold as ice even through her glove; but he smiled still as if he had no fear.

“Once mine,” he thought, “and all will be well!”

Quietly, with no fuss or bustle, Slummers closed the door, mounted the box, and the horses started off.

Stephen looked at his watch, and smiled.

“Punctual almost to the minute,” he said. “Are you warm enough, my darling?”

And he bent forward, and arranged the costly furs round the slight form.

“Quite,” she said; but she shrank into her corner with a little shiver.

Stephen left her to herself, but would not remain silent, chatting with, or rather to, Mrs. Davenant, in a strain of easy cheerfulness, his eyes wandering to the pale face just showing above the pile of furs.

Their hoofs ringing on the road, which a few hours of early frost had made hard, the horses, the finest pair in the county, for Stephen was critical in such matters and liked the best, spun the distance, and again, almost punctual to the minute, the village of Netherton, to which Stephen had sent the change of horses, was reached.

Slummers stepped down from the box, and was seen to enter the inn yard.

“The horses ought to be out and waiting,” said Stephen, with a little impatience.

A moment or two passed, and then Slummers came to the carriage door.

Stephen jumped out.

“What is it? Why do you not put the horses to?”—for the others had been taken out and were standing in the stable.

Slummers, for the first time in his life, changed color and hesitated.

“There has been some mistake, sir.”

“Mistake!”

“The horses are not here.”

Stephen glared at him.

“I can’t understand it, sir. I gave your orders most minutely, but George has taken the horses on to Clumley.”

Stephen bit his lip and glanced at the carriage.

“Put the others back,” he said, “and tell Masters to drive for his life.”

Slummers hesitated and went to the coachman, coming back in a moment with an uneasy countenance.

“I’m—I’m afraid they won’t reach Clumley in time, sir,” he said. “Masters says that it is impossible. Calculating on fresh horses, he has forced them a bit on the road, and they are used up. If you will look at them, sir——”

Stephen uttered an oath, and his face twitched.

The coachman came up, troubled but respectful. It was no fault of his.

“I thought I should get the change here, sir. I couldn’t do it, unless the horses had a quarter of an hour and a wipe down, and then——”

He paused and shook his head.

Stephen controlled himself, though his face was white.

“A quarter of an hour,” he said. “We will wait so long, and not a moment longer. Then drive as if your life depended on it. Do not spare the horses.”

Then he went to the carriage and forced a smile.

“A little delay,” he said, cheerfully. “Would you like to get out for a quarter of an hour, darling?”

Una shook her head.

“I do not care”; but Mrs. Davenant looked at her and spoke out.

“Yes, Stephen,” she said. “My dear, you are half frozen.”

Stephen went to the window of the inn and looked into the room, then went back.

“Come,” he said. “There is a pleasant fire. A rest and the warmth will do you good. Come,” and, wrapping a huge fur round her, he took her on his arm and entered the inn.

Mrs. Davenant followed into the room. A fire was burning in the old-fashioned grate. Stephen drew a chair near to the welcome blaze and led Una to it. White and indifferent she sat and looked at the flames.

“It is only for a few minutes, darling, then we shall be off. Come, drink some of this,” and he held a glass of hot spirit and water to her hand.

Una shook her head.

“Thanks, I could not,” she said, simply.

Stephen motioned to his mother.

“See that she takes some,” he said, in a low voice. “I will go and look after the horses,” and he turned. As he did so the door opened, and a lady entered.

For a moment, in the dim light of the low room, Stephen did not recognize her, then a chill fell on him as if a cold hand had laid on his heart. He staggered back, and then she raised her veil and looked at him.

Not a word passed. Face to face, eye to eye, they stood. A moment passed. Una had not looked round, only Mrs. Davenant stood speechless and trembling. Then, as if with an effort, Stephen regained possession of his quaking soul, and stole nearer to her.

“Laura,” he whispered, glancing behind him. “You here? You want me? Well, let us come outside.”

A smile, calm and scornful, flashed from her dark face.

“You cannot pass,” she said.

A wild devil leaped, full grown, into his bosom, and he raised his hand to strike her, but the next instant he was grasped by the shoulder and flung aside, and Gideon Rolfe stood over him.

The room whirled round; scarcely conscious that other figures had entered and surrounded him, he staggered to his feet. Then a cry, two words, “Father! Jack!” smote upon his ear, and with an effort he turned and saw Jack’s tall form towering in the low room, with Una clasped tightly, lying prone in his arms.

It was all over. Just as the criminal in the dock, when he sees the judge placing the black cap on his head, knows that his doom is sealed, Stephen knew that all was lost. But the will was not all subdued yet.

There was Davenant blood in his veins. White to the very lips, he stood and glared at them, one hand grasping the table, the other thrust in his breast. Then an evil smile curled the cunning mouth.

“Cleverly planned,” he said, speaking as if every word cost him a pang. “You have beaten me, thus far. Gideon Rolfe, I congratulate you upon the success of your maneuvers; in another hour your daughter would have been the mistress of Hurst; she will, now, I presume, be the wife of a beggar.”

Gideon Rolfe looked at him with stern, immovable eyes.

Stephen smiled and took up his hat.

“You have robbed me of my bride,” he said; “permit me to return to the home which still remains to me.”

There was an intense silence. Then a slight stir as Jack, carrying Una in his arms, left the room, followed by Mrs. Davenant. With haggard eyes Stephen watched them, then, with a convulsive movement, he took up his hat.

“You will find me at the Hurst,” he said; “I will go there. If there is any law in the land which can punish you, I will have it, though it cost me a fortune. Yes, I will go home.”

Still they were silent. Whether from pity, or awe at the sight of his misery, they were silent. He looked round and, as if he had called, Slummers glided to his side. They had already reached the door, when a voice said:

“Tell him.”

It was Jack who had returned to the room.

At the sound of the voice, grave and pitying, Stephen swung round as if he had been stung.

“You are here still,” he said, and a glance of malignant hatred distorted his face. “I thought you were in jail by this time. You were waiting to take your wife with you. It would have been wiser to allow her to go to the Hurst.”

“Tell him,” said Jack.

With a slow, almost reluctant movement, Laura Treherne drew a paper from under her jacket and held it up.

Stephen looked at it for a moment as if his sight had failed him, then he smiled.

“The plot thickens,” he said. “You have robbed me of my wife; you have, no doubt, some ready-forged document to rob me of my estate. Am I to give the credit to you for this?” Then he broke out wildly, with a mad laugh. “It is a forgery! a forgery! I will swear it. There is no such will. The marriage never took place. You’ve to prove both yet! You are not so clever as I thought. You should have stopped short where you were. You have got her, be satisfied; the rest is mine! Mine, and you cannot take it from me,” and he held his clinched fist toward Jack as he held all Hurst in his grasp.

“Show him,” said Gideon Rolfe.

Stephen waved his hand contemptuously.

“A stale trick,” he said. “A clumsy forgery. You cannot connect it with my uncle’s death. Go to your lawyer—Hudsley, if you will; he will be ready enough to help you—and he will tell you that proof is impossible.”

As he spoke his voice grew clearer. It was a relief to his overwrought brain to fight them on ground he had often mentally surveyed. With an insolent smile on his face he leaned both hands on the table and looked at them.

“Come,” he said, “you have not won everything yet. The Hurst is mine; I laugh your forgery to scorn. I will spend every penny of the estate to contest it. I assert that this paper was forged—last night—if you like. You cannot prove it was in existence an hour sooner; I defy you. You have overreached yourselves. Take care! This is your hour. Mine will come when I see you in the dock.”

In his excitement he had not noticed the entrance of the bent figure of Skettle, and he turned with a start as the thin, dry voice, close to his elbow, croaked:

“Quite right, Mr. Stephen. That’s their weak point—want of connection. If they could carry it back, say to the night of the squire’s death, now, it would be different.”

Stephen looked round with a cunning smile of defiance.

“This old fool will bear me out. Show him your will.”

“A daring forgery this, Mr. Stephen, if it is a forgery. Leaves the Hurst to Miss Una, the squire’s legitimate daughter. Fifty thousand to Master Jack; and a set of sermons to you.”

“No doubt,” he said, with a hoarse laugh; “it was not worth their while to do things by halves.”

“Been scorched, too,” said Skettle. “Bit torn out by the seal. Now, if they could find that bit in the possession of a respectable man, who could prove that he found it on the night, say, of the squire’s death, well—it would go hard with you, Mr. Stephen.”

“But they cannot.”

“I don’t know,” said Skettle; and slowly drawing out a leather pocket book of ancient date, he took out a piece of paper and fitted it to the will.

“It is a conspiracy!”

“It is the will I saw you looking for the night of the squire’s death.”

“Let me go.” And leaning heavily on the arm of his fellow-knave, he moved with the gait and bearing of an old man, to the door.

“Great Heaven, this is awful!” said Jack.

Winter had passed and spring had clothed the earth with her soft, green mantle, and in her glad sunlight that sat like a benediction on the great elms and smooth lawn of Hurst, a party of ladies and gentlemen were standing on the stone steps that led up to the entrance.

It was, in a word, the wedding day of Squire Jack Newcombe and Miss Una Davenant, and these good and tried friends were waiting about the steps to see the bride and bridegroom start for their honeymoon.

That Len and Laura and Lady Bell should be there calls for no surprise, but how comes it that Gideon Rolfe should be a willing witness to the marriage of Una with one of the hated race of Davenants? Well, when the cause of hatred is removed, all hate vanishes from the heart of an honest man.

On the day he learned that the old squire had not wronged the girl he had stolen from Gideon, Gideon’s hatred had flown, and in its place had sprung up a longing for atonement; and what better step could he take toward burying the old animosity than in giving his adopted daughter to the man of her choice—the man who would make her, as her mother had been before her, the Squire of Hurst’s wife?

And thus it came to pass that he stood silently, but not grimly waiting for his daughter—for she was still his daughter—to pass out to the new life of happiness. And presently there rose a buzz and a hum of excitement in the house, and the stalwart figure of Jack appeared on the top step. A moment later and the beautiful face of Una was by his side. No longer pale, but bright with blushes, and glowing with health and happiness, she stood, half timidly, pressing close to the proud fellow beside her.

Is it all a dream in her eyes, dimmed as they are by happy tears? Can it be true that Jack is all her own—that these good friends and true are really clustering round her, bidding her Godspeed and yet hindering her going as if they were loth to let her go? Perhaps she does not realize it all until they part and let her pass to where the old bent figure of Stephen’s mother stands waiting to see the last of the girl whom she has loved and still loves as a daughter.

Then as Una takes the trembling figure in her arms and kisses the pale face, she realizes it all, and through sobs she hears the faltering voice murmuring:

“God bless you, my darling! God bless and keep you!”

And as the broken benediction falls from the trembling lips, the crowd stand back, silent and tearful, and Jack and his bride are allowed to enter the carriage at last. Then breaks forth the cheer from outside the gates, and so, wafted around by blessings and good wishes, they commence their real life. A month later they will come back to find those friends who saw them depart, eager to welcome them back.

“No coming home to a silent house, my wild bird!” says Jack. “We’ll have them all here, everyone of them. I’d have all the world to see my darling, if I could.”

“My darling! my darling! they might take all the rest if they would leave me you.”

And Stephen? There is no difficulty in finding Stephen—he is too public a man. You can see and hear him any evening during the month of charitable meetings, if you will but go to the proper places.

There amongst philosophers and social reformers, you will see a tall, thin gentleman, with a white face and spotless linen, who, when he comes forward to make his speech, is received with deafening cheers, and who never fails to draw tears from the audience by his pathos and tender-souled eloquence; and when the meeting is over, if you wait beside the private entrance to the hall, you will see another tall, thin, black-coated man, who is like a reflection of the great philanthropist for whom he is waiting, and who, when he emerges, will take him by the arm and lead him to his brougham. For, excepting when he is before the public, Stephen is an injured, broken-down man, only at times able to whine out the story of the wrongs wrought him by the hands of those he most trusted. By his own account he has been robbed of his wife, his estate, his all, and left to the charity of a generous public; and it is only Slummers, besides Stephen himself, who knows that a check arrives punctually each quarter from Jack’s lawyer for the support of the man who returns forgiveness and generosity with undying hate and calumny. Yes, Stephen Davenant is regarded as a deeply injured man, and when he appears, with his pale face, and soft, mournful voice, there is always a show of handkerchiefs.

But Jack and Una are quite content, and whenever his name is mentioned, it is with more pity than anger. There is no room for aught else in their hearts but love.

[THE END.]