Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir Part 17

"Because I do not wish it--because the man you saw here last night, the man you were with by the lake, may come again"--a faint light of gladness shone in her eyes, and he saw it, and frowned sternly as he went on--"and I do not wish you to meet him."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly clasped in front of her; then she looked up.

"Father, tell me why you spoke so angrily to him--why do you not want him to come to Warden again?"

"I spoke as he deserved," he answered; "and I would rather that Warden should be filled with wild beasts than that he should cross your path again."

Her face paled slightly, and her eyes opened with wonder and pain.

"Is he so very bad and wicked?" she asked, almost inaudibly.

Gideon Rolfe strode to and fro for a moment before he answered. How should he answer her?--how warn and caution her without destroying the innocence which, like the sensitive plant, withers at a touch?

"Is it not sufficient that I wish it, Una?" he said. "Why are you not satisfied? Wicked! Yes, he's wicked; all men are wicked, and he's the most wicked and base!"

"You know him, father?" she asked. "You would not say so if you did not.

I am sorry he is so bad."

"Look at me, Una," he said.

She turned, her eyes downcast and hidden, her lips trembling for a moment.

"Yes, father."

"Una," he said, "what is the meaning of this? Why are you changed--why do you shrink from me?"

She looked up with a curious mixture of innocent pride and dignity.

"I don't shrink from you, father," she said in a low voice.

Gideon's hand dropped from her shoulder, and the frown gave place to a sad expression. "Has the time I looked forward to with fear and dread come at last?" he murmured, inaudibly, and he paced to and fro again, as if endeavoring to arrive at some decision.

Una watched him with dreamy, questioning eyes, in which shone a tender mournfulness. Why were all men wicked? Why was this one man, with the handsome face and the musical voice, more wicked than the rest? What was it that her father knew that should make him hate the youth so? These were the questions that haunted her as she waited silent and motionless.

At last, with a wave of the hand, as if he were putting some decision on one side, Gideon Rolfe turned to her and motioned her to the window-seat. "Una," he said, "last night you were wondering why your lot should be different from that of other girls; you were wondering why I have kept you here in Warden, and out of the world. It is so, is it not?"

She did not answer in words, but her eyes said "yes," plainly.

Gideon Rolfe sighed, and pa.s.sed his hand over his brow; it was a hand hardened by toil, but it was not the hand of a peasant, any more than was his tone or his words those of one.

"Una, I have foreseen this question; I have been expecting it, and I had resolved that when it came I would answer it. But," and his lips twitched, "I cannot do it--I cannot," and his brow contracted as if he were suffering some great, mental anguish. "For my sake, do not press me. In time to come, sooner or later, you must know the secret of your life, you must learn why and wherefore your whole life has been spent in seclusion; you have guessed that there is some mystery, some story--there is. It must remain a mystery still. For your own sake I dare not draw aside the veil which conceals; for your own sake my lips are for the present sealed. Child, can you tell me that, secluded and lonely as your life has been, it has been an unhappy one?"

"Father!" she murmured, and her eyes filled slowly.

"G.o.d forgive me if it has been!" he said, sadly. "I have striven to make it a happy one."

Silently she rose and laid her hand upon his arm and put up her lips to kiss him, but with a gentle gesture he put her away from him.

"Una, listen to me. All my life I have had but one aim, one purpose, your happiness and welfare. For your sake I left the world and an honored name----" he stopped suddenly, warned by the gentle wonder of her gaze, and with a faint color in his face hurried on--"for your sake, and yours only. Do you think that it is by choice that I have kept you hidden from the world? No, but of necessity. Una, between the world and you yawns a wide gulf. On this side are peace, and innocence, and happiness; on the other," and his voice grew grave and solemn, "lie misery and--shame." White and wondering, she gazed at him, and the innocent wonder in the beautiful face recalled him to himself. "Enough!

You can trust me, Una; it is no idle, meaningless warning. Remember what I have said, when your thoughts turn to the world beyond the forest, when you grow weary and impatient with the quiet life which, though it may seem sad and weary, is the only one you can ever know without pa.s.sing that gulf of which I have spoken."

"And now I want you to give me a promise, Una."

"A promise, father?" she echoed, in a low voice.

"Yes; I want you to promise me that if this--this young man should come, as he has threatened to do--that if he should come to you, and speak to you, you will not listen, will not speak to him."

An impatient frown knitted Gideon Rolfe's brow.

"Is this so much to ask you?" he said, in a low voice. "Is it so grave a thing to demand of you that you should avoid a man whom you have seen but twice in your life, one whom you know to be wicked and worthless?"

"Girl," he exclaimed, in low, harsh accents, "has the curse fallen upon you--already? Has he bewitched you? Speak? Why do you not speak? Has all the careful guarding of years been set at naught and rendered of no avail by the mere sight of one of his race, by a few idle words spoken by one of his hateful kin?"

He grasped her shoulder; instantly, with a revulsion of feeling, he withdrew his hand, and bent his head with a gesture almost of humility.

"Una, forgive me. You see how this unmans me--can you not understand how great must be the danger from which I wish to save you? Promise me what I ask you, for your own sake--ay, and for his."

"For his?" she murmured.

"Yes, for his. Let him but attempt to cross your path again, and I will not hold my hand. I held it once--would to Heaven I had not! I say, for his sake, promise that you will hold no speech with him!"

"Father, what has he done to make you hate him so?" she asked.

"I cannot, I will not tell you more than this: His race has ruined my life and yours--ruined it beyond all reparation here and hereafter. No more. I wait for your promise."

"I promise," she said.

"Good," he said. "I can trust you, child."

"Yes, you can trust me," she said, in a low voice; then with slow, listless steps she crossed the room and stole up-stairs.

CHAPTER XI.

The Savage, wholly unconscious of, and totally indifferent to, the fact that his every footstep was watched by Stephen, entered the "Bush" Inn and went straight to his room, the little knot of regular customers, who were drinking and smoking in the parlor, either rising respectfully as he entered or maintaining an equally respectful silence until he was out of hearing.

"Mr. Jack's a fine fellow," said the landlord, looking at the fire solemnly. "Did you notice his face as he went through? I'm afraid it's all over with the old squire. Well, well, rest his soul, I say. I'm not one to bear grudges against the dead."

There was, if not a hearty, a unanimous a.s.sent to this dutiful sentiment, and the landlord, encouraged, ventured a little further, looking first over his shoulder to see if the door was shut, and then glancing at a little wrinkled faced man who sat in the corner by the fireplace, and looked, in his rusty black suit, like a lawyer's clerk, as indeed he was.

"All over now, Mr. Skettle," said the landlord, with a little cough. "I wonder--ahem--who'll be the next squire?"

The old clerk peered out from under his hairless brows, and shook his head with a dry smile; it was a very fair imitation of his master's, Mr.

Hudsley's, manner, and never failed to impress the company at the "Bush."