man.”
The woodman nodded curtly.
“You are a woodman?”
Another nod.
“And poacher too, eh? No offense,” he added, coolly. “I only supposed so from the close way in which you keep your place locked up.”
“Suppose what you please,” retorted the woodman, if words so calmly spoken could be called a retort. “Yonder lies your road, you’d best be taking to it.”
“No hurry,” retorted the young man, thrusting his hands in his pockets and smiling at the ill-concealed impatience which struggled through the grave calm on the weather-beaten face. “Well, I’m coming. You’re not half such a bad sort, after all. What have you got inside there that you keep so close, eh? Some of the crown jewels or some of the Queen’s venison? Take my advice, old fellow—if you don’t want people to be curious, don’t show such anxiety to keep ’em out of your crib.”
The man, pacing on ahead, knit his brows as if struck by the idea.
“Curious folk don’t come this way, young sir,” he said, reluctantly.
“So I should think,” retorted the other. “Well, I’m not one of the curious, though you think I am. I don’t care a button what you’ve got there. Will you have a pipe? I’ve got some ’bacca.”
The man shook his head, and they walked on in silence for some minutes, the footpath winding in and out like a dimly-defined serpent. Presently it widened, and the woodman stopped short and pointed down the leafy lane.
“Follow this path,” he said, “until you come to a wood pile; take the path to the left of it, and it will bring you to Arkdale. Good-night, young sir.”
“Here, stop!” said the young man, and he held out his hand with a dollar in it. “Here’s a trifle to drink my health with.”
The woodman looked at the coin, then shook his head slowly; and with another “good-night” turned and tramped off.
Not at all abashed the young man restored the coin to his pocket, laughed, and strode on.
The woodman walked back a few yards, then stopped, and looked after the stalwart figure until it deepened in the gloom, a thoughtful, puzzled expression upon his face, as if he were trying to call up some recollection.
With a shake of his head, denoting failure, he made his way to the cottage, unlocked it and entered.
The door opened into what appeared to be the living room. It was small and plainly furnished, after the manner of a woodman’s hut, and yet, after a moment’s glance, a stranger would have noticed a subtle air of refinement in common with better habitations.
The table and chairs were of plain deal, the walls were of pine, stained and varnished, but there was a good thick carpet on the floor, and on one side of the room hung a bookcase filled with well-bound volumes.
Beside the table, on which was spread the supper, stood a chair, more luxurious than its fellows, and covered with a pretty chintz. The knife and fork laid opposite this chair was of a better quality than the others on the table; and beside the knife and fork lay a white napkin and a daintily engraved glass; the other drinking vessels on the table were of common delf. As the woodman entered, a woman, who was kneeling at a fire in an adjoining room, looked round through the doorway.
“Is’t you, Gideon?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Where is Una?”
“Una? Isn’t she with you? I heard voices. Who was it?”
“Where is Una?” he said, ignoring her question.
“In the clearing, I suppose,” said the woman. “She went out a few minutes ago. I thought she went to meet you?”
The man opened the door and called the dog, who had been wandering round the room in an uneasy fashion.
“Go, Dick,” he said. “Go fetch her!”
Then he came and stood by the fire thoughtfully.
“No,” he said, “it was not Una. I wish she wouldn’t leave the cot after dusk.”
“Why not? What’s the fear? What has happened? Who was that I heard with you?”
“A stranger,” he said, “a young gentleman lost his way. How long has she been gone?”
“Not ten minutes. A young gentleman. Think of that! How came he here?”
“Lost his way. He followed me through the Chase. He has gone on to Arkdale.”
“Lost his way,” repeated the woman. “Poor fellow! Five miles it is to Arkdale! A gentleman! A gentleman, did thee say?”
“Ay,” responded the man, frowning. “An outspoken one, too; I heard him at the bottom of the Chase and thought to give him the slip, but he was cunning, he teased the dog and ran us down. I had hard work to get rid of him; he looked sore tired. No matter, he’s gone,” and he gave a sigh of relief. “ ’Tis the first stranger that has come upon us since she came.”
“Lost his way,” murmured the woman, as she lifted a saucepan from the fire, “and a gentleman. It is a rare sight in Warden Forest. Why, Gideon, what has happened to thee?” and saucepan in hand, she stared at her husband’s cloudy brow.
“Tut—nothing!” he answered, thrusting a projecting log into the fire with his foot. “The young man’s face seemed—as I thought—’twas but a passing fancy—but I thought it was familiar. It was the voice more than the face. And a bold face it was. I wish,” he broke off, “that the lass would come in. From to-night I will have no more wanderings after sunset! One stranger follows another, and it is not safe for her to be out so late——”
“Hush!” interrupted the woman, holding up a forefinger. “Here she comes.”
“Not a word!” said Gideon, warningly.
As he spoke the door opened, the dog bounded in with a short yelp of satisfaction, and close behind him, framed like a picture in the dark doorway, stood a young girl.
CHAPTER II.
She had evidently run some distance, for she stood panting and breathless, the color coming and going on her face, which shone out of the hood which half covered her head.
She was dressed in a plain cotton dress which a woodman’s daughter might wear, and which was short enough in the skirt to reveal a shapely foot, and scant enough in the sleeves to show a white, shapely arm.
But no one would have wasted time upon either arm or foot after a glance at her face.
To write it down simply and curtly, it was a beautiful face; but such a description is far too meager and insufficient. It requires an artist, a Rembrandt or a Gainsborough, to describe it, no pen-and-ink work can do it. Beautiful faces can be seen by the score by anyone who chooses to walk through Hyde Park in the middle of the season, but such a face as this which was enframed by the doorway of the woodman’s hut is not seen in twenty seasons.
It was a face which baffles the powers of description, just as a sunset sky laughs to scorn the brush of the ablest painter. It was neither dark nor fair, neither grave nor sad, though at the moment of its entrance a smile played over it as the moonbeams play over a placid lake.
To catalogue in dry matter-of-fact fashion, the face possessed dark brown eyes, bright brown hair, and red, ripe lips; but no catalogue can give the spirit of the face, no description convey an idea of the swift and eloquent play of expression which, like a flash of sunlight, lit up eyes and lips.
Beautiful! The word is hackneyed