with half-closed eyes; “it must have been the wind. I can’t keep my head up.”
The woodman rose, and taking down from a cupboard a bundle of fox-skins, arranged them on the floor, put a couple of chair-cushions at the head to serve as pillows, and threw a riding-cloak—which, by the way, did not correspond with a woodman’s usual attire, and pointed to the impromptu bed.
“Thanks,” said Jack, getting up and taking off his coat and boots.
“It is a poor bed,” remarked the woodman, but the Savage interrupted him with a cheerful though sleepy assurance that it needed no apologies.
“I could sleep on a rail to-night,” he said, “and that looks comfortable enough for a king! Fine skins! Good-night!” and he held out his hand.
Gideon looked at it, but refusing it, nodded gravely.
“You won’t shake hands!” exclaimed the Savage, with a little flush and an aggrieved tone. “Come, isn’t that carrying the high and imposing rather too far, old fellow? Makes one feel more ashamed than ever, you know. Perhaps I’d better march, after all.”
“No,” said Gideon, slowly. “It is not that I owe you any ill-will for your presence here. You are welcome, but I cannot take your hand. Good-night,” and he went to the stairs.
At the door, however, he paused, and looked over his shoulder.
“Did you say that—Squire Davenant was your uncle, Mr. Newcombe?”
“Eh—uncle? Well, scarcely. It’s rather difficult to tell what relationship there is between us. He’s a sort of cousin, I believe,” answered Jack, carelessly, but yet with a touch of gravity that had something comical about it. “Rum old boy, isn’t he? You know him, don’t you?”
Gideon shook his head.
“Oh, I thought you did by the way you looked when I mentioned his name just now. Good thing you don’t, for you might have something to say about him that is not pleasant, and though the old man and I are not turtle doves just now, I’m bound to stand up for him for the sake of old times.”
“You have quarreled?” the old man said; but the Savage had already curled himself up in the fox-skins, and was incapable of further conversation.
Gideon Rolfe crossed the room, and holding the candle above his head, looked down at the sleeper.
“Yes,” he muttered, “it’s the same face—they are alike! Faces of angels and the hearts of devils. What fate has sent him here to-night?”
Though Jack Newcombe was by no means one of those impossible, perfect heroes whom we have sometimes met in history, and was, alas! as full of imperfections as a sieve is of holes, he was a gentleman, and for a savage, was possessed of a considerable amount of delicacy.
“Seems to me,” he mused, “that the best thing I can do is to take my objectionable self out of the way before any of the good folks put in an appearance. The old fellow will be sure to order me off the premises directly after the breakfast; and I, in common gratitude, ought to save him the trouble.”
To resolve and to act were one and the same thing with Jack Newcombe. Going into the adjoining room, he got out of the woodman’s and into his own clothes, and carefully restored the skins and the cloak to the cupboard. Then he put the remainder of the loaf into his pocket, to serve as breakfast later on, then paused.
“Can’t go without saying good-by, and much obliged,” he muttered.
A bright idea struck him; he tore the blank leaf from an old letter which he happened to have with him, and after a few minutes’ consideration—for epistolary composition was one of the Savage’s weakest points—scribbled the following brief thanks, apology, and farewell:
“Very much obliged for your kindness, and sorry to have been such a bore; shouldn’t have intruded if I’d known ladies were present. Will you oblige me by accepting the inclosed”—he hesitated a moment, put back the sovereign which he had taken from his pocket, and filled up the line—“for your wife.”
Instead of the coin, he wrapped up a ring, which he took from his little finger.
He smiled, as he wrapped it up, for he remembered that the wife had particularly large hands; and he thought, cunningly, “she will get it.”
Having placed this packet on the top of the cheese, he took a last look round the room, glanced toward the stairs rather wistfully—it was neither the woodman nor his wife that he longed to see—gently unbarred the door, and started on his road.
Choosing a sheltered spot, the Savage pulled out his crust, ate it uncomplainingly, and then lay down at full length, with his soft hat over his eyes, and while revolving the strange events of the preceding night, and striving to recall the face of the young girl, fell asleep.
CHAPTER IV.
A more beautiful spot for a siesta he could not have chosen. At his feet stretched the lake, gleaming like silver in the sun, and set in a frame of green leaves and forest flowers; above his head, in his very ears, the thrushes and linnets sang in concert, all the air was full of the perfumes of a summer morning, rendered sweeter by the storm of the preceding night, which had called forth the scent of the ferns and the honeysuckle.
As he lay, and dreamt with that happy-go-lucky carelessness of time and the daily round of duties which is one of the privileges of youth, there rose upon the air a song other than that of the birds.
It was a girl’s voice, chanting softly, and evidently with perfect unconsciousness; faintly at first, it broke upon the air, then more distinctly, and presently, from amongst the bushes that stood breast high round the sleeping Savage, issued Una.
The night had had dreams for her, dreams in which the handsome face, with its bold, daring eyes, and quick, sensitive mouth, had hovered before her closed eyes and haunted her, and now here he lay at her feet.
How tired he must be to sleep there, and how hungry! for, though she had not seen the note—nor the ring—she knew that he had gone without breakfast.
“Poor fellow!” she murmured—“his face is quite pale—and—ah——!” she broke off with a sudden gasp, and bent forward; a wasp, which had been buzzing around his head for some time, swept his cheek.
Too fearful of waking him to sweep the insect aside, she knelt and watched with clasped hands and shrinking heart; so intent in her dread that the wasp should alight on his cheek and sting him as almost to have forgotten her fear that he should awake.
At last the dreaded climax occurred; the wasp settled on his lips; with a low, smothered cry, she stretched out her hand, and, with a quick movement, swept the wasp off. But, lightly as her finger had touched his lips, it had been sufficient to wake him, and, with a little start, he opened his eyes, and received into them, and through them to his heart the girl’s rapt gaze.
For a minute neither moved; he lest he should break the dream; she, because, bird-like, she was fascinated; then, the minute passed, she rose, and drew back, and glided into the brake.
The Savage with a wild throb of the heart, saw that his dream had grown into life, raised himself on his elbow and looked after her, and, as he did so, his eye caught a small basket which she had set down beside him.
“Stay,” he called, and in so gentle a voice that his friends who had christened him the Savage would have instantly changed it to the Dove.
“Stay! Please stay. Your basket.”
“Why did you run from me?” asked the Savage, in a low voice. “Did you think that I should hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No, why should you?” and her eyes met his with innocent