Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir Part 21

"I have kept my vow. Her child has grown up ignorant of the shame which is her heritage. Here, buried in the heart of the forest, away from the world, I have kept and guarded her for her mother's sake. There is the story, told without gloss or falsehood. What have you to say?"

"You have discharged your self-appointed trust most n.o.bly! But--but that trust has come to an end."

"Who says so?"

"I say so. You have done your duty--more than your duty--I must do mine.

My uncle, on his deathbed, bequeathed his daughter to my charge."

"To yours?"

"To mine," said Stephen, gravely.

"Where is your authority?"

"That I do not come without authority is proven by the mere fact of my presence here and by my knowledge of my uncle's secret. No one but yourself, your wife and I know of the real ident.i.ty of this girl. It was my uncle's wish that the story of her birth should still remain a secret--that it should be buried, as it were, in his grave. Why should the poor girl ever learn the truth, when such knowledge can only bring her shame and mortification?"

"Grant that," said Gideon, "where could she better be hidden than here?

Her secret, her very existence, have been concealed from the world."

"True, but--but the future, my dear sir--the future! You are not a young man----"

"I am still young enough to protect her."

"My dear Mr. Rolfe, you may live--you look as if you would--to be a hundred; you have discharged your self-imposed task most n.o.bly, but you must not forget that it has now devolved upon one who is bound by ties of blood to fulfill it, if not so well, certainly with the best intentions. Mr. Rolfe, I am the young girl's cousin."

"You speak of ties of blood; say rather, the ties of shame! Suppose--I say suppose--that I refuse to deliver her up to your care?"

"I do not think you will do that. You forget that, after all, we have little choice in the matter."

Gideon Rolfe eyed him questioningly.

"The young girl is now of age, and----"

"Go on."

"And supposing that you were to refuse to hand her over to my charge, I should feel compelled to tell the story of her life, and----. Pray--pray be calm. I beg you to remember that I am not here of my own desire; that I am merely fulfilling my duty to my uncle, and endeavoring to obey his last wishes. I do not blame you for your reluctance to part with her. It does you credit, my dear Mr. Rolfe--infinite credit. But duty--duty; we must all do our duty."

"Has anyone of your name ever yet done his duty?" repeated Gideon, sternly.

"For my part, Mr. Rolfe, I have always striven to do mine; yea, even in the face of great temptation and difficulties. I must do it now. After all, why should you resist my uncle's wish? Consider, she, who was once a child, is now a woman. Do you think it possible to keep her imprisoned in this wood for the whole of her days?"

Gideon Rolfe turned toward the window. For the first time Stephen had found a weak spot in his armor. It was true! Already she was beginning to pine and hunger for the world. Could he keep her much longer?

"Come," said Stephen, quick to see the impression he had made. "Do not let us be selfish; let us think of her welfare, as well as our own wishes. Candidly, I must confess that I should be perfectly willing to leave her in her present obscurity."

Gideon Rolfe broke in abruptly.

"Where will you take her?" he asked, hoa.r.s.ely.

"It is my intention," he said, "to place her in my mother's charge. She lives in London, alone. There my cousin will find a loving home and a second mother. Believing that you would naturally have some reluctance at parting with her, not knowing with whom and where she was going, I have brought my mother with me."

Gideon glanced at the quiet, motionless figure seated on the bench outside, and then paced the room again.

"Does she know?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"She knows nothing," said Stephen. "My mother can trust me implicitly.

She has long wanted a companion, and I have told her that I know of a young girl in whom I am interested."

"You intend to keep her secret?" said Gideon.

"Most sacredly," responded Stephen, with solemn earnestness.

Gideon went to the door and opened it.

"Wait," he said, and disappeared.

CHAPTER XIII.

Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded in accomplis.h.i.+ng some great work for the good of mankind at large.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, mother," he said. "I have been making some arrangements with the worthy man, her father."

Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son.

"It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone?

He--he--doesn't he look rather superior for his station, and why does he look so stern and forbidding?"

"A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved and cold," replied Stephen, glibly, "and, of course, he feels the parting from his daughter."

"Poor man--poor girl!" murmured Mrs. Davenant.

Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe.

"Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee that the 'poor girl' will not long need anyone's sympathy. You are already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not so?"

Mrs. Davenant looked up--just as if she wanted to see what he expected of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say "yes," said it.

"Yes, I shall be very glad to have a young girl--a good young girl--as a companion, Stephen. My life has been very lonely since you have been away."

"And I may be away so much. But, mother, you will not forget what I said during our drive? There are special reasons why the girl's antecedents should not be spoken of. The friend who interested me in her wishes her to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life."

"I understand, Stephen."

"And, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or manner. Remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife."