Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir Part 27

"That," said Mrs. Davenant, peering at it, "that is--Jack Newcombe."

"Jack Newcombe," said Una, breathlessly. "You know him?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Davenant, with a sigh. "Poor Jack! Shut the book, my dear."

"Why do you say 'Poor Jack?'" said Una, with a hollow look in her beautiful eyes.

"Because--because he is a wicked young man, my dear," said Mrs.

Davenant. "Poor Jack!"

CHAPTER XV.

Amidst a profound silence Jack walked slowly and quietly out of the house. There was no anger in his heart against the old man whose favorite he had once been--for the moment there was scarcely any anger against Stephen; surprise and bewilderment overwhelmed every other feeling.

He had not expected a large sum of money--had certainly not expected the Hurst; and but for the words spoken by the dying man, he would not have expected anything at all, after having offended him in the matter of the money-lenders and the post-obit. But most a.s.suredly the squire had intimated that there would be something--something, however small.

And now he was told that there was nothing, that his name was not even mentioned.

Apart from any mercenary consideration, Jack was cut up and disappointed; if there had been a simple mourning ring, a few of the old guns out of the armory--anything as a token of the old man's forgiveness, he would have been satisfied; but nothing, not one word.

Then, again, he could not understand it, near his end as he was when he spoke to him. The squire was as sane and clear-headed as he had been at any time of his life, or at least so it seemed to Jack; and he certainly had given him to understand that he had left him some portion of his immense wealth.

It was another link in the chain of mysteries which had seemed to coil around Jack since he started from London.

Slowly and thoughtfully he made his way back to the "Bush," and began to pack up the small portmanteau which had been sent from town.

Hurst Leigh was no place for him; every minute he remained in it seemed intolerable to him. He would go straight back to town by the next train.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and he paused in his task of packing the portmanteau, an operation which he reduced to its simplest by thrusting in anything that came first and jamming it down tight with his fist; he stopped and looked up with a red flush on his handsome face. Why shouldn't he go to Warden Forest on his way back?

In a moment, the idea thrilled him with the delight of antic.i.p.ation, the next, a shade came over his brow. Why shouldn't he? Rather, why _should_ he? What was the use of his going? If he had no business there before, he had less excuse now. He was next door to a beggar--and----

Realizing for the first time the blow that had been dealt him by the squire's neglect, he continued at the jamming process, jumped and kicked at the portmanteau till it consented to be locked, and then went down to the bar and called for his bill.

There were several people hanging about--a funeral is a good excuse for a holiday in a country village--but Jack, in his abstraction, scarcely noticed the little group of men who sat and stood about, and merely nodded in response to the respectful and kindly greetings.

"But, Mr. Jack," said Jobson, with a deeply respectful air of surprise, "you don't think of going right away at once, sir?"

"Yes, I'm off, Jobson," said Jack. "What's the next train?"

"To London?" said a dry, thin voice behind him; and Jack turned and saw Mr. Hudsley's clerk--old Skettle. "There's no train to London till seven o'clock; there's a train to Arkdale in an hour, but it stops there."

"All right," he said, "I'll go to Arkdale; and, by the way, Jobson, I don't want to be bothered with the portmanteau; send it on by rail to my address--Spider Court, the Temple, you know."

Jobson touched his cap, and while he was making out the bill Jack lit his pipe and paced up and down, his hands in his pockets, the knot of men watching him out of the corners of their eyes with sympathetic curiosity.

Jack paid the bill--so moderate a one that he capped it with half a sovereign over; and with a "good-day" all round, started off. He had not got further than the signpost, when he felt a touch on his arm, and, turning, saw that old Skettle had followed him.

"Halloa," said Jack, in his blunt way, "what's the matter?"

The old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way.

"I'm very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the Hurst, Master Jack," he said, respectfully.

"But not more sorry than I am, Skettle, thank you."

"I'm afraid it's rather unexpected, Master Jack," he continued, his small, keen eyes fixed, not on Jack, but on his second waistcoat-b.u.t.ton, counting from the top.

"Well, yes, it is," said Jack, tugging at his mustache. "Very much so.

I've got a hit in the bread-basket this time, Skettle, and I'm on my back again."

Old Skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes that were looking rather ruefully at the ground.

"Hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, Master Jack?" he asked.

"Eh, what?" said Jack, who had not been paying much attention. "No, according to the rules; but what do you mean by the question? You are always such a mysterious old idiot, you know. You can't help it, I suppose."

Old Skettle smiled, if the extraordinary contortion of the wrinkled face could be called by so flattering a designation.

"I've seen such mysterious things since I first went into Mr. Hudsley's office to sweep the floor----"

"Now, then," said Jack, "none of that game; going into the old story, which I have heard a hundred times, of how you went as an office boy, and have risen to the proud position of confidential clerk. You're like one of the old fellows in the play, who draws a chair up to the footlights, and says, 'It's seven long years ago----' and the people begin to clear out into the refreshment bar, and wait there till he's done. Where were you? Oh, 'mysterious experiences.' Well, go on."

But old Skettle had, apparently, nothing to say; he had, while Jack had been speaking, changed his mind.

"I beg pardon for stopping you, Master Jack," he said. "I felt I couldn't let you go out of the old place without expressing my sympathy."

"Thanks, thanks," said Jack, holding out his hand. "You're one of the right sort, Skettle, and so's Hudsley. I believe he's sorry, too. Looks a little puzzled, too. Puzzled isn't the word for what I feel. I've got the sensation one experiences when he's been sitting through one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned melo-dramas. Not even a mourning-ring, or a walking-stick.

Poor Squire--well, I forgive him. He had a right to do what he liked with his own."

"Just so, Master Jack, but it's hard for you," said Skettle. "Not a mourning-ring. By the way, sir," and something like a blush crept over his wrinkled face. "If--if you should be in want of a little money----"

Jack stared, then laughed grimly.

"Well, you certainly must be mad, Skettle," he interrupted. "Want money!

When didn't I want it? But don't you be idiot enough to lend me any. It would be a jolly bad speculation, old fellow. There is not a Jew in London would take my paper. No, Skettle, it would be downright robbery, and I don't think I could rob you, you know."

"Do you remember the day you swam across the mill-pond, and fished my little boy out, Master Jack?"

"You take care I shan't forget it, Skettle," said Jack, with a smile.

"It was a n.o.ble deed, wasn't it? Every time you mention it, I try to feel like a hero, but it won't come. How is little Ned?"

"He's well, sir; he's in London now, working his way up. He'd have been in the church-yard if it hadn't been for you."