“I see,” said Una. “Then Mr. Davenant expects to get his uncle’s money, and then he will be rich. I am very glad. And he does not live in the same house with you?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Davenant—and surely there was something like a tone of relief in her voice—“no; when he is in London he lives in chambers in rooms by himself; but he has been staying at Hurst Leigh.”
“At Hurst Leigh!” echoed Una, softly, and a faint color stole over her face. How wonderful it was! That other—he whose face was always with her, was going there!
“At Hurst Leigh,” repeated Mrs. Davenant. “Do you know it?”
Una shook her head silently. She longed to ask more, to ask if Mrs. Davenant knew the youth who had taken shelter in the cottage, but she simply could not. Love is a wondrous schoolmaster—he had already taught her frank, out-spoken nature the art of concealment.
“It is a grand place,” continued Mrs. Davenant. “A great, huge place,” and she shivered faintly, “and—and if Squire Davenant has left it to Stephen, he will live there.”
“You don’t like it?” said Una, with acute intuition.
“No,” replied Mrs. Davenant, with unusual earnestness. “No, oh no! it frightens me. I was never there but once, and then I was glad—very, very glad to get away, grand and beautiful as it was!”
“But why?” asked Una, eagerly.
“Because—have you never heard of Ralph Davenant?”