“Right, did you? Then I misunderstood you. Anyhow, I lost the right path, and wandered about until I came back to this cottage.”
“And you were going to stay at Arkdale? ’Tis but a dull place,” said Mrs. Rolfe.
“No; I meant taking the train from there to Hurst Leigh—— Hurst Leigh,” repeated the young man. “Do you know it? Ah,” he went on, “don’t suppose you would; it’s some distance from here. Pretty place. I am going to see a relative. My name is Newcombe—Jack Newcombe I am generally called—and I am going on a visit to Squire Davenant.”
Gideon Rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and strode into the lamplight.
The young man looked up in surprise.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
With an effort Gideon Rolfe recovered himself.
“I—I want a light,” he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his pipe. Then turning toward the window, he said: “Una, it is late; go to bed now.”
She rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her with an intent, but wholly respectful look.
But before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them, and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his seat with the other.