Only One Love, Or, Who Was the Heir
Project BookishMall.com's Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir, by Charles Garvice
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Title: Only One Love, or Who Was the Heir
Author: Charles Garvice
Release Date: March 9, 2011 [EBook #35523]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
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Transcriber’s Notes
[1]
Only One Love
OR
WHO WAS THE HEIR
BY
CHARLES GARVICE
AUTHOR OF
“Claire,” “Elaine,” “Her Heart’s Desire,” “Leola Dale’s Fortune,”
“Her Ransom,” “Leslie’s Loyalty,” “Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold,”
“The Marquis,” “Only a Girl’s Love,”
“She Loved Him,” “A Wasted Love,”
Etc.
CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
407-429 Dearborn Street
[2]
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
PRINTERS AND BINDERS
407-429 DEARBORN STREET
CHICAGO
[3]
ONLY ONE LOVE
OR,
WHO WAS THE HEIR?
CHAPTER I.
One summer’s evening a young man was tramping
through the Forest of Warden. “Forest of Warden”
sounds strange, old-fashioned, almost improbable; but,
thank Heaven, there yet remain, in over-crowded England,
some spots, few and far between though they may be, still
untouched by the greedy fingers of the destroyers, whom
men call Progress and Civilization.
To this grand old forest, for instance, whose dim shades
echo the soft pit-pat of the deer and the coo of the wood-pigeon,
comes not the tourist, with hideous knapsack and
suit of startling check; no panting locomotive belches out
its cloud of coal smoke to dim the brightness of the sky
and choke the elms and oaks which reared their stately
heads before their fell enemy, the steam engine, was
dreamt of.
So remote and unfrequented is the forest that there is
scarcely a road from end to end of its umbrageous length,
for the trail made by the rough carts of the woodmen and
charcoal burners could scarcely be dignified by the title of
thoroughfare, and a few footpaths that wind about the
glades are so faint and seldom used as to be scarcely distinguished
from the undergrowth of ferny moss around.
Along one of the footpaths the young man tramped, occasionally
stopping for a moment to look up at the sky
which shone redly through the openings of the trees or
to watch some frightened hare scamper across the glade.
Every now and then a herd of deer would flit through
the undergrowth, turning toward him distended eyes of
alarm and curiosity, for of the two kinds of men with[4]
whom they were acquainted—charcoal burners and woodmen—he
was neither; nor did he belong to the tribe of
tourists, for he carried no knapsack, and instead of the
inevitable check and knickerbockers, was clad in a loose
Cheviot suit, which, though well worn, bore about it the
unmistakable stamp of Saville Row.
That he was young and light-hearted was evident from
the fact that he broke out into an occasional snatch of an
air from the last new popular opera bouffe, notwithstanding
that the evening was closing in and he had most completely
and emphatically lost his way.
Now, to lose your way in a forest reads rather romantic
and entertaining than otherwise, but like shipwreck, or
falling into the hands of Greek banditti, it is a much
pleasanter thing on paper than in reality.
A bed of moss, though very charming in the daytime,
is not nearly so comfortable as a spring mattress, and is
sure to be damp, and primeval oaks, majestic and beautiful
as they are, do not keep out the draught. The worst
room in the worst inn is preferable to a night’s lodging in
the grandest of forests.
But, though he had never been in the Warden Forest
before, the young man knew it would be midsummer madness
to hope for an inn and was wandering along on the
chance of coming across some woodman’s hut, or by meeting
a stray human being of whom he could inquire his
way.
He was tired—he had been walking since morning, and
he was hungry and athirst, but he tramped on, and smoked
and sang as carelessly as if he were strolling down the
shady side of Pall Mall.
Slowly the sun set, and the glades, which had been
dusky an hour ago, grew dark. The faint footpath grew
still more indistinct, the undergrowth denser and more
difficult for persons walking.
The pedestrian fought on for some time, but at last, as
he stumbled over one of the gnarled roots which a grand
chestnut had thrust up through the ground, he stopped
and, looking round, shook his head.
“A regular babe in the wood, by Jove!” he exclaimed.
“I shall have to make a night of it, I expect. Wonder[5]
whether the robins will be good enough to cover me over
in the proper nursery-book style? Is it any good halloing,
I wonder? I tried that an hour ago, much to the disgust
of the live animals; and I don’t think I can kick up a row
at this time of night. Let’s see how the ’bacca goes. Hem!
about three—perhaps four pipes. I wish I had something
to eat and drink; what a fool I was to leave that piece of
steak at breakfast. Steak! I mustn’t think of it—that
way madness lies. Well, this looks about as sheltered a
spot as I could find—I’ll turn in. I wonder if anybody
has, ever since the world began, hit upon a short cut? I
never have, and hang me if I’ll try it again. By George!
the grass is wet already. Such a likely place for snakes—find
my pocket full when I wake, no doubt.”
Then, with a laugh, he dropped down amongst the long
brake; but the idea of going to bed in a forest, at the early
hour of nine, was too much for him, and instead of composing
himself to rheumatic slumber, he began to sing:
“Oh, wake and call me early, mother,
Call me early, mother, dear.”
Scarcely had he finished the line when there came
through the darkness, as if in response, a short, sharp
bark of a dog.
The wanderer leapt to his feet as if something had bitten
him, and after listening intently for a moment, exclaimed:
“Another chance, by Jove!” and sent up a shout that,
ringing through the stillness, echoed from tree to tree, and
at last called forth the answering bark from the distant
dog.
Knocking out his pipe as he ran, he made his way as
best he could toward the sound, shouting occasionally and
listening warily to the dog’s response.
At last, after many a stumble, he found himself in a
narrow glade, at the end of which, faintly defined against
the patch of sky, stood the figure of a man.
“Saved, by George!” exclaimed the youth, with mock
melodramatic emphasis.
“Halloa! Hi! Wait a moment there, will you?” he
shouted.
The figure stopped and turned its head, then, after[6]
what seemed a moment’s hesitation, brought back the dog,
which was running toward the belated youth, and suddenly
disappeared.
The wanderer pulled up and stared about the glade with
an astonishment which immediately gave place to wrath.
“Confound his impudence!” he exclaimed, fiercely.
“I’ll swear he saw me! What on earth did he mean by
going off like that? Did the fool think I was a ghost?
I’ll show him I’m a ghost that carries a big stick if I
come up with him. Confound him, where——” Then, as
a sudden thought struck him, he set off running down the
glade, barking like a dog.
No live, real dog could withstand such an invitation.
The dog ahead set up an angry echo, through which the
youth could hear the man’s angry attempt to silence the
animal, and guided by the two voices, the wanderer struck
into a footpath, and running at a good pace, came suddenly
into a small clearing, in which stood a small wooden
hut, before the door of which man and dog were standing
as if on guard.
For a moment the two men stood and regarded each
other in silence, the youth hot and angry, the man calm
and grim.
Each, in his way, was a fine specimen of his class; the
man, with his weather-beaten face and his thick-set limbs,
clad in woodman’s garb; the youth, with his frankly handsome
countenance and patrician air.
“What the deuce do you mean by leaving a man in the
lurch like this?” demanded the young man, angrily. “Did
you take me for a ghost?”
The woodman, half leaning on his long-handled axe, regarded
him grimly.
“No. I don’t come at every man’s beck and call, young
sir. What’s your will with me?”
“Why didn’t you stop when I called to you just now?”
retorted the youth, ignoring the question.
“Because it didn’t suit me,” said the man, not insolently,
but with simple, straightforward candor. “You
are answered, young sir; now, what do you want?”
The young man looked at him curiously, conquering his
anger.[7]
“Well, I’ve lost my way,” he said, after a moment’s
pause.
“Where are you going?” was the quiet response.
“To Arkdale.”
The woodman raised his eyes, and looked at him for a
moment.
“Arkdale? Yes, you are out of the way. Arkdale lies
to the west. Follow me, young sir, and I’ll show you
the road.”
“Stop a moment,” said the other; “though you declined
to wait for me just now, you would not refuse to give me a
glass of water, I suppose.”
The man turned, he had already strode forward, and
laid his hand on the latch of the cottage door.
The young man was following as a matter of course;
but the woodman, with his hand still on the latch, pointed
to a wooden seat under the window.
“Take your seat there, sir,” he said, with grim determination.
The other stared, and the hot blood rose to his face; but
he threw himself on the bench.
“Very well,” he said; “I see you still think me a ghost;
you’ll be more easy when you see me drink. Look sharp,
my good fellow.”
The woodman, not a whit moved by this taunt, entered
the cottage, and the young man heard a bolt shot into its
place.
A few moments passed, and then the man came out with
a plate and a glass.
“Thanks,” said the young man. “What’s this?”
“Cider—cake,” was the curt answer.
“Oh, thanks,” repeated the other; “jolly good cider,
too. Come, you’re not half a bad fellow. Do you know
I meant to give you a hiding when I came up to you?”
“Very like,” said the man, calmly. “Will you have any
more?”
“Another glass, thanks.”
With his former precaution in the way of bolting and
barring, the man entered the cottage and reappeared with
a refilled glass.[8]
This the young man drank more leisurely, staring with
unconcealed curiosity at his entertainer.
It was a kind of stare that would embarrass six men out
of ten, and madden the remaining four; but the woodman
bore it with the calm impassiveness of a wooden block,
and stood motionless as a statue till the youth set down the
glass, then he raised his hand and pointed to the west.
“Yonder lies Arkdale.”
“Oh! How far?”
“Four miles and a half by the near road.
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