Having deposited his burden with the blacksmith, and promised to call for it, he asked the way to the doctor's house, and found himself obliged to run nearly a mile. A smart motor was at the door when he arrived, and the maid said the doctor was seeing a patient, but would speak to him when disengaged. The minutes seemed hours to Felix as he sat in the hall, filled with a vast and overwhelming depression. It was of no use to struggle against his destiny. Rona, the sole thing for which he was making this last stand, was going to die.
The door opened, the doctor came out, and advanced across the hall, accompanied by an elderly lady with a plain, humorous face, and a natural charm of manner.
"Well," she said, "that is reassuring, doctor. But mind, nothing is to be spared. Let the poor fellow have port wine or tonic, or anything he ought to have, and send in the bills to me."
"You are splendid!" was the reply, in a tone of deep feeling. "What would happen without you, I wonder? Hullo, my good man, what can I do for you?"
He spoke to Felix, who could not immediately reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling, and grew white. He had seen the lady from time to time in his boyish days. She was only sister to his father's first wife—her name was Miss Rawson. She lived at Normansgrave, and kept house for Denzil Vanston.
I loved and love you—here is simple speech;I loved and love you, who are out of reach.—WILLIAM WATSON.
For a minute or two the possibility that Denzil's aunt might recognize him rose up and flooded out everything else in the mind of Felix. That would be the culminating point of shame. Yet, as he thought it over, he felt nearly certain that she could not. She had not seen him since he was a Rugby boy. He was changed out of all knowledge, and he had never been considered like his father, so there would be no family likeness to guide her. And then there was the safeguard of his disreputable appearance.
Choking down his nervousness, and by a great effort avoiding looking at Miss Rawson, he mumbled out, with as thick a Cockney accent as he could assume, the fact that his sister was ill aboard a canal boat at the wharf. She had had an accident cleaning "winders." She fell out over the rail of a balcony. He faltered out his story, aware of very formidable gaps in it, should he be called upon to substantiate it. But if the doctor was to help the suffering child he must know what had happened to her. The pickle-factory story and the anæmia were no good here, though they had served theGeorge Barnes. He added the fact that they had no money.
Felix became aware that Miss Rawson was looking at him with her kind face charged with pity. She laid her hand upon the arm of the doctor.
"Here is my motor," said she; "jump in. What do you say is the name of the barge? TheSarah Dawkes? Yes, thank you, you will follow on foot, will you not?"
He assented, relieved beyond measure to think of the approaching help for Rona. The two got into the car, which whizzed out of sight in a moment, and Felix stumbled back, limping in his worn-out boots, along the mile to the village.
He had forgotten the windings of the river. He had not realized that, though ten miles or more along the water to Normansgrave, Dunhythe was only a very few miles by road.
He was all wrapped up in the thought of what he was to do. He could not face Denzil—Denzil would know him in a moment. And if Miss Rawson were to take an interest in the case, who knew but that Denzil might at any moment appear?
He could not tell what feeling was uppermost, as at last he came in sight of the wharf. A small crowd of natives was collected on the landing-stage, the motor was still in waiting, and several people seemed to be picking their way about the encumbered deck of theSarah Dawkes.
As he approached he made out the figure of the doctor, moving along with a huge bundle in his arms, which at once he knew to be the muffled form of Rona.
His girl! They were taking her away! A rebellion now tore at his heart, as unlike as possible to that despair of lethargy which had filled his soul before the coming of Rona into his life. In spite of his sore feet he ran as hard as he could, crossed the bridge, and came panting up, just as the doctor was carefully placing the sick girl in the motor.
"What are you doing?" cried Felix, in a voice that did not belong to a barge-boy.
It surprised the doctor, but, as it happened, Miss Rawson was out of earshot. She had remained to offer Mr. Doggett half a sovereign for his humane care of the invalid. "Lord love yer, I'd 'a done twice as much if I'd 'a bin arst," said he, with a geniality few were privileged to perceive in his usual manner. "Love the gal as if she was me own I do, and 'er brother'll tell yer jest the syme if you was to arst 'im."
The brother at the moment was standing there all a-quiver, his extremely beautiful dark gray eyes appealing to the doctor in a passion of protest.
"It's all right, my man, your sister will be nursed and taken care of like a Princess," said Dr. Causton. "Miss Rawson runs a cottage hospital at Aylfleet, and we are taking her there. I fear there is internal inflammation. The bargee says you and he are going to Basingstoke, and coming back by the same route. Well, she won't be wanting to see you for some days to come, I'm afraid; and you can stop on the way back and come up to find out how she is."
There was one master question at the back of Felix's mind, and he asked it straight out, and with no hesitation, "Will she die?"
The doctor looked at him with a puzzled interest. But he had seen a good deal in his London hospital days, and he knew that such a thing as a deep fraternal devotion is not unknown, though certainly rare, among the lowest classes. "No, I hope not," he said; "she has a fine constitution, and I don't see why she should not pull through."
Felix turned to look at the girl, moaning and tossing in her wrappings. She knew nobody, she had no need of him, she was going to be taken care of—he must let her go. With a rush the conviction came to him that he should never see her again. He had not wept for years, but tears blinded him now. They overflowed his eyes, and, to his fury, he had to lift his hand and dash them away.
Who was he, the acquaintance of a moment, to have any claim upon her? Perhaps when she was rational again she would not remember that she had ever seen him. He had read of such things in books. Miss Rawson hurried up.
"There, poor fellow," said she, with deep pity, "how glad I am that I just chanced to be down at the surgery when you called. It seems providential for your poor little sister! We shall take such care of her up at our sweet little hospital you won't know her when next you see her. Let me see, Smith you say the name is?"
"Yes, miss. Rona Smith."
Her kind hand was outstretched. He suddenly became aware that there was a coin in it. With a tremendous effort he resisted the impulse to push it away, and accepted it thankfully. He would be able to buy pen, ink, paper, stamp, and write a few lines for Rona to have when she was no longer delirious—words telling her the story he had fabricated, and coaching her in what she must say when she was questioned.
"Thank you, miss," said he, meekly, adding, as he shut the carriage door, "and Gawd bless yer," with as thick an accent as he could assume. He had much more to say, but there was no time, the motor was off in two twos, as a member of the interested throng around remarked.
"Ah! she's a good 'un, is Miss Rawson," pronounced a woman who was wiping her hands on a corner of her canvas apron. "A little bit of all right she is, and no mistake. Not like that last 'un they had up at Normansgrave, a painted Jezebel no better than a ——" She used a foul word vigorously. "Seemed queer a man of old Vanston's sort should 'a married such as her."
"And the son no better, seemin'ly," chimed in a man leaning on a post. "I did 'ear 'e 'ad gone to the deuce as clean as a whistle; but, Lord! I ain't one to believe all I 'ear."
"Not even your ears wouldn't be large enough down in these parts," said the woman, cheerfully, waddling into her cottage door.
Felix, who had overheard this conversation, mooned down to the water's edge, his face set hard to prevent tears, and went aboard theSarah Dawkes.
"An' now she's gorn, glory be," observed Doggett gayly. "Now you an' me can be comfortable, and if you come over to the Flower-pot with me, I don't mind standin' yer a sorsidge an' mashed. 'A good deed,' says the lydy, 'never goes without its reward, my man'; and I tell yer stryte, I ain't sorry I took yer sister aboard, though at the time it went all agin me."
Felix had no reply to make. He turned his back, and went along to where the empty lair which had contained Rona lay upon the deck. What should he do? Wait till the darkest hour of night and then drop into the smooth black water?
No! She still lived; and, though it was not likely, it was still possible that she might want him again.
When the drunken comrade mutters and the greatguard-lantern gutters,And the horror of our fall is written plain,Every secret, self-revealing, on the aching, whitewashed ceiling,Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?—RUDYARD KIPLING.
The master of Normansgrave had come in from his golf, had been upstairs, made the necessary change in his dress, and returned to the hall, where he stood in the light of the fire, reading theSpectator. He was a young man of medium height, medium complexion, and medium looks. If it were added that his intellect also was of a medium quality, it would describe him pretty accurately. He was neither good nor bad, able nor foolish, handsome nor ugly. Just one of those men whose bent is determined largely by circumstances.
Circumstances had made him master of a comfortable though not extensive property. Circumstances had placed him always in strong and virtuous opposition to a rowdy stepmother and an impossible half-brother. Circumstances also made him one of the county eligibles. And this, perhaps, was the unkindest trick that Circumstance had played him.
The ruling motive of his conduct was a terrible fear of throwing himself away. He did not put it like that. He would have said, to anybody who might be interested, that, with the sad example of so good a man as his father before him, and the risk of the old estates descending to Felix, it behoved him to be peculiarly careful. But the real truth was that he thought nobody good enough to be mistress of himself and Normansgrave combined. He used to lament the inadequacy of modern young ladies from time to time to Miss Rawson, who gave her sympathy with a twinkle in her eye, and longed to see the correct young man deeply in love with an unsuitable person.
In fact, she had lately begun to be of the opinion that it was high time her nephew, who was now past thirty, ranged himself. That very day, before going out in her motor, she had arranged a little house-party, to include one or two nice girls, and determined to urge Denzil to permit her to invite them forthwith.
But now the clock was moving perilously near the sacred dinner-hour; and Miss Rawson was not in, said the correct butler, who was, like his master, a study in mediocrity.
As he decorously swept a few ashes from the red tiles of the warm hearth, the purring of the motor sounded without; and in a minute or so Miss Rawson came in, a few flakes of snow powdering her furs.
"My dear boy, I am more than sorry. A case of sickness, and I used the motor to take it to the Cottage Hospital——"
Denzil's eyes expressed horror—almost dismay.
"My dear Aunt Bee—was it infectious?"
"Infectious? Oh, no, it was an accident. Such a curious, mysterious thing—such a wonderful, simply wonderful girl—I must tell you all about it! I found her lying among some hay in a canal barge. Wait a few minutes—I'll not keep you," and she went flying upstairs like a young woman, calling her maid as she ran.
"You have quite stimulated my curiosity," said Denzil later, as he helped her to soup. "A wonderful girl in a canal barge? Tell me all about it."
"Smith is the name—not very romantic," said Miss Rawson between her spoonfuls. "The brother rushed up for Dr. Causton, just as I was in the surgery talking to him about old Lambert. He—the brother—was a dirty young ruffian, but seemed in great distress, and said his sister had fallen from a window while cleaning it, and that she had injured herself, he feared, internally. They had, apparently, no idea that the injury was so serious, and he thought if he took her out into the country and the fresh air, and she rested, it would get well. She had a horror, it seems, of going to a hospital; that would have meant leaving her alone in London, as he had to go with the barge. So I went on board with the doctor, and there she was lying among the hay in a high fever—104 point two, Dr. Causton says—and we saw she must be taken to the hospital, so off we rushed in the motor. Then, when Sister Agnes undressed her, she told me the girl was no common girl—her underclothes were beautiful, she was carefully nurtured. She keeps on talking of a convent school, and calling for the Reverend Mother. Sister Agnes and I believe that she has run away, and probably got hurt in escaping from a window. Don't you think that sounds probable?"
"Possible, certainly," said Denzil. "But what about the man?"
"Well, he looked a regular ruffian to me, but the doctor says some of that was put on. He says once, when he was off his guard, he spoke with a clear, educated accent."
"Why, you have got hold of a romance," said Denzil, with interest. "Shall I go down to the wharf and have a look at him?"
"Oh, you won't find him! They go on to Basingstoke at once. But on his return journey he will come to see if she is well enough to be moved. You ought to go and look at her, Denzil, she is most remarkable. She is not grown up yet, but she is going to be a lovely woman—such hair—a dark, rich chestnut, not a bit red, but like Romney's 'Lady Hamilton.' And dark blue eyes—what a novelist might call violet, I should think—and very remarkable, expressive features. When she is conscious and out of pain, she ought to be worth looking at."
"Were they alone on the barge?" asked Denzil.
"Oh, no, the master was there too. He said the boy had worked for him three years, and was a very good boy. Poor old man, he seemed quite upset; he said he was as fond of the girl as if she had been his own."
"Well, that doesn't seem to favor your escape theory."
"No, it doesn't," said she, thoughtfully; "but there is something odd about them, I feel sure."
The subject was of such interest that they talked of it all dinner-time. The Cottage Hospital was as much his hobby as it was hers, and they were full of simple pleasure and self-congratulation that its walls should have been waiting, in all their new and dainty cleanliness, to shelter the pretty stranger girl in her extremity. Miss Rawson promised her nephew that he should visit her as soon as the doctor would permit—and then she resolutely changed the subject to that of inviting a few people to stay.
Denzil was willing to consent. He usually went abroad for a month in March and April, because he had an idea that persons of means and culture were in the habit of visiting Italy and the South of Europe at that time. But his chief friend, a parson of independent means, upon whose art opinion he depended in great measure, would not be able to accompany him that spring. So the invitations were to go out, and Denzil dwelt with pleasure upon the prospect of once more meeting Myrtle, daughter of Colonel Bentley, a nice-looking girl who did district visiting and read Tennyson, a blend which seemed to Denzil eminently suited to his notions of what might fitly become the future mistress of Normansgrave.
It was the custom of the aunt and nephew to drink their coffee in the hall, before going to the little drawing-room in which they passed the evenings when alone. Aunt Bee sipped her coffee and looked at the papers, while Denzil smoked one cigarette—at times two—and also looked at the papers. In this way, if anybody happened to come to the door during this quarter of an hour, they were in full view. But, as a rule, nobody ever came to the front door between half-past eight and nine. To-night was an exception. The bell rang. Chant, the correct manservant, came with an expression of martyrdom from the servants' hall, where he had just sat down to supper. He was heard talking, somewhat eagerly they thought, to somebody in the porch; and after a pause, in which the master of the house stood with his coffee-cup raised and his attitude that of suspense, he came back with a disturbed countenance and nervous manner.
"It's Mr. Gregory, sir, to see you."
"Gregory!" This was the village constable.
"Yes, sir, it's important, please, sir, I understood him to say."
Denzil turned swiftly to Miss Rawson. "Something about your mysterious Lady of the Barge," he said, with a smile. "Tell Gregory to step inside, please, Chant."
The constable entered, buttoned up tight in his uniform, which had apparently been constructed when he was less stout. He made his bow, and glanced diffidently at Miss Rawson.
"Well, Gregory, is your business with me very private?"
Gregory grew red. His message distressed him, for the Vanstons were respected in the village. "It's about Mr. Felix, sir."
Denzil's heart turned over. He might have guessed. This was not the first time the shadow of police-courts had overspread the home of his ancestors. The bitterness of what he had been through—the memory of his first hearing the news of his brother's arrest—his hurried journey to London to retain counsel for the defense—the fiery and insolent demeanor of the foolish young culprit—the horror of those days in the close, stifling air of the Law Courts—and the final humiliation of hearing Felix Vanston sentenced. All broke at once upon the memory of the young man with a stroke like that of a whip falling on bare flesh. He grasped the high mantel, felt a sickness creep over him, sank into a chair, and looked stonily at his aunt. "About Felix!" he said, hoarsely.
Aunt Bee laid aside her paper and turned to face poor Gregory, who stood miserably toying with some folded papers.
"Dear, dear, Gregory," she said, nervously, "have you bad news for us?"
"I'm afraid so, miss. Mr. Felix, since he came out on his ticket-of-leave"—Denzil winced—"he's been trying to make a little money by—by writing of books, sir, what I can make of it in the account here." He adjusted his spectacles with what seemed like maddening slowness to the two watching. "He's lodged, sir, in Poplar, in Bow, in the Borough, and now at last in Deptford—No. 6, Hawkins Row. He was there a matter of ten days, and on Monday last he paid his rent. The woman thinks he pawned an overcoat and one or two things to pay it. He also, sir—he also bought some laudanum."
"Denzil!" cried Miss Rawson, appealing. "I told you your last letter was too hard!"
"Too hard!" Denzil turned eyes of dignified reproach upon his aunt. "You say,too hard! After what he has called upon me to endure! I have many things with which to reproach myself, but being hard upon Felix is not one of them."
Gregory had been fumbling with his papers, and now at last succeeded in extracting and bringing out the one he sought. "They have sent down an officer from Scotland Yard, sir," he said, "but me knowing the family, if I may venture to say so, I thought you would maybe be better pleased if I came along myself with the noos, sir. There's no such thing as breaking noos, sir, I know that. But a stroke comes easier sometimes if brought by one that has the welfare of the family at heart."
Denzil did not hear the tremulous speech. He had snatched the letter—the terrible letter—which Felix had left upon the table in his room. "Dear Pharisee."
The epithet thundered at him. He read the reckless, unjust words over and over.
He read it once—twice—then he rose, held it out to Miss Rawson, and, slowly turning, sank in his chair with his face hidden upon his arms.
"Oh, heavens!" he cried aloud, "I have not—no, I have not deserved this!"
It was a characteristic cry. What had he done, he the blameless, the well-conducted; he who had endured at his stepmother's hand treatment that might well have soured a sweeter nature than his own; he who knew, concerning that same stepmother, things that might have wrecked her chance of inheriting anything, had he told his father of them! He had behaved, so it seemed to him, with a wonderful Christian fortitude and forbearance. And this horrible suicide, this outrageous indictment, was his reward.
The constable was speaking. "He seems to have burnt all his papers, sir, in the grate first. The grate was full of burnt paper and the hearth, too. The officer thinks he burnt the manuscript of a book, sir. The empty bottles of laudanum, and the empty mug out of which he drank it, sir, were on the table. There was not a morsel of food, nor any clothes at all in the room, nor any luggage."
Vanston made an effort, and managed to say, "I told the police-court missionary to look after him. I put money in his hands for him."
"He had not seen him, sir, for two months. He offered Mr. Felix work, and he declined it."
There was a silence. Miss Rawson could not speak. She had read the letter, and was inexpressibly shocked. Knowing what she did of Felix, she had thought Denzil quite justified in declining to receive him until he should have shown some signs of regretting the dishonor he had brought upon the family.
Denzil sat staring straight before him into the fire. He remembered what a pretty little chap Felix used to be, and that he had been glad to have a small admiring brother to trot after him round the gardens and imitate all he did, and take his word for law. A sharp pain constricted his heart; he felt inclined to break down and weep like a woman.
"What time—when—is the inquest?" he asked. "I must go to town at once."
"This is the strange part of the story, sir," said Gregory. "The inquest can't be held until they find the body."
Denzil had risen, and stood with his hand stretched out towards the bell. He stared at the constable in a dazed fashion.
"Until they find the body?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Felix was not there, in his room, when they searched it."
Denzil still stared.
"What they think, sir, is that Mr. Felix, after drinking his dose, went out and jumped into the river. Same as the young man did last Tuesday was a month, at Norwich. Perhaps you read about it, sir. Took the stuff, went out, and as soon as he got sleepy rolled into the water. Laudanum don't always act, sir, not by itself. The water makes sure."
Denzil raised his hand and looked at the letter. That left no doubt at all as to the intentions of the writer. He meant to commit suicide. His destruction of everything, the purchase of the little bottles, which had taken a fortnight to collect, told of the extreme deliberation of the plan. The fact that, so far, the body had not been recovered did not seem to him to leave much hope. Gregory said the London police had not much hope, either. He said nothing about the disappearance of the girl from the room above, for the excellent reason that the police knew nothing of it. To bring themselves into prominence in the matter was no part of the programme of the two worthies who were interested in Rona's future career. The landlady of the house whence the disappearance took place was also only too glad to hold her tongue. She and the two men both thought that the girl's vanishing must be connected with that of young Vanston. But as they dared ask no questions, they had no clew. As long as there was no inquest the landlady could not be put into the witness-box, and nothing could appear in the Press which would give to the fugitives, should they be alive and together, the very least idea that they were associated in the mind of anybody.
Levy, the scoundrel who had purchased Rona, argued that young Vanston was a gentleman, and had relatives who would make an effort to find him. Let them do this. If they found him, ten to one they found her. Money and time would be saved to himself and Rankin Leigh. They could remain in the background, and reap the benefit of anything the police discovered.
As to what had actually happened they themselves were in a state of uncertainty. The window of Felix's room had been found fastened on the inside. Nobody had seen the two or either of them leave the house. The door of the room wherein the girl had been confined was locked. There were no traces of her having fallen out of the window, though this must have been her way of escape. But had she thrown herself out she must have been killed or seriously injured; and of her having lowered herself by a rope or any other means there was no trace. Their exhaustive inquiry into accident cases at adjacent hospitals had led to nothing. A young man could not have carried off a badly injured girl without attracting notice. Had she fallen upon the railway lines her body would certainly have been found.
The morning papers all published the curious story of the disappearance of a suicide. They printed in full the two letters—that of Denzil to Felix; that of Felix to Denzil. The evening papers even had leading articles arguing as to whether the elder brother had or had not behaved with harshness to the younger.
No information was forthcoming as to where Felix had spent the last few hours of his life. For the newspapers did not know, and the police did not know, that all-important fact, which would have meant so much to Denzil and his aunt, that there had been two suicides, and not only one. And Comrade Dawkes was not one to court publicity.
If the crew of theGeorge Barneshad but known the story of the girl who dropped out of the window! But they did not know it. So in London the police searched, and Denzil advertised, and Levy and Rankin Leigh waited for the upshot of it all. But nothing happened. No body was discovered in the Thames; no young man under the influence of laudanum was to be found in any police-station or hospital.
The invitations for the house-party at Normansgrave were not dispatched. The Squire retired in bitterness of spirit to his study, where he sat up half the night, and departed to London next morning by an early train.
And down in the cottage hospital at Aylfleet lay Veronica Leigh, for two days delirious, for two or three days more weak and hardly conscious; and then, again, for some days slowly gaining strength and grip on life.
An interest in her recovery and in hearing reports of her progress was the only thing which at that time could divert the mind of Denzil Vanston from its continual preoccupation concerning his brother's fate. Awful as suicide is, it yet almost seemed to him as if he would rather be sure of the worst than continue in uncertainty. If Felix were dead, he would have to alter his will. There were very few Vanstons living, but there were two or three descendants of his grandfather in a remote county. The dissatisfaction with which he thought of them brought clearly home to him the fact that he must marry. As soon as it should be decent, that house-party must be collected. As soon as people had left off talking to him about his brother's fate and the unkind publication of the two letters left upon the table, he would turn his attention to his duties in providing an heir to rule after him at Normansgrave. He would not put on mourning, nor allow Miss Rawson to do so until he had some proof that Felix was actually dead. But his restlessness and depression grew from day to day; and at last, to distract him and give his thoughts a new turn, Miss Rawson said to him:
"Drive me down to Aylfleet this afternoon, and we will look in upon the little Smith girl. I want to know whether you agree with me as to her being unusually fascinating. Dr. Causton does."
The motor was ordered, and they went off.
The spring was coming, and the trees beginning to tremble into leaf. In the pretty red-gabled cottage hospital the windows were open, and the sweet air flooded the place.
The walls of the room where Veronica lay were tinted like a hedge-sparrow's egg. The coverlet of her narrow bed was scarlet, and she wore a bed-jacket the collar of which was embroidered with briar roses. Sister Agnes was so proud of her lovely hair that she had brushed it all out and left it unfilleted, showering over the pillow. In spite of an air of great fragility, there was a delicate bloom on the oval face, and the eyes were preternaturally large and clear.
She was lying very still, as she mostly did, neither reading nor speaking. Her eyes turned wistfully to the door every time it was opened. The sight of Miss Rawson was a pleasure, evidently. Her face lit up. But when she saw that a young man followed, there flew into her thin cheeks a flag of pure rich color; she raised herself in the bed, though with difficulty. Her lips parted in a smile of eager welcome, she stretched out her hand.... Then it all died away. She realized, with a stab of disappointment, that this was a stranger who came. But how curious—she could have declared!
Now, why? This man was of a different height, complexion, and manner. He did not even resemble the man whom she expected, whom she wished to see. Why was it, how could it have happened, that when he first appeared she actually mistook him for the other?
Her agitation and bewilderment made her prettier and shyer than Miss Rawson had ever seen her.
Denzil, as he approached and looked down upon her, felt such an access of emotion as never in all his staid existence had visited him before. This was no barge girl, but a dainty lady, for whose high birth he would have gladly vouched—no young servant injured in cleaning windows, but a princess out of a fairy tale!
"I consecrated my life to you from the moment when I first saw you, and I feel a certain pleasure in sacrificing it to you."—Letters of a Portuguese Nun.
In all his well-conducted life Denzil Vanston had never stood at the bedside of a beautiful young girl. His staid imagination had not foreshadowed anything like this maiden, with her double halo of mystery and suffering. His brother Felix, younger, harder, and more callous, had felt compassion for the child's feminine helplessness, but no perception of her rare charm.
Denzil, who never thought about women as a rule, perceived it at once. He perceived also the flickering, wistful look, the varying color with which she marked his entrance. Misunderstanding it altogether—for how could he tell that she had been conscious of that elusive, subtle, indescribable thing which we call family likeness?—he sat down by the bedside with everything that was honest and natural about him thoroughly stirred. He took the invalid's hand and held it in his own, as he said they felt glad to know that she was making a good recovery. Even as he spoke he was conscious of some awkwardness. His aunt, he felt, had made a mistake. This was no charity case, to be visited by anybody who was humane enough to take the trouble—this was a young gentlewoman, whose privacy should be respected. He grew scarlet with the feeling that he ought not to be there.
He asked if she were quite content at Aylfleet; if everything was being done for her comfort that could be done. Did she want books, work, games, a kitten?—there were some charming kittens in a basket at Normansgrave.
On that the grave lips smiled, and revealed a row of small milky teeth—teeth which Levy had believed to be unique in the profession for which Rona had been destined. Yes, she would like a kitten. She liked books, too. Yes, she liked to be read aloud to. They had often had books read to them in the Convent School. She felt better; they were very kind. There was only one thing—she wanted to see her brother, David Smith.
Denzil explained. David had gone to Basingstoke with the barge. They had told him she could not be moved for some days. Complete rest was necessary for the complaint from which she suffered. No doubt she would hear from him soon. Would she tell them how her accident happened?
She said, quite simply and without embarrassment, that she did not know how much David would wish her to say. Bursting with curiosity, Denzil had to curb it and ask no more. His imagination had never been so piqued. His heart was on fire when he took leave, having promised to come the following day and bring an interesting book and read aloud to her.
On the way home he could talk of nothing else but the mysterious unknown.
His aunt agreed that it was ridiculous to suppose her a member of the lower classes. There was a mystery somewhere. They would find out when the young man appeared. In her inmost heart Miss Rawson was highly amused. Who would have thought of the sober-minded Denzil being thus suddenly moved out of his ordinary groove? She thought it would do him no harm, and with twinkling eyes saw him depart next morning with Shirley in his pocket and hurry down through the grounds, the short way to Aylfleet.
Meanwhile, Rona had received a letter. It was written in a very labored hand, more like printing than writing, and dated simply Basingstoke. Thus it ran:
"Private.—Not to be shown to anybody.
"MY DEAR RONA,—I am tormenting myself with the idea that you might think I had deserted you. Indeed, that is not so. The lady that took you away did not ask my leave. And I knew it was the only hope for you. The people about the wharf at Dunhythe say that Miss Rawson is kind. So I hope they are being good to you.
"You were too ill for me to explain anything to you.
"I think about you simply all the time. I am ready to do anything for you that a man can do, if they will just keep you at the hospital till you are well enough to travel, and I have earned the money to take you to S....
"I got work in a timber-yard here, directly. Old Doggett spoke for me. Miss Rawson tipped him well, so he has been very civil ever since. He said I was well known to him, and they took me on, and the old bad story of my having been in jail didn't have to come up. I am working like anything, and Old Doggett says in three weeks' time he will bring me back to Dunhythe for nothing.
"Of course, these people who are looking after you will ask you questions. I have been thinking out the best way for you to answer them. There is all about me in the papers, but not about you. Your brute of an uncle has thought best to keep it dark. So it looks as if we had got clear off, but it does not do to be too sure. How much do they know? Do they guess that we escaped together? Sometimes they will lie low, to tempt one out into the open. Our not being together just now is the best thing to draw them off the scent.
"I think our line is to tell as little as possible, because we can't tell the truth.
"It is no use to pretend we belong to the lowest class, because nobody could believe it of you. Say that we are orphans, brother and sister, and that our guardian, who is our uncle, took you from school and got you a place as nursery governess, but that I found you were not kindly treated, and were expected to work like a servant, and they made you clean windows and you turned dizzy and fell and hurt yourself, and that we settled to bolt together, and we don't intend to be caught, so we will say no more.
"Don't give the name of the uncle, nor the school, nor the place where you were when you had your accident.
"I inclose paper and a stamped addressed envelope for you to write to me. I am working for you only. When they took you away I felt like throwing myself into the canal, but I did no such thing, because I have you to take care of. Keep up hope, get well as fast as you can, and I will find out a way to keep you safe. Mind you let me know if these people will let you stay three weeks, because if not I must arrange to come for you sooner. But another week would be best, as I must get some decent clothes, and my wages aren't much.
"I do fervently trust you are better.
"Your affect. brother,"DAVID SMITH.
"P.S.—On no accountask to see the papers, nor say anything of my being in them. You had better tear up this letter."
This document was, upon the whole, most reassuring to Rona.
The situation was of such an unprecedented sort that it was consoling to find that the memory of her flight was not a dream—that the young man who had saved her had an actual existence, that he had not forgotten her—that he was still prepared to stand by her.
The sole thing which puzzled her was a wonder why her new friend should not wish them to tell the truth.
On this difficulty she bent her mind. They had done nothing of which they need be ashamed. The kind lady who visited her, and the benevolent Squire, would never think of handing back a young girl into the power of such a man as Rankin Leigh. Then why not confess their whole adventure?
Ah, of course, because of the sad secret in David Smith's past! Naturally he did not like to be known as having been in jail. And if, as he said, the account of his disappearance was in the papers, to describe the circumstances fully would be to reveal his disgrace.
This seemed to explain the difficulty, and with all her warm, unsophisticated heart, the young girl vowed that no word of hers should ever betray the man who had done so much for her.
She lay making plans for the future, telling herself how hard she would work, what she would do and be, for gratitude to the hand which had snatched her out of the abyss. The knowledge that he was in the world, working for her, coming to fetch her, eager to take charge of her, just made all the difference. Her sleep was sounder and more sweet that night than since her coming to the hospital. She looked quite radiant next day when Denzil arrived, bearing, according to promise, a story-book and a kitten in a basket.
It pleased him to see how the exquisite face lit up, and the lips parted and the glorious eyes dilated at sight of the bundle of chinchilla-colored fur. Sister Agnes, summoned to admire, provided a rose-colored ribbon for the kitten's neck, and Rona, though not yet allowed to sit upright, yet managed to adjust the bow, with hands which were a delight to watch, so graceful, so adept were they.
Joyously she said that her brother had written, that he had found work, and that he was going to fetch her in three weeks' time, or if she could not be kept so long, a fortnight. Denzil had no doubt about her being kept three weeks. He told Sister Agnes that so it was to be. She was to be quite well by then. She must write to her brother to-day and say there would be no difficulty at all.
Then he sat down to read, Rona busy with some knitting for which she had begged, as she had been brought up never to have idle fingers. But the kitten had a mind to a share in the proceedings, and the reading was punctuated with childish squeals of delight from Rona, and struggles between her and her new pet for the possession of the ball of wool.
Before leaving, Denzil made another attempt to find out more respecting the mystery surrounding the girl. But she told him simply that her brother wished her not to say in what part of London she had been employed, as they had run away together and did not wish to be tracked.
"I expect he will tell you more when he comes," she said. "We have nothing to be ashamed of; but we are hiding, for all that."
Denzil could not but feel deep disapproval of the situation. He urged Rona to write and relieve the anxiety of those she had left. He told her he feared her brother was not a good adviser for her, and hinted that this was a post for which he himself was eminently qualified, and which he would be glad to accept.
Rona was grateful, but stood firm. Much as he desired to know more, he felt the fine quality of faith and loyalty in so young a girl. He did wish that he could feel quite certain that there was nothing discreditable in the mystery that surrounded her. People are not usually in hiding without a reason, he reflected. He was beginning to realize that this girl was having a curious, powerful, unprecedented effect upon him. It would be terrible should it turn out that she was really the sister of a youth who led a canal horse along the towpath. Like most persons of mediocre ability, he was much influenced by the dread of ridicule. He feared to make himself ridiculous concerning the unknown maiden. His judgment approved her; but he lacked confidence in his own judgment.
He walked back to Normansgrave, his mind occupied not as to the tragic circumstances of his brother's disappearance, but about the flight of a young servant girl from a harsh mistress with her brother, a bargee!
"This son of mine was a self-willed youth, always too ready to utter his unchastised fancies.... He got the spur when he should have had the rein.... He, therefore, helped to fill the markets with that unripe fruit which abounds in the marts of his native country."—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Felix had been sent by his employers up to Basingstoke Station to bring down some parcels of rivets and special nails arriving by goods train that evening. As he stood on the platform waiting, the boat train from Southampton came rushing in, and stopped to put down a solitary passenger. This was a tall, wiry, hatchet-faced man, of about forty, with black hair, brown skin, and soft, melting dark brown eyes—eyes you would not have expected to see in that face, unless you were familiar with the Slav type.
This man gave his directions to the porters in very hesitating English. He was so like the type to which Felix had been accustomed in the dynamite brotherhood, that the sight of him was actively unpleasant. And yet the young man could not help being fascinated, too.
The stranger said, in painstaking English, "I wish this trunk put upon the hotel omnibus."
The porter, understanding this, cheerfully shouldered the trunk and disappeared, the traveler meanwhile lighting a cigarette and gazing round the station at the town beyond with a look of interest.
"Now, sir," said the porter, returning, "what are we to do with all this stuff?"
It looked like machinery—curiously shaped, spiky packages sewn up in canvas.
"I wish that put—how do you say?—ah, yes—en consigne, s'il vous plait—pardon, I would mean—en consigne—hein?"
The porter looked blank. "No parly frongsay," he remarked, resentfully.
"Wants you to cloak it, fathead," said Felix, unable to hold his tongue.
"To cloak it—eh? Why in blazes don't 'e say so, then. This way, mounseer."
"Le mettre en consigne pendant quelques jours, monsieur," cried the foreigner, eagerly pouncing on Felix. "Malheureusement je ne puis pas dire—je ne sais pas pour quel temps—combien faut-il payer maintenant?"
Felix turned good-naturedly to him. "You want to cloak it, and you do not know for how long?" he said in French. "That's all right, you take a ticket now, nothing to pay, and when you want it out, you produce the ticket and pay so much for each day."
The man was delighted. "I am indebted to you, sir, I am truly. I was told my English was enough to take me through; but it breaks down at every turn. You speak French admirably—that is not so with all your countrymen—hein?"
"No," said Felix, "we are not great linguists, taken as a nation. But I have lived abroad."
"Ah! By chance now—you speak German also?"
"Assez bien, monsieur."
The stranger literally clutched him. Was he at liberty? Would he come up to the hotel and make terms for him? Could he do some translating—a letter, the sense of which he could not discover, though he had looked out all the words in a dictionary?
Felix explained that he was anything but at leisure, but that he had to await the arrival of a goods train, and while waiting was very glad to translate the letter in question into comprehensible French. After safely consigning the luggage, which, so the stranger said, consisted of models of machinery, they repaired to the bar—since the weird regulations of England forbade one to smoke in the waiting-room—and Felix made all plain to the perplexed inventor, who described himself as a Russian,—an engineer employed in a vast mining enterprise in Siberia. He had perfected an invention for the ventilation of deep-level mines, by which he hoped to make his fortune. He had appointed to meet, at Basingstoke, the manager of one of the largest Welsh mines, who happened to be returning from abroad, and promised to break his journey there, in order to have an interview.
He launched into a description of his invention, and Felix, who had always had a fancy for machinery, grew deeply interested. Finally, the eager inventor extracted a promise from his new friend to come to supper with him at the hotel, though Felix owned with regret that he had no decent clothes; and they parted for a time with a mutual desire to meet again.
Mr. Doggett, in the expansion of his heart, had offered Felix his "grub" free if he would sleep aboard theSarah Dawkesand mind her while the owner spent these few nights in the bosom of his family—a thing he could not have done otherwise. Thus obtaining free, though rough, board and lodging, the young fellow had all his wages as clear profit, and he had ventured upon the purchase of such trifles as a comb and a tooth-brush, and even six pocket-handkerchiefs. He was, however, very doubtful as to how he should obtain the suit of decent clothes which he felt to be indispensable if he was to convey Rona by train to the North of England. He was plunged into the consideration of the problem of how to buy a suit out of three weeks' wages at fifteen shillings a week, and leave enough for railway fares, when chance sent him running up against the Russian engineer.
The fee paid by lawyers for the translation of a letter is ten shillings; and after Felix had translated four or five for his new friend he did not refuse this fee when warmly pressed upon him.
As the evening passed the two grew very friendly. Felix said he had known many Russians. He had been a member of a society in London many of whose adherents belonged to that nationality. One had been quite a pal of his.
The engineer—whose name was Vronsky—eagerly begged to know the name of Felix's friend. It was Loris Levien Ivanovitch.
Vronsky was much agitated. "Why, he was imprisoned, in London, for belonging to a dynamite society—unhappy boy, not to be warned!" His mother was Vronsky's own cousin. It had been heartbreak to her. But she had left her home and country and gone to meet her son in Styria, when he came out of prison. There they had made a home together, and the young man had found work. He had a fine tenor voice.
Felix made a gesture, as of one smitten by an overpowering memory. He began to sing, at first with hesitation, but with increasing confidence, a Russian song, full of the essential melancholy of the Slav peoples. A certain thrilling tenderness, mingled with the plaintive despondency of the national outlook, found expression in the strange cadences. The Russian sat with his head bowed, his clenched hand lying on the table. His eyes were heavy with tears, his whole heart was wrung by this song of his native land. When it was done he raised his head and looked intently at the singer.
"You must often have heard Loris sing that song?"
"Often and often. Very often," said Felix, his mind traveling back across old memories. He set his lips firmly, and looked his new friend straight in the eyes. "I was there—in prison—with Loris Ivanovitch," he said, steadily.
Vronsky gazed at him in pure sympathy. His eyes were still soft with tears. "My poor lad," he said, softly. "Poor, misguided child. You have suffered."
It was the first time that any soul had pitied Felix Vanston for his downfall. The whole world had said to him: "You have sinned." Not one human soul had said: "You have suffered."
"I have suffered," he said, slowly, "and through all my future I must suffer. I am branded, I am a marked man. I have disgraced my father's name. And yet I meant no harm. I entered upon the thing not knowing what I did. I was full of compassion and of thoughts about brotherhood.Brotherhood!"—he broke off with a sneer that was half a cry. "Do you know that now the very word brotherhood means to me something that is ruthless, terrible, secret—something that strikes in the dark—something that will reach you and punish you, however distant. That was what it seemed to Loris and to me. We were caught and held in its meshes. We might struggle, we could not get free. His sentence was six months shorter than mine. He went away to Styria the moment his ticket-of-leave expired. The Brotherhood let you alone as long as the ticket-of-leave lasts, for they do not want the police to know anything of their movements; and as long as you are under surveillance they lie low. I shall be free of the police in a week from now. And then—then I have to reckon with the Brotherhood."
"Go abroad," said Vronsky. "You are a good linguist, you should do well abroad."
"Yes," said Felix, "but there is something I must do first; something that counts before my own safety."
The Russian looked sympathetic. "A woman?"
"My sister," said Felix, laying the stump of his cigarette down in his plate, and watching it sedulously. "She got into bad hands during my imprisonment. I have to put her in a place of safety. She is in hospital now—the result of an accident."
"Take her abroad with you—why not?"
"The old unanswerable argument—£ s. d.," said Felix, with a sad smile. "It costs twice as much—more than twice as much—to take a girl about with you."
The conversation had been in French from the beginning.
Now the young man stood up. "I must go," he said. "My job is not over. I have to be on the premises at night and keep watch. Many thanks for your good entertainment. This dinner has bucked me up."
"Yes," said Vronsky, in an interested way. "They told me that in England they never cook at all, and that one eats food raw or goes without. But I have dined here well to-night."
"So have I; and as it is the first time for very many nights, it leaves me most grateful to you for all your kindness."
"Shall I see you again? I hope so. Stroll down after your work to-morrow, and have coffee with me and a smoke."
"It ought to be my turn to-morrow," said Felix. "I don't like sponging. But I literally have not a halfpenny to spend just now. Good-night. I was glad to hear that about Loris Levien. About his being safe with his mother. But chiefly I am grateful to you for not looking on me as an outcast. Here, in my own country, I have done for myself, once and for all. My own brother won't speak to me. It is—but there! how can you tell what it feels like, to be taken by the hand by a man who knows your record and does not despise you for it?"
"My boy, in Russia one has more sympathy for these things. In England, I own, it is hard to see why boys take up such notions. But with us few families are altogether free of the taint. For myself I was never touched with the desire to make men good and happy by burning and killing. I do not think terror ever begot love. I know that it always begets hate. I am an engineer and a rough fellow. But I believe in God and in Him I put my trust for Russia and her future. Want of faith, my boy, that is what ails Russia. Good-night. God keep you. Come to me to-morrow."
Felix walked home to his couch in the cabin of theSarah Dawkeswith his heart full of gratitude to the new friend so accidentally thrown in his way.
The next morning, on his way to work, he went to the post-office, and, to his joy, was handed a letter addressed to David Smith.
"DEAR DAVID,—Thank you for your letter. I was so very glad to get it, and I am pleased to say that I am getting better very fast now. I am still in bed, but they let me sit up and do knitting, and Mr. Denzil Vanston comes to see me. He is the Squire, Sister Agnes says, and she thinks I am a lucky girl. He has given me a kitten, and he reads to me out loud. Do you know the first day he came in I thought he was you! I can't think what made me so silly, for he is not a bit like you really, but fair, with a little neat light brown mustache. He is very kind.
"They say yes, I may certainly stay three weeks, and by that time I ought to be quite well. I shall look forward to seeing you and starting for Sempleton. Do you think it would be best to write to the Reverend Mother or not? I think not, because it is just possible she might think she ought to tell Uncle Rankin.
"Miss Rawson is making me a new frock; it is brown. I think this is all my news, so I will only add my love, and my thanks too, for all you did for me. When I think how you wanted to die, and went on living to take care of me, I do feel ashamed of myself. I hope you are quite well. Mind and tell me when to expect you, and write again soon. I have not let anybody see your letter, though they are all most inquisitive about our affairs!—With my love, I remain your affectionate sister—RONA SMITH."
This letter lifted David right up to the clouds. Since Rona was carried away from him in Miss Rawson's motor, he had not felt such a lightening of his spirits. She was happy; she was getting well; she wanted to see him again. His heart swelled up in a gush of tenderness, hitherto unknown to him. In his solitary youth, full of queer cults and crazes, and stunted by his lamentable prison experience, he had never thought about girls. This one, so unlike the girls in love stories, appealed to him on a side where he was easily touched. All the protective manhood had awoke in him when first he felt her desperate clutch upon his arm, and looked up to see her enemies in pursuit.
He could not help being disquieted by the idea of his brother's attentions to her. But he decided that there was nothing at all to connect David Smith with Felix Vanston in the mind of the owner of Normansgrave. He had followed the papers with eagerness ever since his flight, and had noted with great interest that the police had had no notification of the disappearance of Rona. On thinking it over, he was not much surprised. He could understand that the two villains would prefer to hold their tongues respecting her incarceration. But doubtless they were putting detectives on the job on their own account; and might they not be watching for the moment when the girl emerged from hospital and was joined by him?
He was very doubtful as to what would be their best way of getting off, and inclined to think that he should advise Rona to slip away at night and meet him at some given spot close to the hospital. He did not want to appear, both because of any possible watchers and because of his brother Denzil.
Miss Rawson had not recognized him, as was natural enough. But no disguise, no counterfeit Cockney talk, could prevent Denzil from knowing him, if they met face to face. And if Denzil knew him the first thing that he would decree would be that Felix was no fit companion for his supposed "sister."
For the first time the delicate nature of the situation occurred to him. It filled him with a queer tumult of indignation and championship. He was to be trusted to take care of her, this white flower, which a tempest had blown against his heart! He felt himself filled with the spirit of knight-errantry. His courage rose and a new sense of joy filled all his veins. Perhaps the hard work, the country air, and Vronsky's hospitality had something to do with the dawning of his new interest in life. But to him it seemed that it was all Rona.
He did a fine day's work that day, and when it was over he bought his usual halfpenny paper, saw that there was no mention in it of himself or the girl, and went on to the hotel, where he found Vronsky happy over a telegram from the mine manager whom he expected, to say that he was crossing to Southampton the following day.
Meanwhile, he had received letters from two mine owners in England, full of cruelly hard words. His dictionary lay before him, and a transcript of the frantic attempt he had made to decipher their contents. It was very evident that he needed not only a translator but an amanuensis, if he was to reply to his correspondents.
Felix buckled down to the work. He translated with care, wrote out a French version of the letters received, and drafted answers in English from the engineer's French dictation.
Then he turned his attention to a German letter, which proved to be the most interesting of all. The writer of this was extremely anxious to be first in the field, and to make all the new machinery if the market were fairly sure. He was too busy to come to England, but implored Vronsky to come over to Hamburg at his expense, that they might converse together over the matter.
This was a difficult journey for Vronsky, who, though he spoke French fluently, and could also speak Turkish and Arabic, knew hardly a word of either German or English. He said he would go if Felix would come with him as his secretary. He was not a rich man, but he would give him a pound a week, and advance money for clothes. It would take him out of the country, away from the Brotherhood—it would give him a new start.
Felix was terribly tempted. But he stood firm. He should not be here, where he was, were it not for Rona. It was she who had kept him back from the miserable, cowardly end he had planned for himself. As he sat, in the cheerful coffee-room, a good cigar in his mouth, a glass of fine ale at his side, and watched the prosperous life of the quiet town flowing along in the irregular, unpretending street, he felt that the world was a pleasant place, and wondered that he could have thought of quitting it. Here he was, and, such as he was, he was hers.
He looked sadly at the kind, intense face of Vronsky and shook his head. He could not go without his sister.
"Tiens!" replied Vronsky, "let us not be rash. Who knows? My business may detain me here longer than I expect. Then you may go and fetch your sister and bring her too."
Felix's eyes lit up. But almost immediately clouded again. He felt there might be inconveniences in traveling about with a sister who is not your sister. He accepted the fee for his secretarial work, and after much pressing consented to dine again with his friend, as it seemed churlish to decline, thereby condemning him to an evening of solitude and silence. They parted on more friendly terms than ever.
There was no moon that night, the dark face of heaven was powdered with stars, Jupiter hanging like a diamond low in the sky as Felix made his way down to the canal wharf. It was not until he got close up to the barge that he noticed a man standing by her, smoking, his hands in his pockets.
"Fine night," said the man, pleasantly.
"That's quite right," replied Felix, heartily, aloud. Inwardly he told himself, "London man—look out."
"Know much of the barge owners down these parts—eh?" said the stranger, wistfully.
"Can't say as I do," replied Felix in his natural tones, with no assumed accent. "Want work?"
The man sighed. "P'raps I do."
"Better go to the Company's office," suggested Felix.
"So I did. They told me old man Doggett, of theSarah Dawkes, was wanting a boy. But there's nobody aboard her."
"No. His boy's ill. I'm sleeping in her to oblige the Old Man."
"Oh!" The stranger could not wholly keep his sudden access of interest out of his voice. "Are you the chap that took on the boy's job?"
Felix laughed his scorn. "No, thank yer, mate. I work up in the town. I only oblige the old man while he's ashore."
"Humph! Suppose you don't know what become of the chap as he brought down from Limehouse with him, do yer?"
Felix was quite sure now. He betrayed no surprise. "Want a character of the old man out of him before you sign on to the job?" he said, playfully.
"That's about the size of it—yes."
"Well, I did hear he was tramping it to Plymouth. Wanted to get out of England," said Felix, slowly.
There was a pause. "Got a light?" said the stranger at last.
Felix produced a match. "So long, mate," said he, moving to the gang-plank.
"Say—you couldn't let me sleep aboard, could you?" asked the unemployed.
"Daren't risk it, mate. Hope you won't take it hard, but I can't. Clean against orders, and the night-watchman is a terror. I don't mean losing my job, even if it was to help you to get one."
"Not likely. Hold hard a minute. Tell me—did you see the chap that came up on theSarah Dawkes?"
"Never. Casual, picked up in the streets, I gather."
"And his sister with him?" said the man, urgently, in a low tone. "See here, there's money in this—what can you tell me about 'em?"
Felix was aboard of the barge, and looked up from the deck with a smile. "Money from a right-to-worker?" he mocked. "Plank it down, and I'll invent sisters for you as fast as you like."
"Thanks," said the man, with a change of tone. "I got out of you what I want without the money. She wasn't here when they got to Basingstoke. That's just what I thought. But where in thunder is she?"
"Oh, go to blazes—you're drunk," said Felix.
He turned on his heel and entered his dark sleeping-hole, trembling in every limb.
Spring is here, with the wind in her hairAnd the violets under her feet.All the forests have found her fair,Lovers have found her sweet.Spring's a girl in a lovely gown,Little more than a child.—ALICE HERBERT.
A fortnight after her arrival at the Cottage Hospital Veronica was wholly convalescent. The air, the first-rate nursing, the sense of peace and well-being which she experienced, all helped, and came to the aid of a naturally fine constitution. The color she had lost returned to her pale face, her eyes were clear and luminous.
The doctor was fairly certain that the injury she had received, though it had been violent enough to cause inflammation, was not more than nature would triumph over. He did not anticipate lasting effects. She was now to be found on the sofa in the sitting-room, and the nurse held out hopes of a walk round the garden on Sunday next. She had been the sole comfort of Denzil's misery during this time of strain, when day after day passed by, and no news was forthcoming. Each day he grew more certain that Felix was not dead, but alive—and a further certainty followed.
If his brother were really not dead, then the pretense of suicide must have been deliberate. He must have determined to cast off his own identity, and wipe himself out of the list of the living. With what object? Doubtless that he might return to his anarchical pursuits, under some alias.
For this the master of Normansgrave felt secretly grateful to him. The name of Vanston would at least be protected. He did not believe Felix capable of leading a life of decorous rectitude such as his own. The bad blood inherited from his mother must, he thought, come out, and show itself in a wild, ill-regulated life. The fact that his half-brother had now, by his own carefully planned action, cut himself off from all communication with his family, was, in the secret depths of his heart, a satisfaction to him.
But he knew that a longer time must be allowed to elapse before he could feel certain. He could not agree with the police view of the young man having drugged himself, and then proceeded to drown himself. This theory was, however, very strongly held at first by the police, for the reason that such a case had actually occurred, and had been recorded in the newspapers; experience taught them that criminals have a curious habit of imitating one another's methods, and that a certain form of suicide, in particular, frequently provokes others of a similar character. The non-recovery of the body was not, in their minds, an insuperable objection; for so determined a suicide might well have weighted his pockets with bricks—and one cannot drag the Thames.
Not a word had Denzil breathed to his romance-princess of the private grief which tormented him. To her he seemed always cheerful, serene, and bent on pleasing her. To-day he was approaching the door of the hospital with a basket of primroses and violets from the woods, which it would amuse the patient to arrange in a soup-plate full of moss. Spring was beginning to bud and blossom in the beautiful land, and in spite of anxiety his heart was warm in him, and his pulses tingled with a feeling he had never previously experienced.
Dr. Causton's small brougham was at the door as he came up, and almost at once the doctor came out, and stood in the sunny garden talking to Sister Agnes. His face and hers were both full of worry.
"Ah, there is Vanston," said the doctor, "in the nick of time. I was going to drive over to you, but now we can settle things at once, and there is no time to lose. We want you to come to the rescue as usual, Vanston. Three cases of scarlet fever in the National Schools."
"Scarlet fever?" said Denzil, looking scared.
"Yes. And the Albert Hospital can't take them, it has too many critical cases, and can't turn them out. To cut the whole thing short, I want you to let us have the Cottage Hospital for the epidemic. Of course, the County Council will pay all the expenses of disinfecting and so on, and give you a handsome donation. But it would save endless bother and fuss. If these three cases are isolated at once, the whole thing may be restricted to those who have been in immediate contact. It will be the saving of the village, so I venture to hope we may count upon you."
"But what about your present case here?" said Denzil, not at all pleased.
"Quite well enough to go out, if her people are careful of her," said the doctor, who was not blind, and thought the patient had been there long enough. "Write to them, or wire, and say she must be fetched away."
"That is not so easy," said Denzil, in tones of ruffled dignity. "Her brother is at Basingstoke, and has been promised that she shall be kept three weeks."
"Well," said the doctor, "you can't foresee a fever epidemic."
Mr. Vanston looked much disturbed. "The risk of leaving her exposed to infection is, of course, not to be thought of," he said. "And I suppose you want to bring in your cases at once?"
"At once, if you and Miss Rawson would be so kind as to put the girl in your motor and drive her to the station. Wire to the brother to meet her, and you have done all that could possibly be expected."
Denzil stood considering. The idea of losing Rona—of losing her at once, that very day—gave him a curious internal jolt for which he was quite unprepared.
"Thank you," he said at last. "I will bring the motor at half-past two. May I ask that Miss Smith be not informed that she is leaving the Cottage Hospital, but simply told that my aunt is calling to take her for a drive this afternoon? I would rather explain matters myself. Sister Agnes, kindly give Miss Smith this basket, with my kind regards."