But on a day whereof I thinkOne shall dip his hand to drinkIn that still water of thy soul,And its imaged tremors raceOver thy joy-troubled face...From the hovering wing of LoveThe warm stain shall flit roseal on thy cheek.—FRANCIS THOMPSON.
Summer sunshine lay broad and calm upon the lawns at Normansgrave.
Over all brooded that peace and well-being, that calm which is like the hum of well-oiled machinery, or the sleeping of a top which, nevertheless, spins on in the apparent repose. It is pre-eminently a characteristic of English country life, this regulated prosperity, the result of long centuries of experiment, issuing in perfect achievement.
In England we have thoroughly acquired the art of domestic comfort. And we have the means to carry our knowledge into effect.
All other nations feel it. There is hardly a civilized person in the world who would not own that in England we have solved the riddle of making ourselves perfectly comfortable.
Aunt Bee's competent hands still ruled over Normansgrave. During the two years which had elapsed since the disappearance of his brother Felix, the Squire had not married, neither was he engaged to be married.
During the first months following the bereavement, with its curious and mysterious surrounding circumstances, it had been natural that Denzil should withdraw himself somewhat from society. But as weeks rolled by, and the police found no clew, there was nothing for it but to acquiesce in the uncertainty, and to assume either that Felix was dead, or that he wished to be thought so.
The newspapers had, of course, made the most of the mystery. They had flung it forth in flaming headlines, they had printed the letters written by the suicide, they had striven to whip up flagging interest by suggesting clews which the police had not really found. One enterprising journal actually had a competition, "Where is Felix Vanston?"
All kinds of letters and answers were sent in, and the Editor promised a prize, when the truth should at last be brought to light, to the competitor who had guessed nearest to the truth.
In the December of that year, when the trees lost their leaves, and a man's decomposed corpse was found in a thicket in one of the London parks, the whole hateful discussion leapt from its ashes and revived in full force. Was it, or was it not, Felix Vanston?
The police thought that it was. No identification was possible, the thing had had too many months in which to decompose. But in what had been a pocket was a newspaper; and this, being folded very small, the date was legible on one of the innermost pages: and it was the date of the disappearance from the Deptford lodging.
Denzil and Miss Rawson, in the absence of more cogent proof than this, declined to accept the remains as being those of the missing youth.
The Editor of the paper who had started the competition, however, awarded the prize to the candidate who had foreshadowed such a discovery.
And thereafter, silence fell upon the Press, and the Case of the Disappearance of Felix Vanston was over.
The world slipped back by degrees into its groove, and after a while Denzil grew less shy of going to London hotels, and began to lead his usual life, without the dread of being interviewed. But time flowed on, and he was still a bachelor, having apparently acquired a habit in that direction—or—as his aunt in her heart believed—because he was waiting.
If that were so, the period of his waiting was at an end. Two days ago, Rona Smith, the girl for whom his benevolence had done so much, had returned from her two years abroad.
She was coming slowly along the graveled terrace, a book in her hand, a rose-colored sunshade over her head tinging her white gown with reflected color. Miss Rawson, seated by the tea-table under the big beech, watched her approach with eyes full of interest, wonder, and amusement.
Denzil, who had been yachting with a friend, was expected home that afternoon; and his aunt was more than curious to see the meeting.
The letter which the soi-disant David Smith had written with so much anxiety and care and hesitation—the letter upon which Rona's future had hung—had been the cause of much doubt and deliberation between Miss Rawson and her nephew. Aunt Bee was inclined to advise that they should hold out—should stipulate for frankness under seal of secrecy. She believed that, had they done so, the young man would have made a clean breast of the whole affair. And she was probably right. Felix would, most likely, have acknowledged his true name, and relinquished all hope of calling Rona his, sooner than do her the injustice of dragging her about Europe in company of two men, neither of whom was related to her, when but for his selfishness she might be living the sheltered life of the English upper classes. He could have been forced into avowal. But they did not force him. Denzil, with that curious streak of romance which lurks in most Englishmen, was, perhaps, rather pleased that there should be a mystery about Rona. The notion that she was to be protected against secret enemies appealed to a mild vein of plotting which existed in him. He undertook the risks so vaguely hinted at by Felix, not merely readily, but with eagerness.
The smuggling of Miss Smith out of England was the first thing which helped to turn his mind off the distressing case of his brother.
Miss Rawson and he took the girl abroad. They traveled here and there, from one place to another in Germany, visiting the educational centers, seeking a place where they could with confidence leave their charge.
They found, at last, in a pretty south German town, an English lady, widow of a German officer, who took a few girls to board, and gave them a sound education, having masters for music and drawing. Here Rona, whose health was completely re-established, was left; and from that day to this she and Denzil had not met.
The girl developed a great ambition to learn. She was happy and content with Frau Wilders, and willingly remained there during the Christmas holidays. The following summer Miss Rawson journeyed out to see her, and found her thoroughly proficient in German, and most anxious to be allowed to pass her second year in France. This was satisfactorily arranged. Aunt Bee traveled with her to Rennes, where Frau Wilders knew a lady in the same line as herself. Rona lived with this lady and attended the public day-school in the university town.
And now she was educated. Moreover, she was a woman grown. And Miss Rawson had brought her home from France, wondering not a little as to what the outcome of the situation was to be.
During all these two years there had been, so far as she was aware, no attempt to gain possession of the girl, certainly no annoyance of her, on the part of the uncle who was supposed to be so malign a being.
Had it not been for the girl's own personality, Miss Rawson, who was a sensible, unimaginative woman, would have been inclined to think that the tale of persecution was the invention of the brother, as a way of extricating his sister and himself from destitution. But, in some manner wholly indescribable, Rona refuted this theory, simply by being Rona.
Miss Rawson, who had been her companion for four or five weeks each summer, had seen a good deal of her, and was not an easy person to deceive. She knew well enough that the girl believed herself to have cause to dread something, or someone. Under the keen scrutiny of Miss Rawson's criticism, there had never appeared one trait, one phrase, which was out of harmony with Rona's claim to gentle birth and breeding. Her tastes were innately fastidious. In all the small minutiæ of a refined girl's habits, she was above reproach. Her convent breeding had given her an atmosphere of purity and simplicity, upon which the modern culture of her later education sat with a curious charm. But there was more than this underlying the fascination which the elder woman felt but could not classify. She was only conscious of thinking that Rona was the most attractive maiden she had ever seen. There was not a girl of their acquaintance who could hold a candle to her. She was more than pretty, she was truly beautiful, with a somewhat grave beauty, as of one over whom hung some menace or anxiety.
But at the nature of this anxiety Miss Rawson could make no guess.
Rona had left the gravel now, and her feet trod the shorn turf, her white gown slipping over its verdure like lake-foam over water-weed. She had dignity, she had poise, those things now most rare in the modern girl, who is generally ill-assured, in spite of her free-and-easy pose. But under the fine calm of her manner there was a shadow.
Rona carried a secret in her heart. This secret, at first half-delightful, had gradually grown to be a distress, a burden—at last an out-and-out nightmare. Within a few days of her parting from Felix in the summer-house she was feeling strongly the discomfort of the situation in which he had placed her.
She was secretly betrothed to the young man who posed as her brother!
She saw plainly that David must naturally be unwilling that his own prison record should be known. But why should he insist upon her adhering to the brother-and-sister fiction? She thought the deceit unnecessary and unwise, since when he returned to claim her promise, their true relations must be avowed, and she would stand convicted of a long course of deception and untruth.
For the first week or so after her promise, so readily, so ignorantly given, she had suffered horribly. And the climax of her revolt came when she received, from Hamburg, his first wild love-letter.
Poor Felix! He let himself go, in that letter, as only a young man in his first love can fling himself prone upon the love he imagines in the beloved one.
There was, in the girl, no passion to kindle at the breath of his: the unveiled vehement thing almost paralyzed her with apprehension.
In her first panic fear she wrote and bade him never so to address her again. Did he not realize that her letters might be overlooked? Miss Rawson might reasonably, naturally expect to be shown her letters from her brother. They must be such as she could produce if necessary—the kind of letter a brother might write to a sister.
Felix never admitted, even to himself, how cruelly this reproof flung him back upon himself. Her appeal touched his tenderest feeling, and overwhelmed him with self-reproach. He answered meekly, abjectly, imploring forgiveness for his rashness, vowing never so to offend again; and inclosing more money than he could conveniently spare that she might have all she needed.
Veronica graciously accepted both the apology and the remittance.
She was not at that time old enough to see how the mere acceptance of his money bound her to him. But it was not long before this dawned upon her—this, and many other things.
She was a girl of fine intelligence, and she took full advantage of all the culture put within her reach. Her mind developed apace. She read books, she saw plays. The world as it is began to emerge before her vision, heretofore bounded by convent walls; and soon she saw clearly that a girl under seventeen has no right to promise herself in marriage. She knew that she had given a promise that meant nothing. She formed, in her secret heart, an Ideal of marriage, which was not in the least like the gaunt young man, with the hunted eyes, who had implored her to be true to him. Looking back upon the little scene in the arbor she could not but think that he had taken an unfair advantage of her gratitude and friendlessness. By the end of her first vacation the thought of her secret engagement was a millstone round her neck.
She still kept to her habit of writing to him. He stood for something in her life, after all. He was sympathy, kindness, a creature to whom she could turn for fellow-feeling in joy or trouble. He was as interested as she in her powers of mind, in her improvement in languages, her music, and her reading. He wrote more and more hopefully of his own prospects. Always he kept to her commands, and his letters might have been shown to anybody. Yet sometimes there breathed through them a current of feeling which sent a chill foreboding through her. What was she to say when at last he came to claim her promise—she who knew she had nothing to give?
Her obligation to him weighed upon her far more heavily than her debt to Mr. Vanston. She became deeply, feverishly anxious to earn her own living. She had a record of every remittance that David had ever sent, that one day she might repay him.
Her own complete change of mind encouraged her to hope at times that he might have changed his. It seemed impossible that he, a grown man, in a world full of women, could remain faithful to the memory of a girl whom he had only seen two or three times—a girl of whom he knew so little.
What if his heart were as empty towards her as hers towards him? What if he still wrote, still paid, only from a sense of duty, and because he had given his word?
One day it was borne in upon her to try in a letter to ascertain his real feeling; and she wrote to him, about six months before her final return to England, after this fashion:
"We write to one another, you and I, of what we do, but not of what we think. Yet, since we last met, we must have changed, both of us. At least, I have changed, and it seems foolish to believe that you alone, of all men, have stood still in a world full of movement, of interest, of men, and of women too.
"I wonder—I often wonder—and at last my curiosity is so great that I feel I must let it out—what you seriously think, now, of the little comedy of our betrothal in the garden that Sunday evening?
"I wonder if you have realized how rash we were to promise any lifelong bond—we who knew nothing of either life or bonds: we who knew nothing of each other, of our respective characters and tastes?
"It seems to me impossible that you should not have traveled as far since then, in mind, as you have done in body. And I want to tell you this. If you have come to the conclusion—as it is borne in upon me that you must have—that we were a couple of silly, unreflecting things; please be sure that I, too, am growing up, that I, too, shall soon be able to work for myself, and to repay your goodness to me financially, if not in other ways; and finally, that I, too, see how unreasonable it would be for one of us to hold the other to such a compact in the future."
After the dispatch of this letter, she had awaited a reply in some trepidation.
It did not arrive for some weeks, since Felix and Vronsky, out in Siberia, were much occupied with certain happenings hereafter to be recorded fully. When at last a letter was received, it was inconclusive. Felix wrote that he hoped, before the end of the year, to get leave to come and see her. Until then he thought it best not to discuss the nature of their feelings for each other. For himself, if he wrote of what he did, and not of what he thought, that, as she must know, was out of deference to her commands. What he desired was, as always, her happiness. Just now he was not in a position to write more definitely, but as soon as his plans cleared, she should hear from him again.
That letter had reached Rona towards the end of February. She had not heard since, and it was now July. A remittance had arrived, however, regularly each month as usual.
The ceasing of letters from David had not troubled her much. Its effect had been to relegate the whole affair more and more to the background of her young eager mind, full of plans for the future and not eager to busy itself with the past.
Such was the Veronica now moving over the grass towards Aunt Bee.
"Come, child, tea will be cold," said Miss Rawson.
"Nothing could be cold to-day," laughed back Rona, raising her eyes from her book, but quickening her steps obediently.
The stable clock chimed a quarter past four.
"Denzil ought to be here soon if he comes by that train," said Aunt Bee.
"I am impatient to see him again," said Rona, in tones of candid interest. "I owe him so much, I feel inclined to act like a young person in a novel of a century ago, and fall on my knees, seizing and kissing my benefactor's hand! Wouldn't he be astounded!"
"Indeed he would! Denzil never gave way to an impulse in his life."
"No. I remember well how dignified and proper he always was. But think how good he has been to me!" She sat down in a low chair and took her tea from Miss Rawson's hands.
As David had been so careful to keep her in funds, her dress had always been her own affair. And she had a style of her own.
It was daring to wear a rose-lined hat with the warm chestnut of her abundant locks; but she achieved it.
Aunt Bee caught herself thinking that, if Denzil really wanted her, he had better make up his mind at once. Nameless and dowerless though she was, the Girl from Nowhere was not likely to go long a-begging.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the puffing of the arriving motor could be heard upon the still air.
"There he is!" cried Aunt Bee, rising from among her tea-things. Rona did not rise. She leaned forward with an air of interest, but quite controlled. Miss Rawson was halfway across the lawn when Denzil stepped out through the drawing-room window, joined her on the terrace, greeted her with affection, and strolled with her towards the table in the shade.
Then Veronica rose, slowly, to her full height. The moment lent a slight added glow to the carnation of her smooth cheek. But the shy dignity of her attitude was almost condescending, as Aunt Bee noted with relish.
Denzil was looking his best. Yachting suited him. He was tanned and healthy-looking, his blue eyes very clear, as if with the reflection of the seas whereon he had lately sailed. He was in the midst of a sentence when he perceived the young regal creature rising from the low chair to greet him. His voice died away, and for a moment he stopped short just where he was, upon the grass.
"Is that—Rona—Miss Smith?"
He corrected himself with haste, with sudden, helpless confusion. He dare not call her Rona; and that such a goddess could be called Smith!
His appearance pleased the girl. This was a man of wisdom and character, she told herself—a man who knew the world—not a mad boy who went tilting at windmills. The gratitude in her heart welled up into her glorious eyes as she laid her hand in his without a word.
"So you are grown up!" said Denzil, wondering and gazing, and drinking her in.
"Thanks to you," she responded, in a sweet, rather low-pitched voice, "I am grown up and ready to face the world."
"To face the world!" echoed the Squire. "I wonder what you mean by that! How well you look! I was not sure that you and Aunt Bee were home, or I should have hurried back yesterday."
"Rona does look well, and so do you, Denzil. I don't think I ever saw you look better," said Miss Rawson, handing him his tea. "We got home the day before yesterday. The heat in London and Paris was too great for us to wish to stay there."
"And what do you mean by facing the world?" persisted Denzil, sitting down luxuriously, tossing his straw hat upon the grass, and lifting his dazzled eyes once more upon the princess of Thule who stood before him.
"I mean," said Rona, turning with composure and once more seating herself, "that, owing to you, I have a first-rate education and the means to earn my living. I am ready to begin, as soon as possible. I want to repay you all that my schooling has cost you."
Her manner in speaking was one of perfect simplicity. There were no protestations, no asseverations. Yet her gratitude and her independent pride were both apparent, and both, coming from her, seemed subtly wonderful.
Miss Rawson looked up in surprise. Strange as it may seem, this idea had not occurred to her. She was not a modern woman, and had no idea of woman's vocations. She had fancied that Rona would be abundantly content to remain at Normansgrave until Denzil married her or David fetched her away. So had Denzil. He gazed at her in perplexity, in wonder, in vast admiration. He might have known she would show this fine spirit.
"Surely," she said, earnestly, "you did not think that I was a sort of bottomless gulf, swallowing all your money and kindness with no hope of returning it? I can work, and I wish to work. I could not live here as a pauper, dependent on your charity, could I?"
"What do you propose to do?" asked Denzil.
"To write stories for the magazines. There was a girl at Rennes whose elder sister earned about a hundred and fifty pounds a year in that way."
"But, my dear child," said Aunt Bee, "how do you know that you have the capacity to write stories?"
"Because I have already written one," said Rona, calmly. "I wrote it and sent it to this girl's sister to dispose of. She sold it at once, and I got three guineas for it!"
They sat staring at her.
"I had to have it typed, so that I did not get the full price for it," she went on. "I shall be obliged to learn to use a typewriter, as it costs too much to pay to have things typed. That will all be by degrees."
"I should think so!" gasped Aunt Bee.
"And," she went on, quite calmly, "it is in my mind to ask you if I might stay here with you six months? I am afraid it will take me six months to earn enough money to set up in London, even in one room."
Denzil laid down his plate of strawberries and cream, and cleared his throat.
"One swallow does not make a summer!" he remarked, profoundly. "You must not expect, because one of your stories got published, to be able to sell others."
"The editor who bought the last said he would take more of the same kind," she replied, unmoved. "I sent him another last week, and I expect soon to hear from him."
"I don't see why you should not write stories, dear," said Aunt Bee, in amusement. "But is it absolutely necessary that this should be done in one room in London? Could you not write your stories just as well here, without depriving us of our girl?"
"Exactly!" broke in Denzil, warmly; so warmly that his aunt had much ado not to laugh. "She has done it," was her inner thought. "He knows now that he cannot let her go."
The unaccustomed feeling was almost more than Denzil could cope with. He became quite absent-minded, and seemed as if some curious oppression lay upon him.
He rose, after a few minutes, and stood squarely before Rona, his hands behind him. "What is your last news of your brother?" he asked.
Rona looked up, startled. "He—he has not written at all lately," she said. "You know Mr. Vronsky and he went back to Siberia, to the mines there, after establishing his patent in Europe."
"What do you think he would say to me if I allowed you to go off and live alone, without consulting him? I hope you won't think me a tyrant, but I don't see how I can sanction your going off alone without his written permission."
Aunt Bee murmured assent. "Strange how necessity spurs the wit!" she thought.
"You know, I feel you would not be safe alone in London," said Denzil, seriously. "No—not simply because you are a girl; I know girls do these things now. But because you have enemies, and they might find you out. Remember you are not yet of age. What if your uncle should try to recapture you?"
He saw that this shot had told. Rona grew white. "Oh!" she said, irresolutely, "but I should think that is safe now. He has left me alone all this time."
"But he may be watching for just such a chance."
She lifted her liquid eyes to his face. "I do not want to go away," she said frankly, "but I do not want to be a burden—a sponge. You have been so kind, I want you to know that I am very far from expecting you to do more."
Her look fell away from the expression in his.
"Write stories, by all means," said Denzil, his eyes resting fascinated on the brim of her lowered hat. "But save your money for future emergencies. Meanwhile, it is holiday-time. Shall we postpone the discussion for a few weeks? I feel, in this weather, as if I did not want to talk business. Give me my holiday—you take yours. Stay here meanwhile, and when the summer days are over we can decide upon future plans. Come—show me the stables, the kitchen-garden, the palm-stoves—I have been away an age, and I want to look at everything!"
He held out his hand to her, and, with a hesitation which Miss Rawson remarked, she gave him hers. He raised her to her feet, and they stood together a moment, looking into each other's eyes.
Rona would not have been human had she failed to read the admiration in his. His heart swelled with the true Cophetuan delight. He had all, she had nothing but her beauty. He was master of his actions and his fortune; there was nobody to dictate to him, should he marry the beggar maid. And now the idea, which had so shyly nestled in his heart for two years, suddenly shook its wings and soared. He would marry this interesting girl, whose grace and dignity were worthy of being raised to his throne.
And for the first time the same idea struck Rona—struck her with a shock. Never till that moment had she thought of Denzil as a man who might love and wish to marry her. He had seemed older, too staid—as she said to David—too fiddle-faddly. But now that she was grown, up, she knew that the disparity between them was by no means too great—the difference between nineteen and thirty-three.
They wandered into the old walled fruit garden, down past a long strip of border, garnished in one place with bits of quartz in strange devices.
"I never come past here," said Denzil, falteringly, "without thinking of my dead brother."
"Your brother?" said the girl, in speechless amazement. "I never knew you had a brother!"
"No," he replied, in a deep voice, stopping before the bits of quartz—"I never speak of him. It is too distressing a subject; and, by my orders, nobody has ever mentioned him to you. But one day, perhaps, I shall be able to tell you about him. This was his garden, when he was a little chap. Old Penton, the gardener, keeps it up, as he used to like it kept. Do you see the rockery? He made it all himself. Poor fellow!" As he stood looking down upon the bits of stone, and the little ferns that grew still, though the stormy, wayward heart of the young man was dust, his eyes filled with tears. Here was he, Denzil, in possession of wealth, land, love, everything that makes life glorious; and his brother had crowned a career of folly by a death of crime.
The old gardener was working not far off. He came up to greet his master and say how well he looked.
"Aye," he said, "and there's poor Master Felux's bit o' garden. I always keeps it, so I do. I was rare and fond o' him when he wor a little lad. And I see his spirit walk, I did, one evening in spring, two year and more back. Soon after the noos of his death came it wor—and a Sunday evening. I see him as plain as I sees you two now—walking along the avenue. But the light was bad, and he slipped away, and I didn't see him no more." He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, and his voice broke. "I says to my missus that night, 'No fear but what he's gone,' I says. 'For I've a-just seen him'; and she says, 'Tummus, you be a gawp!'—just like that. But for all her gawps I seen him—I seen him right enough—and his face as white as if he'd been in his coffin."
They smiled tenderly upon the old man's delusion.
—You have taken from meThe Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;The Future too, with all her glorious promise;But do not leave me utterly alone!Spare me the Past.—ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
For Denzil Vanston the days which ensued upon his homecoming were days of charm and wonder. Life for him took on new colors, the presence of Rona in the house gave an unwonted zest even to the most trivial things.
Miss Rawson watched, well pleased, the intercourse between the two.
They played tennis and golf, they rowed and punted together. Rona's physical health was perfect, and she was apparently never tired.
But when a fortnight of such dalliance had gone by, the vigilant aunt began to think that, if anything were to come of it, she had better take some steps to force the pace.
Denzil had never been a hot-blooded young man, and he was no longer in his first youth. He seemed quite satisfied with what his aunt impatiently characterized to herself as "philandering" with the beautiful girl with whom his generosity had enabled him to be on terms of intimacy. He did not make love to Veronica. He complacently played a semi-paternal part, treating her indulgently, as a beloved child; and he was, to all appearance, abundantly content with the situation as it was.
But the looker-on knew that this apparently stable and well-balanced position must of necessity be of a most temporary and elusive character. Veronica had not been a week in the house, when the young men of the neighborhood took to coming to call in a persistent and unusual manner; and invitations to dinner arrived, pointedly including "the young friend who is staying with you."
It should be remarked that Mr. Vanston possessed in a marked degree one valuable quality—the virtue of discretion. He had held his tongue about the waif girl whom his aunt had rescued from the canal barge. One or two of the old servants at Normansgrave—Chant, the butler, for example—knew of the circumstances of Rona's first appearance. So also did Dr. Causton. The nurse who had then been employed at the Cottage Hospital had since married and left the neighborhood; and as Rona had not been seen for two years, and nobody had spoken of her, she was not, upon her reappearance, associated in people's minds with the circumstances of her first arrival. This had taken place just at the time when poor Felix's suicide, or disappearance, had been in the foreground of everybody's thoughts concerning the Vanstons. Everybody who called upon Miss Rawson during the sad period had been so eager to be informed upon the subject, that the topic of the girl from the barge had not been necessary in order to maintain conversation.
And now that Rona had come to stay at Normansgrave for an indefinite term, Denzil decided that she should use her own name, of Leigh, and not be called Smith any longer, as for safety's sake, and in case anybody should be making inquiries for her, she had been called during her two years abroad. Nobody was likely to associate the tall, graceful, well-dressed Miss Leigh, now visiting her friends, with the pale, half-grown creature who had been the first patient at the now popular Cottage Hospital.
Denzil had taken an opportunity of telling Dr. Causton that he wished no mention of the barge episode to be made. He said that there was a reason for silence. Dr. Causton, who possessed both brains and eyes, had naturally perceived that Rona was not among her accustomed surroundings when he first found her upon theSarah Dawkes. He concluded that the secret had been confided to the Vanstons, who had so generously befriended her, and kept his counsel accordingly.
To inquiring friends Miss Rawson simply said that Denzil was acting as guardian to Miss Leigh for her brother, who was in Siberia; a statement which, as far as she knew, was perfectly true.
If Miss Rawson had found Rona interesting in her youth and helplessness, she was now amazed at the character and ability developed by the foundling. She knew that this was a most unusual girl: she believed that she was the very woman for Denzil, could she but be induced to think so. And at this point in her career—before she had discovered her power—and while the glow of her gratitude to Denzil, and the fact of her having known no other young men, conspired to make him acceptable in her eyes—it seemed this might be compassed.
To Aunt Bee's acute intelligence, the fact of the girl's nameless, homeless condition was by no means altogether a drawback. She had been most carefully trained from early childhood; she seemed to have no undesirable relatives, with the one exception of the Wicked Uncle; and having no mother or sisters of her own to interfere, she would be more dependent upon Miss Rawson. And this dear lady would hardly have been human had she not felt that she would like a certain amount of influence with Denzil's wife.
But, if it were to be done, it must be done at once. She felt this keenly. Rona was already longing to stretch her wings. Her second story had been bought by the editor who took her first. She had, apparently, a play of fancy of that graceful, iridescent kind which suits the pages of the modern magazine. And here was a source of income, likely to become considerable. And no doubt Rona had imbibed, with her modern education, modern ideas of womanly independence, though at present these were tempered by the conventual upbringing.
The uncle who had designed the girl for the stage had been a man of penetration. She was not only beautiful, she was beautiful in a dramatic style. Soon—very soon—somebody would tell her so. Soon she would awake to the consciousness of Power. And then good-by to Denzil's chances!
Miss Rawson had no wish to entrap the girl before she was old enough to judge for herself. She sincerely thought that, if it could be brought about, she would be happy with Denzil, that the career of being mistress of a house, and a personage in the county, would occupy her talents in a safe and satisfactory manner. She would kindle her husband's ambitions, she would be the mother of splendid children. In her the traditions of the family would blossom once more.
Such was the earnest ambition of Aunt Bee. She knew the good in Denzil. He was capable of being an excellent husband and father. But he must secure Rona before passion awoke in her.
To this end she plotted. She invited a house-party to stay at Normansgrave. Among them was that same Miss Myrtle Bentley whom Denzil had once thought that he could like well enough to bestow upon her the priceless treasure of his heart. There is little doubt that she would have accepted it, most gratefully; for she was twenty-eight, and the slight primness which endeared her to Denzil was not an attraction in the eyes of other men.
She came; and Denzil marveled that he could ever have been drawn towards her. Others came too. Several young men. Aunt Bee asked none whom she thought likely to be dangerous to Rona; but several to whom she thought Rona would inevitably be dangerous.
As a few days fleeted by, she congratulated herself upon the success of her maneuver. The young men surrounded Rona as flies hover about honey. Denzil was no longer able to monopolize her. He felt the change acutely. His aunt had strong hopes that, before long, his calm must give way, and he be driven over the verge of a declaration.
It was to her unaccountable that he should be so slow to move. But she had to admit that Veronica gave him no help. Veronica was not the least bit in love. She was reveling, with all her intense physical capacity, in the pleasure which life gave her. Surrounded by summer weather, pleasant people, and beautiful country, she gave herself up to holiday happiness—picnics by river, picnics by motor, garden-parties, golf, and dancing—each thing in turn was new, was absorbing, was delightful.
She seemed fast slipping into that daughterly attitude towards Denzil which Aunt Bee dreaded and strove to avert.
The girl was living in the golden present moment. There was a dark background to her thought. Now and then, even in the midst of her mirth, the shadow of her secret betrothal flapped its black wings in the sunshine. But she turned her mind and her heart away from it. She was gloriously amused, she was glowing with the pride of life and youth. She was not going to think upon any disagreeable subject.
And then, one morning, there lay upon her plate a letter. A letter with the usual Russian stamps and the usual typewritten address. For Felix never dared risk his handwriting, for fear of recognition.
Veronica gazed upon that envelope as a man may look upon the Black Hand which is the secret summons of some nefarious society, and calls upon him to prepare for death. A gust of loathing memory swept over her. Again she saw the dun half-daylight of a London winter; again the endless lines of railway far below. She smelt the odor of hay and tarpaulin, and saw the dizzy lights upon the black, slow river.
She resented being reminded of the terrible moment of her despair, her escape, her accident, her privations. She looked down the breakfast-table at the well-looking, prosperous people who were feeding there. What had she and they in common with anarchy and jail, and all the other awful things that lie out of sight, in the darker corners of life?
Whatever happened, she could not open and read her letter then. She slipped it into her pocket unnoticed. She intended to read it as soon as she should be alone. But immediately after breakfast all was bustle and movement, since they were going to scull up the Wey to the ruins of Newark Abbey for a picnic. There was no leisure to break the fatal seal.
One person had noted the arrival of the letter. This was Miss Rawson. She welcomed it. This might bring matters to a climax, where she had failed to do so. If Rona's brother was coming to fetch her away, then surely Denzil would find out the nature of his own complaint, and take steps to prevent her departure.
She watched Veronica with some keenness, as she went to and fro, playing assistant hostess very prettily under Aunt Bee's directions, and seeing that everybody was comfortably seated in the various motors and traps, with rugs, cushions, and so on. Miss Rawson had slightly sprained her knee, and was in consequence unable to go that day's expedition. She stood in the hall superintending the departure.
Denzil was driving his own dogcart, and by a little gentle maneuvering, Myrtle Bentley had secured the seat beside him. This made him rather cross, though he knew quite well that Rona and he, in consideration of their guests, could not well drive down together. His face was moody as he sought for a missing whip among the contents of a stand in the hall.
His aunt's eyes twinkled. "I suppose," she very softly remarked, in a pensive way, "that it is, after all, a good thing that Rona will so soon be leaving us."
Denzil looked up with great suddenness. "What do you mean?" he demanded.
"Well, I conclude her brother will be coming for her very shortly. I saw she heard from him this morning, and he seems to be doing very well. I am glad she will have a home, for she could not well stay here after you are married, could she?" with a mischievous inclination of her head towards the open door, where, in the sunshine, sat the decorous Myrtle, in a somewhat starchy white washing frock.
"What do you mean?" repeated Denzil, vacantly, a second time, standing as if rooted to the spot.
Aunt Bee shrugged her expressive shoulders. "I have to consider the future, you know, dear boy. And if Rona decides upon a literary career in London, I think I shall go and share her one room. Good-by, and good luck!"
She laughed, in the teasing way that poor Denzil never understood.
He was as nearly rude to Miss Bentley on the drive down as he ever permitted himself to be to a lady. She described him to herself, with some ladylike resentment, as grumpy. He did not seem to think the day fine, nor the drive pleasant, nor to admire the lovely view of the river, which moved her to unusual warmth of expression.
Down at the canal side, just where once theSarah Dawkeshad been moored, with a delirious, broken girl aboard her, stood Rona, upright as a dart, her punt-pole in her hand. She wore a pale silvery green washing silk. The masses of her hair were glorious under the shade of her sweeping hat.
"You are never going to punt to-day, Rona?" cried the Squire, quite sharply. "Do you realize that we have to get up to Newark?"
She raised her glorious eyes, full of astonishment at his unwonted petulance—an astonishment which made him hot all over.
"Of course not. I am only steadying the boats," she said, with a chill in that voice that was, to him, the barometer of his happiness. "I had arranged to scull this boat with you."
His heart leaped.
"Oh, Miss Leigh, I don't think that is fair," broke in Captain Legge, a young man who admired Rona considerably. "You and Vanston are such swells, you must not pull together. I will go in your boat, and he had better come here."
"Yes," cried the lady in this boat, "and here is room for Miss Bentley in the stern."
Legge swiftly stepped into Rona's boat, and it would have been hard to dislodge him without more commotion being made than the Squire approved. He had to go with the other party, and to start for the day with the remembrance that he had spoken sharply to his adored, and had no chance to apologize. Myrtle could not scull; well and good. But she thought she could steer, and was deceived in her opinion. This was very bad indeed. All the way up, the temper of the young man was continually chafed, and he had to go on smiling at her well-meant apologies, as she bumped the boat under every one of the tiny bridges which span the stream thereabouts, and must be shot, sculls shipped, by an experienced "cox."
It was nearly a quarter to two when they at last piloted their tiny fleet up the deep dykes, once cut by the monks for the due supply of their Abbey, placed with rare felicity among the windings of many streams. Little as survives of the fabric, the situation of Newark renders it a particularly pathetic ruin. On this day the sun poured down upon the meadow-sweet, drawing up its fragrance in gusts of perfume; the track of each rill was marked by a fringe of purple loose-strife; and among the forget-me-nots darted dragon-flies, like moving gems, over the surface of the quiet waters.
It took long to discuss the excellent fare provided by Miss Rawson; and then, in the golden afternoon, people grew drowsy, smoked, talked, told stories, or teased and joked among themselves. In the midst of it all the thought of her letter darted into Rona's mind. Her conscience smote her. She told herself that she was a selfish, unfaithful friend, a girl whom, were she to read about her in a book, she would unhesitatingly condemn. With the excuse of hunting for flowers, she slipped away, and seeking shelter from the burning sun, wandered into the inclosure where the ruins stand, and sat herself down by a wall, among the grass. She thought of David as she had last seen him. For the past two years she had hardly thought of him at all. Now it seemed as if his very voice spoke—"You will be true to me? You won't fail me—will you?"
The hot blood dyed her face. She was not conscious of unfaithfulness, in the sense of having preferred anyone else to David. But she was conscious of a complete change of mind with regard to him. She wished he had not written. But the letter must be opened. She drew it from her pocket with reluctant fingers, and broke the seal.
"Savlinsky Copper Mines,"Barralinsk,"Siberia, via Moscow.
"MY DEAR RONA,—I have not written to you for many, many weeks, and this for two reasons. The first of these is that, since you told me of your change of feeling towards me, I have found it very difficult to know what to say to you. The other concerns my own personal safety.
"I do not know whether it will interest you. Since your letter I have several times thought that my best course would be to disappear and let you hear no more of me. But the desire in me for a kind word from you is too strong for that.
"If you are not interested, simply do not read this.
"As I have told you, for a period of nearly two years I was let alone by the Brotherhood so completely that I began to think that I had shaken them off. Most of the men who had had to do with me were killed during the Russian Revolution. But one man, a Pole called Cravatz, bore me a special grudge. He has tracked me in all my movements, and at last, when he found me in Siberia, settled in a position of responsibility and trusted everywhere, he found means to communicate with me. The Governor of this Province of Barralinsk is obnoxious to the Brotherhood. He was in command of a regiment in St. Petersburg during the rising, and it was believed that he had urged the severe treatment of rebels. Knowing him as I do, I think this most unlikely; but however, he is on the proscribed list. Cravatz brought me the official command from the Brotherhood, that I was to be the instrument of their vengeance upon this man. That means that I am under orders to commit a murder. If it is not done by the last day of August my own life will not be safe for an instant.
"This was a crushing blow to me for more reasons than one. To begin with, the Governor is my personal friend. From him I have always received the utmost kindness, as well as from his daughter.
"But in addition to this, I have got on so well, and my prospects are so good, that I am in a position to gratify the only wish I have in the world, were the woman I love only brave enough to face a life in this lonely place. But I could not, of course, think of asking you to encounter the risk of my being murdered, perhaps before your eyes.
"However, Vronsky, my well-loved Vronsky, who is a second father to me, thinks he sees a way out. Cravatz is a thorough-paced scoundrel, and he has put himself within reach of the law out here.
"If we can get him arrested all will be well; there is no other member of the Brotherhood to follow the thing up.
"And now comes the question. If I can arrange this matter—will you come to me? I would travel to England, for I can get three months' leave—and marry you and bring you out here. It is a desolate village, but lovely in summer-time. You would have a comfortable house and good servants.
"But what is the use of writing this? Even as I do it, I laugh at myself. Is it likely that such a thing as this should happen to me?
"You are not mine, and never will be. You never were mine. It was your sweet child-sympathy that made you think for a few minutes—a few minutes of pity and regret—that you could love me. You repented almost at once—did you not?
"Don't think that I am going to reproach you. The thing was inevitable. I had no right to suggest to you what I did.
"You must not reproach yourself. I am older, harder, stronger now. I shall not take laudanum, even though I have to live without hope.
"I have delayed the sending of this letter for three awful months of consuming impatience, in order to be pretty certain that we had a reasonable chance of laying hold of Cravatz. That assurance Vronsky now gives me. I therefore write. My feeling for you has never changed. I am, as always, your lover, and would-be husband.
"But should you send to me the words I dare not think of as possible—should your answer be 'Yes, I will come to you'—then there are things about myself that I must tell you.
"Don't keep me waiting, will you? Decide quickly, write, put me out of my pain. Life here is long, days pass slowly, and I am starving for a word. Remember that, and be merciful.—I am your devoted DAVID SMITH."
Rona sat, with this letter in her hands, staring across at the pine-covered hill which fronts the Abbey; and it seemed as if her world were turning upside down. It had come. The thing which had loomed in the dim future, the thing that during the past months she had almost forgotten, was now upon her. She had received from David a definite offer of marriage, and it must be answered, one way or another.
And, in the passionate revolt of her whole nature, she felt that she could not do it. Her home was here—here at Normansgrave, where first she had known happiness in all her lonely, unfriended life.
Meanwhile, she had given her promise. She had given it fully, freely, without hesitation, to the young man who was as friendless, as forlorn as she. But in the time which had passed since then she had found home and friends, life was opening before her—while he was lonely still. Lonely and wanting her. What was she to do?
With a passion of terror and repulsion she contemplated the idea of going off with this stranger, whom she had known only for three wild days—of leaving for his sake, England, and all that England means. Oh—she could not do it; as he said in his letter, he ought not to demand it!
In the agony of her feelings she bowed her head upon her hands; and it seemed as if some inner barrier broke so that the tears came. She was a girl who seldom wept, and having once given way, she grieved with an abandonment which frightened her. To her horror she found that she could not control herself. She was obliged to bend before the storm which shook her. It was half shame. By all the rules, she should be ready to die for this man who had saved her; and she, on the contrary, recoiled with shuddering from the mere thought of him.
It was upon this desolation of grief that Denzil, wandering in search of her, came, with a thrill of horror unspeakable. With a leap into life of something within him, he flung himself down upon the grass beside her. He lifted her up, he held her in his arms, he found himself kissing away her tears before he knew what he was about—and the only words that came into his head as he clasped her close were:
"My darling, my own darling, what has made you cry?"
Does every man who names love in our livesBecome a power, for that? Is love's true thingSo much best to us, that what personates loveIs next best? ...My soul is not a pauper; I can liveAt least my soul's life, without alms from men.—E. BARRETT BROWNING.
The distress which had overmastered Rona was so extreme that for a few moments it seemed to her a natural thing that Denzil should be consoling her. Her need of just that—just the comfort that mere petting brings in overwhelming trouble—was so intense, that there was fitness in the thought that he, the generous man who had done so much for her, should be the one to offer comfort in her perplexity.
But to the Squire, after the impetuous outrush of sympathy which had carried him, as it were, off his feet for a moment, there came an acute attack of self-consciousness which could not fail to communicate itself to the girl whom he still held in his arms.
How the fact that there was something not in the least paternal in the pressure of those arms was conveyed to Rona is not to be explained. But the fact remains that, in a very short time, she did realize it; and, sitting upright, drew herself away, and covered her quivering mouth with her drenched handkerchief.
"Oh, what an object I must be!" she gasped, shakily, with a sudden foolish laugh, forced and unreal.
He could not at once reply. He was moved and shaken to a surprising degree by his plunge into so new an experience. But he made a manful effort to answer her rationally. He thought he knew the cause of her tears, and was not merely astonished, but frightened at their vehemence. "Oh, do forgive me!" he stammered. "I—it was most unintentional. You are crying because I spoke to you so harshly at the landing-stage, are you not?"
This remarkable idea had the immediate effect of turning her thoughts and drying her tears. "Oh!" cried she, "how could you think me so silly? No, indeed, it is not that. It is a trouble, a real one, that has come upon me all in a minute. I ought to have expected it—I have always known that it must come. But, somehow, one forgets—one hopes. And now it has happened, and I must go away—away from everything that I—love."
The last word was almost inaudible, by reason of the tears which threatened to flow again. Denzil's spirits rose with a leap. That was it—Jealousy! Clever Aunt Bee, who had given him a hint! She was jealous of Myrtle Bentley, and this most natural feminine feeling had shown her the true state of her own heart. He snatched her hands.
"Darling, I know, I know! But you are quite mistaken! How could you have got such a preposterous notion into your head? And yet it was natural, too; for before I fell in love with you I had some thoughts of Miss—ah—Bentley. But it was nothing. And you must not go, my Rona, but stay here always, in your true home, with me. You will, won't you? Say that you will, Rona?" His pulses bounded as he saw how completely he had surprised her. "Have you not guessed?" he tenderly asked, stooping to look into her troubled, drooping face.
"Have you not known always that I was most awfully fond of you? I think I fell in love at first sight. But, of course, I would not speak until you were a woman grown, and able to decide for yourself."
The words affected Rona. She contrasted his behavior with that of his brother, as was inevitable. The rich man, who had so much to offer, had held back, in order that her choice might be free and deliberate. Her other suitor, the almost beggar, caught her, worked upon her gratitude, bound her by a promise at an age when she was not able to give a valid one. The thought of the deception which she had practiced upon this good, generous friend for two years weighed down her spirit. How little he had known her—the chivalrous, unworldly man, who had taken her on trust, knowing nothing of her antecedents! The real King Cophetua can never have seen, in the eyes of his beggar maid, a look of more fervent gratitude and admiration than Rona lifted to her suitor's face.
Of love, as between man and woman, she knew nothing at all. His gentle and affectionate interest was just the thing to appeal to her. And marriage with him would mean life at Normansgrave—life in safety and honor, and clean, open-eyed peace: life undisturbed by secrets, and dark Brotherhoods, and sinister memories. It seemed to her that Denzil stood in sunlight, beckoning her; while, from some dark tunnel, David stretched out hands to drag her down.
There was bewilderment and vain regret in her voice as she told her lover:
"Oh, you are good, you are good to me! There never was such a good man as you!"
No words could have been more sweet in his ears. He thought her quite right. He felt sure that he was a good, just man. And she had the insight to perceive it. No doubt marriages are made in heaven. Rona had been sent, bruised and maltreated, lying in a canal barge, to his door, to be the consolation of Providence for his undeserved misfortune in having a suicide brother. Ah, what a relief it would be to tell her all about his early manhood, and the tragedy of Felix's disgrace!
"Then—then—you do? You will?" he stammered. "Thank Heaven, my darling! I feared perhaps you might think me too old and grave. But with you I shall grow young again——"
She checked him as, taking her hands, he made a movement as if to draw her nearer.
"Oh, stop! Wait!" she gasped, falteringly, her head spinning with the excitement of the situation, which seemed to be carrying her away. "There is something I must tell you first—something you must hear. I don't know how to tell you.... Oh, Mr. Vanston, if only I had been perfectly frank with you from the first! You will be so—so disappointed in me. I feel as if—as if I dare not tell you!" She stopped, for the effort to speak seemed likely to choke her.
Denzil's face grew pale with apprehension. His heart knocked loudly. What was he about to hear?
"Wait," he said, kindly, but with a slight difference from his former tenderness of manner; "don't speak until you can do so without distressing yourself——"
Something in his tone—an indefinable drawing-back—caused her to cry out with urgency. "Listen! Had I guessed—had I had the least idea that you were going to say—what you said to me just now, I would have stopped you. Let us pretend that you did not say it! We are as we were this morning—you my kindest friend, I your most devoted child. Now listen. I am engaged already. I have been secretly engaged ever since I—almost ever since I first came into your house."
He was so surprised that for a few moments he sat quite still, while a dull brick-red surged up under his fair skin. Rona lowered before him the proud head she had always carried so high. At last he brought out: "Engaged! To whom?"
"To the young man who called himself my brother—to David Smith."
There was silence. Denzil took in and digested this new view of the girl at his side. He had thought her every idea and tendency known to him. He had believed that he himself had formed her tastes and decided her bent. And now he was faced by the awful thought that in her tender girlhood another man had kissed her—held her in his arms.... He remembered the conditions under which she had been found—on board a canal barge—with this wild youth who was not her brother! A horrible despondency assailed him, darkening the face of the fair landscape. All that he said was: "I could not have believed it of you, Rona."
She winced, but maintained her composure. For long had she dreaded this moment. It was almost with relief that she found herself living through it. In all her forecastings of the scene, she had pictured herself as making her avowal to Miss Rawson also.
Denzil alone was unquestionably easier to deal with.
She continued her confession.
"I have had a letter from him—to-day!"
"Indeed!" Denzil's voice sounded as though dashed with ice.
Its coldness was ominous, and stung her.
"Listen!" she urged. "If you turn from me, what is to become of me? You are the only person in all the world who cares—except him! You are the only person who could advise me, who could help—who could—could—save me from him."
There was a moment's tense silence; then he said, in a softer tone, "So you do not—love this—er—this young man to whom you are plighted?"
She shook her head. "I was a child, you know," she faltered. "And I—I hardly knew him. But, you see, he had saved my life. He had saved me from—worse than death, I think. I was very grateful to him." She mused for a moment, and then timidly asked, "Will you read his letter?"
Denzil was not a great-minded man, nor a clever man, but he had his code of honor. "Are you pledged to secrecy?" he asked. "I gather that this young man has claims upon your gratitude, if not your affection. Ought you to show me his letter?"
His integrity made her admire him afresh.
"Yes," she said, "I can hardly do otherwise, now. For he asks me to make a decision. He wants to come over and marry me, and take me out there to—to Siberia to live."
"To Siberia!" echoed Denzil in horror.
In truth, the idea of this brother of Rona's had occupied but a very small niche in his mind. He was abroad, he was poor, he hardly counted, except in so far as he would be overcome with joy at the marvelous condescension of Mr. Vanston in raising his sister to the rank and dignity of his wife.
And now he faced the idea that this man was a living power, to be reckoned with; that he could, if he chose, take Rona away, to the ends of the earth, and leave him bereft of all that made life pleasant to him. And, on that, another thought shot swiftly into his mind. If David Smith were no relative, then David Smith had no legal claim. To such claim as gratitude may give, Denzil had a far better right than he.
"You see," said Rona, "if he comes home to marry me, everything must be known. There cannot be any more secret-keeping. David can tell you nothing of me; when you found me, I had only known him a day or two; he knows no more than I do of my family or position. I have never been told who my mother was, nor my father. I was brought up in a convent school. I had been there ever since I was a baby. My uncle, Rankin Leigh, who took me away, was a perfectly detestable person—a person you would not speak to, nor have any dealings with. Oh," she wound up, with a sort of grim desperation, "it is of no use! You could never marry a girl like me. He had better come and fetch me away. I did promise him, and he—he—poor boy, he has nobody but me."
After a minute's helpless silence, "Will you show me his letter?" asked Denzil, wearily.
She drew the letter from her pocket and held it to him, keeping her face hidden. She heard him draw the paper from the envelope, and sat on in miserable humiliated silence while he read. The sunshine was no longer bright to her—the gray ruins were a warning of the decay of all earthly things, however strong. Before her lay a pilgrimage into the wilderness, a dark frowning future, and separation from all home ties.
He took a long time to read the letter—so long that at last she raised her head to look at him. He was seated, staring straight before him, his brows knit, and on his face a most curious expression of perplexity.
"Rona," he said, with a gravity such as she had never heard from him—"I judge from this letter that this young man who wishes to marry you is entangled with some gang of Nihilists."
She assented.
Denzil swallowed hard, once or twice, and then said, "Could you tell me how you came to make acquaintance with him?" In his mind was a cold chill, a sudden, awful thought. Cravatz, the Pole, had been tried and acquitted at the time of Felix's condemnation.
"Yes," said Rona, simply, "I will tell you. You know something about it—how my uncle shut me up in a room, because—because—well, chiefly because I would not let the dreadful man, Levy, kiss me. I knew, somehow, that that man meant to do me harm—I could see in his eyes that he was wicked. But, of course, I was helpless—as helpless as a rabbit; and they were starving me, so that I was weak, and I was so afraid that I should not be able to refuse food if they brought it to me—at any price. So I decided that the only thing I could do was to commit suicide. There were railway lines outside the window, where I was locked up. So I said my prayers, and then I opened the window, stood upon the sill, shut my eyes, and jumped."
Denzil uttered a cry. "Rona!" He dropped his head into his hands, and hid his face.
"Yes," she said, quietly, "what else was there for me to do? But just below my room there was an iron balcony, and I fell upon that, all doubled up over the railing. Inside that room," solemnly continued the girl, "was David Smith. What do you think he was doing? He was in the act of drinking laudanum, with the very same idea. He, too, was in the hands of his enemies. He, too, like me, was starving. He had nobody in the world but his half-brother, who did not love him, and was ashamed of him. He saw only one way out, and he was going to die. But when I fell, he rushed out and dragged me in. I fought and struggled to get away, for, of course, I did not know who he was. But when I was quieter, and looked at him, I could see that he was a gentleman, though he was so terribly thin and starved. So we ran away together. I managed, with his help, to get down to the canal wharf, where he knew a man, who helped us to hide aboard a barge. But I had been so badly hurt that the effort was too much for me, and I don't remember much else, until I woke up in the Cottage Hospital."
Silence, broken only by the humming of summer insects among the grass. Then Denzil asked, without raising his hidden face:
"And have you never seen him since?"
"Yes, once," replied Rona.
"When?" asked the hollow voice.
"One Sunday evening, just before he went away with Mr. Vronsky. He asked me to meet him, and I went to the old arbor while you were at evening service. He was unhappy and lonely, craving for love. He had been good to me, and I was sorry for him. And when he asked me to promise to be his wife when I grew up, I promised, because it seemed a little thing to do for him. I was happy with you, and he was all alone——" Her voice broke.
At last Denzil spoke. "Then it was really he whom the old gardener saw, as he told us. Rona, the man who saved you is not called David Smith at all. He is my younger brother, Felix Vanston."
The shock of these words brought the girl to her feet with a spring. "Your brother? Your brother?" she cried, incoherently. "Oh, no, for his brother was hard and merciless, and you—you are always so good and generous! That can't be true—it simply can't!"
The Squire, too, rose. "Let me tell you something of our early life," he said, with urgency. "You have told me the truth—the truth which I ought to have heard when first you came to us. If I had known—but I do my brother justice. He did not wish me to know that it was he until he had had a chance to show that he meant to try and do better. He has done better. He has apparently put in two years of good, steady work, and conquered a position for himself. But his discreditable past still drags at his heels. What did he tell you of his past, if I may ask the question?"
She answered, softly and low, "He told me that he had been in prison. But he said he was very sorry. He was misled, enticed, by bad men, who were too clever for him. He was young, and his head was full of great ideas."
"Let us walk along, away from the others," said Denzil, "and I will try and tell you something about Felix's mother."