They promised him his own way in the matter; and after a short discussion of the outbreak of fever, and the adequate staffing of the Cottage Hospital, he departed, and hurried up through the park to Normansgrave, his brain evolving an idea as he went.
Miss Rawson was in the garden, pottering round to gloat over her bulbs, which were doing admirably that year. She gazed with some amusement upon her nephew's perturbed countenance. "She can't have refused him—yet," was the thought that lurked behind her twinkling eyes.
"Aunt Bee, I want you to do something for me—that is, I wish to desire you to do something——"
"Are you giving me an order, Denzil dear? Because there is no need to beat about the bush. What is it?"
"They have got scarlet fever down at Dunhythe. They want us to lend the Cottage Hospital to the County Council—they want to turn out Miss Smith to-day, within an hour or two—and I want to bring her here for the final week of her promised convalescence."
"My dear Denzil! This is a little too fast. My poor old brain will hardly take it all in. Lead me to a garden seat. That's right—thanks. Yes, now let us hear it all over again."
Denzil sat down and explained in detail. He was very fond of his aunt, and had never yet discovered that she was laughing at him.
"Well, but, Denzil dear," said she, when she thoroughly understood the position, "have you considered that there may be some awkwardness? I don't quite understand what this young girl's position is to be. Is she to have her meals in the servants' hall?"
"Aunt!" said the nephew in horror. "She is a lady, you must see that."
"Yes, I know, Denzil. She is a lady, and you, I am proud to find, have the wit to perceive it. But, for all that, she was extricated from a truss of hay on a canal barge, and all our servants know it. If she comes here, and we treat her as an equal, I fear there may be just a wee scrap of scandal in the village respecting our noble but unconventional conduct. Please understand that I shall not mind. But, as your chaperon, it is my duty to point out to you that people will talk. You are usually just a little bit of a coward about talk, you know."
Denzil sat quite still. His face took on a new, dogged look. It very much resembled the look worn by his brother Felix in his mood of championship.
"Aunt Bee," he said, in a low voice, "tell me your own honest opinion of Rona Smith. Tell me what you think of her."
"I think she may grow up to be a fine woman some day, dear. She is, I believe, thoroughly honest and loyal. She is also religious, and grateful for kindness without any cringing. These are fine qualities, and rare in our days."
"Should you think me a—a regular jackass if I told you that I had the idea of paying for the completing of her education? She has, so she tells me, nobody to take care of her but this one brother, and he must be penniless, or he would not have been found at such rough work. I—I cannot but think that these two have been injured by some unscrupulous relative or guardian. Would not the brother be grateful if we offered to keep his sister and complete her education?"
Miss Rawson looked fixedly at Denzil. Never before had she seen him so confused, so little sure of himself. He stammered; he was, so to speak, at her mercy. Her face was quite grave; her manner calmly sympathetic. She knew that there are some men with whom there must always be the protective instinct to excite love. The notion of playing Providence to that lovely young girl was full of an exquisite seductive charm to young Vanston. He really did not know that he was in love with her. It might take him a couple of years to find out.
"Well, dear boy," said she, kindly, "it is a fine idea, but it sounds a little risky. We do not know who the girl is, nor how she came to the plight in which we found her. She may have relations who have a claim upon her, and it would be uncomfortable for you to be asked what right you had to take her under your wing."
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, digging tiny holes in the gravel with the tip of his stick, "I have thought of that. It seems to me that, if we make the offer I suggest, we ought to do it on condition that the brother speaks out and tells the truth, so that we may know where we are. What do you think of that? My notion is, bring her here to complete her cure. We promised her three weeks—let her have three weeks. By that time we shall know better what we think of her, and consider the desirability of making further offers of assistance."
"Very well, dear boy, I have nothing against that. It will take off your thoughts from this long, wearing suspense. I conclude that you want me to go and fetch your little protégée at once—eh?"
"I said the motor would be round at half-past two, and they were merely to tell her that you were coming to take her driving. I did not want her to be fussed."
"That was thoughtful of you, Denzil," said his aunt.
* * * * * * *
The motor duly appeared at the pretty white porch at two-thirty, and Rona, warmly wrapped up, was placed beside Miss Rawson in the comfortable closed tonneau, the Squire acting as chauffeur. The doctor and Sister Agnes, who had been informed of the fact that she was going to Normansgrave to complete her convalescence, looked at each other with a half-frightened smile and arching of the brows.
"Well," said Dr. Causton, "if I had known, or dreamt, that I was not getting her out of his way, but pitching her into his arms, I would not have done it—I declare I would not! However, what will be, will be; and we know his own father chose for his second wife a far more unsuitable person. But Denzil has always seemed such a sanctimonious kind."
"Just so," said Sister Agnes, deprecatingly. "That's the kind that does it."
During the drive Miss Rawson gradually told the girl that she was going to Normansgrave, as the hospital was about to receive infectious cases, and she could not be kept there without risk to herself. Rona was immensely interested, and, as Miss Rawson had previously noted, her interest swallowed up her girlish shyness. They went first for a drive among the lovely woods and moors that surround Normansgrave, and it was tea-time when they at last stopped before the door of the old mellow brick house with its air of comfort and well-being.
Miss Rawson saw with relief, but without much surprise, that Rona had no kind of doubt as to the position she would be asked to occupy. Evidently no such idea as being relegated to the servants' hall crossed her mind. She walked on Denzil's arm with pleasure, but without any embarrassment, to what was known as the little drawing-room, where tea was cosily set forth, and took her seat in an armchair with cushions carefully arranged, and a footstool for her feet, as to the manner born.
The kitten, which had traveled from Aylfleet packed in a basket, was let out upon the floor, and, to the amusement of all, swore and spat at his own sister, from whom he had been but ten days parted. The putting down of a saucer of milk, and the humors of the two graceful little creatures, sent Rona into fits of merriment, in which childish fun Denzil joined, with a readiness which astonished and touched his aunt.
"I hope I shall not behave so to my brother when he comes for me," said Rona. "And that reminds me, I must write to him this very day, must I not, to let him know that I have changed my address?"
"By all means, my dear," said Miss Rawson.
To herself she mused: "If only people do not begin chaffing him, it will take Denzil a long time to find out just what is the matter with him. At present it is all quite harmless, and as long as she is here to his hand, I verily believe that he may continue unconscious until she is grown up. I don't see the end of this matter, unless the brother comes next week and marches her off. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing for Denzil, I wonder?"
There then, awhile in chains we layIn wintry dungeons, far from day;But risen at last, with might and main,Our iron fetters burst in twain.
Then all the horns were blown in town;And to the ramparts clanging down,All the giants leaped to horse,And charged behind us, through the gorse.—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Every faculty in Felix was sharpened to its highest pitch as he lay down that night upon his comfortless bed aboard theSarah Dawkes. The man on the wharf was a detective, and he was looking for Veronica. His source of information was doubtless some one of the men aboard theGeorge Barnes. He was in the employment of the two wolves, and he had that invaluable clew which the police lacked. He knew that he had to hunt two runaways. There were sure to be persons who had seen them limping along towards the docks that night of terror, of lurid excitement and breathless escape. So long as you knew what you were looking for, they were not hard to trace.
"But what beats me," said Felix to himself, "is how it is he did not find out that she was put ashore at Dunhythe. If he has followed up our trail, how could he have missed that? The whole village saw her go."
A spasm of fear shook him, lest the shelter of the Cottage Hospital should be inadequate. If her uncle came to fetch her, they would have to hand her over. He raged in his heart, rolling over and over sleepless, wondering whether the detective was "pulling his leg," whether he knew, all the time, where Rona was—whether she was no longer where he left her, but gone, taken away, out of his reach. He yearned to know. But how? The idea crossed his mind that he might steal out, borrow the bicycle of a fellow-workman at the timber-yard, and ride over, before morning, to ascertain that she was safe. But that would be to reveal his secret, were the detective still on the watch.
The question was: What would the detective do? Would he go off on that false clew and follow up David Smith to Plymouth? Or had he known all along that Felix was he, in spite of lying? Would he stay in Basingstoke or leave the town? Was he out there watching on the wharf, or had he departed?
After a time the suspense grew intolerable. It was a mild night, and David sweated as he lay. After bearing it as long as he could he noiselessly rolled out of bed, and crawled snake-wise along the deck, which was in deep black shadow, took up a post of vantage behind a pile of the timber with which the barge was being gradually loaded, and peeped forth. He saw no man, but he did see from among the bales and trucks that encumbered the wharf a faint glimmer, which meant the bowl of a pipe. He saw it move, as the smoker took it from his mouth, rammed it down with his thumb, and replaced it.
It was just out of sight of the night-watchman, whose cabin was clearly to be seen from the deck of theSarah Dawkes. It was the detective, and he was keeping an eye upon the barge. Felix wondered whether he was alone or had a confederate. He did not think it would be hard to give him the slip, if that were all.
But, on further reflection, he decided that his proper course was to take no notice at all. He must behave as if the man and his movements were absolutely nothing to him. The weak spot was Doggett. If the detective got on to him, the Old Man was bound to give away the fact that Felix was the chap who had traveled from London with him. How could he warn him, without exciting suspicion? He bitterly blamed himself for sleeping upon the barge. He might have had the common intelligence to reflect that, if inquiries were made, it was likely the barge would be traced, and that the place to which anybody in need of information would come would be that precise spot.
What would happen in the morning? Doggett usually appeared when Felix had done breakfast, and was starting for the wood-yard at half-past six. To reach his barge, he must pass the man on the wharf, and he would be questioned. On the other hand, if Felix pushed matters forward and hurried off in time to intercept Doggett, the man on the wharf might join him, and insist on walking beside him. He thought over this, long and carefully, and a brilliant idea suggested itself.
Rising in the gray dawn, he washed and dressed carefully. He put on a collar and tie, a height of elegance which the wood-yard had hitherto never dreamt of. No matter, it was easily removed when he got there. The suit he had purchased with the money earned by his secretarial labors was tidy and quiet, and gave him the appearance of a very respectable young clerk. He was not at all like the gaunt, starved scarecrow in his grimy jersey and greasy trousers. His hair and beard were trim, though he had not shaved. He cooked his bloater, made his tea, and set all ready for breakfast. But before beginning it he slipped out upon the wharf, and approached the cabin of the night-watchman, whose habit was to breakfast at six before leaving his post for home and bed.
It was half-past five when Felix peeped into his cabin, and not yet fully light. The detective's form could be dimly seen for a moment, huddled a little sideways. He had yielded for an hour to an ungovernable drowsiness.
"There's a poor chap out there," said Felix, softly, "who's what they call a right-to-worker. He wants a job on this wharf. We ain't got no jobs, but you might, when your coffee's ready, mate, give him a bite if you felt like it. I would meself, only I'm afraid of getting hindered and fined up at the yard."
The night-watchman sat staring. He was a stupid man, but kind. "A'right," said he, huskily, at last. "In a quarter of a hour."
"Look here, mate, thankye kindly for that. I'm buying baccy to-day, and I won't forget you. But your ear one moment. Don't let him get pumping you about the work on this here wharf, or Old Man Doggett'll be jumping on us. Just tell him there's no work going, and if there is you don't know anything about it. Last night he wanted to know the family history of every barge owner in the place."
The night-watchman nodded. "I know his sort," he remarked, with sarcasm. "But I'll give 'im a bit to stay his stomach, for all that."
Felix nodded, and slipped away. His stockinged feet made no noise on the wharf; and for a moment, as he saw the attitude of the sleeping detective, he had a mind to leave his breakfast and walk past him then and there. But two reasons withheld him—hunger for one thing, and the fear that the man might be shamming. Ten minutes later, peering through his tiny window, he saw that the spy was sitting up and stretching himself, after which he rose slowly and began to stamp about on the wharf, and to flap his arms vigorously, to restore the circulation. Then he came to the edge, close to the barge, and whistled.
Felix took no notice. He had taken the precaution to push theSarah Dawkesoff from the wharf, when embarking, so that the gang-plank would be required by anyone trying to board her. He breathed a devout thanksgiving that he had done so, for otherwise he would have been invaded, without doubt.
The man loafed along, stooping his head, trying to see in through dirty windows, and whistling from time to time. But Felix made no sign. When the stranger had occupied about five minutes wandering up and down, the night-watchman was seen to emerge from an open door whence came a smell of fried fish, appetizing enough to one who had passed the night in the open. The supposed tramp was accosted—halted—and as Felix had hoped, succumbed, and was drawn into the cabin, and the door shut.
"Want to speak to 'im?" he heard the night-watchman say, as they moved away. "Well, you'll 'ave time for that, 'e don't turn out not till just on the 'arf-hour."
He waited three minutes—just until the two were sitting down to their feast—and then stepped ashore, and walked off quietly until he was round the corner where the huge piles of timber hid him. Then he took to his heels and ran until he came to the Doggett mansion, situated in Marsh Lane.
Now, Doggett had known that they were fugitives, though he saw no reason to disbelieve the story that Rona was his sister. Felix asked him straight out not to give him away. He told him a detective was hanging about on the wharf pretending to be out of work; and that if he asked what became of the boy who came from London with him, he was to say that he was tramping towards Plymouth, in order to leave the country, and had taken his sister with him.
Felix impressed this with some urgency upon the Old Man, and added that his best course would be to be so abusive and disagreeable that the man would not stay to question. This was an accomplishment in which the Old Man excelled; and it was pretty certain to flare forth in him when accosted by loafers in search of a job. Felix went on to say that he was now earning good money, and that he was thinking that some slight return for the service Mr. Doggett had rendered him, and was now further about to render him, would not be out of place. He proposed to have a chat, later on, respecting the form this should take. Mr. Doggett was pleased. He had done well that trip. He had paid Felix not more than half what he had to pay to his boy ordinarily. He had got his barge minded at nights for nothing—not to mention Miss Rawson's munificent tip—and it was being suggested that he should be still further rewarded, for services of a kind so attenuated that even he hardly recognized them to be worth paying for.
"Clawss they are; I thought it from the fust," he said to his wife, after Felix was gone. "And if you helps anyone as is real clawss, somehow, you never lose by it. I'm a match for a 'tec, don't you worry, mother. A match for any blooming 'tec in Scotland Yard or out of it."
One wishes, for the sake of fidelity to nature, that the exact conversation, which did actually take place between these two worthies later, when the Old Man went loafing down to his Sarah, could be recorded. But it must be in some other and less blameless chronicle than this.
The detective was put into a bad temper to start with, by being savagely warned to be off and not to put his adjective soles in Mr. Doggett's beautiful clean barge. They never got within measurable distance of any point at which the inquirer after truth could pump the bargee, or ask any intimate question. He was completely routed, and there was nothing for it but to stand by, glean what gossip he could in the town, and attack Felix when he appeared that night. He was furiously angry with himself that he had yielded to the breakfast invitation of the night-watchman, so that the young man had got away before he was aware. He was convinced that the Old Man had been warned, and this to excellent effect. He made inquiries all about as to whether a girl had been on board the barge, and was told as many different stories as the persons he questioned. As, first, that this was true; that she was taken to the smallpox hospital on the other side of the county; secondly, that it was not true, but that the individual then speaking could and would introduce the detective to as good, or better, than ever old Doggett had aboard; thirdly, that if Mrs. Doggett had a hint, she'd make it her duty to find out; and fourthly, that there were two girls who paid their passage home that way, but it was a year ago come next June.
It had certainly been a hard fate which took him, at Dunhythe, to inquire of one of the few natives who had been out of the way when theSarah Dawkeswent by, but who cheerfully informed him that the barge had gone straight through without stopping at the wharf.
The detective was misled by the extreme probability that this was true. Persons escaping would not tarry all night at Dunhythe. He had been surprised that they stopped, as they undoubtedly had done, at Sunbury. The moon had been bright—why not go on as fast as they could? He could get no definite assurance of a sick girl on board at Sunbury, and for a week had been under the impression that it was at this point that she had been removed from the barge. His pursuit of this idea delayed him long, and brought him to Dunhythe when the scent was stale, and the small incident beginning to fade from the foreground of people's minds owing to the scarlet-fever scare.
His only trustworthy clew, so far, was the report of theGeorge Barnesmen; and in the absence of any confirmation of it he was inclined to look upon the clew as worthless, except for the slipping away of Felix that morning—which might, after all, have been accidental.
Felix's head swam all day long with a sense of new and complicated responsibilities. All the morning as he worked the idea was growing stronger in his mind that he would confide in his Russian friend, whose ignorance of English made him very safe. He might be able to tell him how to baffle the sort of shadowing to which he was being subjected. At least, he might come down with him to the wharf that night and prevent his being worried by the watcher.
As soon as they knocked off work at the yard he hastened away. The detective was in the High Street, idling near a tavern. He was not quick enough. Felix saw him as he went by. It was a surprise to the spy to see the young fellow, trim and neat after his day's work, go calmly and openly into the best inn in the place.
Felix hurried in, and was at once pounced upon by the waiter.
"Mr. Vronsky wants you badly, sir; he said I was to catch you as you went by. He has got a gentleman from Wales in there, and they can't understand either one a word of what the other says."
The Pilgrim said, "Peace be with you,Lady"; and bent his knees.She answered, "Peace."
Her eyes were like the wave within;Like water-reeds the poiseOf her soft body, dainty thin;And like the water's noiseHer plaintive voice.—D. G. ROSSETTI.
The scene as Felix entered the parlor of the hotel was of a most unusually animated description. The models had all been taken out of "consigne" earlier in the day, and Vronsky had laid them out upon the table.
Although he could not succeed in making the mine owner understand his English, he left him in no doubt of his engineering ability. The model was of so ingenious a nature that everybody present in the place was attracted to the scene, and quite a crowd stood round the table, where, by means of a cord, switched to the electric light button, the blast from the wonderful fans was successfully driven through miniature galleries and tunnels, and the strong draught blew upon the offered cheeks of the amused and admiring spectators.
The deep, soft eyes of the Russian glowed with the creative pride of the inventor, as his dexterous hands manipulated his mechanism.
He hastened to the young man as he entered, with a cry of relief, and seizing him by the arm, dragged him forward to be introduced to the Great Man, and poured out a volley of French explanation which was to be passed on to the mystified Briton.
Felix had no difficulty in making an intelligent translation. The mine owner asked a few questions—questions which showed how far he had made up his mind; and upon hearing the answers, given by Vronsky and translated by Felix, he said he had determined to try the experiment, and that, if it were successful, he would like the complete system installed as soon as it could be produced.
It became evident that Vronsky would have to proceed forthwith to Hamburg, to arrange for the manufacture of his patent.
But that he should go without Felix was to him a thing impossible. Not only was the young man indispensable, owing to his linguistic proficiency, there was more. Vronsky had taken a fancy to him; and he was a man who made friends with difficulty, being shy, and slow to adapt himself to any strange person or custom.
When the mine owner, who had been traveling for forty-eight hours, had tramped heavily upstairs to bed, the Russian turned to his secretary with a passionate gesture.
"It is simply that it must, that thou accompaniest me."
Felix stood breathing hard in excitement. The sight of the detective had jarred him more than he felt able to explain. To leave England at once and without warning seemed likely to be the safest plan for the protection of the girl who was the pivot of all his thought. He was quite certain that, the hunt being up, she would not be safe in the north, at the Convent School. That was, as Comrade Dawkes had justly observed, the very place where they would be likely to look for her. In fact, it was the only place she might conceivably make for, since it was the only place in wide England which she knew.
"Will you walk down with me to the wharf?" asked he hesitatingly and wistfully of Vronsky. "I am going to make a clean breast of things to you."
Ever since he had realized how simple and affectionate a soul the Russian was, he had been approaching nearer and nearer to the conviction that it would be best to confide in him. The appearance of the detective made him desperate. He literally must have somebody with whom to discuss the engrossing and difficult subject.
To his relief, Vronsky, with the remark that a breath of air was what he wanted, willingly took down his hat from the peg, and together they sauntered through the quiet town, which already, though it was not much past nine o'clock, showed signs of going to bed.
As they walked, Felix told him his whole story, from beginning to end. He told him his real name, and how, by a curious coincidence, the girl Rona was being befriended by his own people. He gave him the chronicle of his gradual drawing in to the toils of the Brotherhood—of his despair and attempted suicide; and of the fateful precipitation of Rona into the horizon of his landscape.
Vronsky listened with a deep and absorbed interest. His mind was itself of so simple and romantic a turn, that he believed instinctively and without difficulty everything that Felix said, and thus went right where a much cleverer man might have blundered. He comprehended the temperament which would be likely to err as Felix had erred—he sympathized with it and understood it, as not one Englishman in a thousand could have done.
With all his simplicity, he was a citizen of the world; and the jail stigma was nothing to him, the revolutionary tendencies less than nothing. Thus, in his experience, were most young, ardent, generous souls at such an age as that of Felix.
As the recital went on his heart went out more and more towards the boy who had never been understood. He loved his eager voice, his quick sensitive moods, the candor with which he avowed that his worst fault was the cowardly attempt to turn his back upon his difficulties.
But, the story told, there came the further question, What were the runaway boy and girl to do?
Having heard the circumstances, Vronsky was as convinced as Felix that to cast Rona to the wolves was a thing not to be considered for a moment.
But, the uncle was Rona's guardian. The only witness to his cruel intentions was a youth whose ticket-of-leave had just expired, and who was believed by the police to have made away with himself.
Thus it was vital that young Vanston should leave England—should get clear away before the police left off assuming his death: and Rona could be saved only by a secret flight.
Vronsky was wise enough to see that his own nationality was a complication of the difficulty.
"In your country," he remarked simply, "they think all Russians are Nihilists. If you are in close company with a Russian, this spy will think that you are certainly the man whom he seeks, with exactly the companion one would imagine that you would choose. There is one good thing: you speak French so uncommonly well. All the men in the hotel parlor this evening heard you. They will all find it hard to believe that you are English. If I am questioned, I shall say you are my nephew."
Felix eagerly promised to adhere to this statement, if necessary; and an outline of their imaginary history and proceedings for the past few months was then agreed upon.
As regards the more complex question of Miss Leigh, the Russian felt that he must have more time to reflect upon this. She was, apparently, too young to be married, yet old enough to make it unseemly that she should go about under the protection of two men, both of whom were strangers to her.
It was a matter upon which he would find it difficult to decide.
The serious way in which he started to grapple with it gave Felix a feeling of deep satisfaction. Vronsky seemed to assume, with artless directness, that his affairs and those of the friendless young English couple were bound up together. There was no impatience of an inconvenient complication, of an obstacle to their plans. He sincerely contemplated and carefully weighed the whole situation: and nothing could have more availed to endear him to Felix than his attitude upon this delicate question.
There was no sign of the spy hanging about the wharf; and after thoroughly talking out the subject, they said good-night; and when he had seen Felix safely aboard, and the gang-plank taken up, Vronsky walked back to the hotel, his mind still wrestling with the problem.
When he entered the parlor he found that three or four men were still left, hanging absorbed above his model mine, and discussing the details of its working with the interest for mechanics so strongly developed in Englishmen.
Vronsky was a man brought up in an atmosphere of spying and police surveillance. His glance traveled with mildness but keen observation over the figures round the table. They were all strangers to him, and none answered very exactly to the description given by Felix of the detective. But this was nothing. To elicit information at a superior inn, the make-up must be very different from that required as a loafer in search of a job.
He sat down, and quietly but easily entered into chat. The first remark made by a man with a fair mustache, upon the knowledge of French displayed by the young man who had acted as interpreter, put him on the alert.
"Ah, yes," he said, smiling with innocence. "He ver' good speak tongues. He vat-you-call my neveu—you unnerstan' that vord?"
Yes, the man understood. Nephew was near enough.
"Smeet, de name. My seester make marriage wid Mons. Smeet. He my neveu."
"Indeed? Was he brought up in England, then?"
"Brought up" was too idiomatic for Vronsky. When it had been explained he said, "Part one, part de oder. Part England, part France. His moder veuve depuis longtemps."
This likewise had to be explained.
"I would say she have no more a man," said Vronsky, making confusion worse confounded by his explanation.
This difficulty, however, was also solved. And he went on to mention casually that his nephew and he had come from France together about six months before—a time when, as the detective, whose name, by the bye, was Burnett, knew, Felix Vanston was in jail. There was an air of genial simplicity about Vronsky, a kindliness in his beautiful soft dark eyes, which was misleading. Burnett had found out from inquiries that he was an engineer, an inventor, who had come to push his patent. He did not see how he could be a member of the Anarchist gang which had sucked poor Felix in. Moreover, probabilities considered, he could hardly be at Basingstoke by appointment.
He owned candidly that he had risked all he had in order to bring his patent to the notice of prominent English mine owners, so that his "neveu" had been obliged to find work meanwhile to support himself. Now he hoped that all was plain sailing. Then he wished them good-night and went to bed, leaving Burnett pretty sure that he had missed the clew somewhere, and determined to take the last train to Plymouth, and try to pick it up there, before wasting more time in Basingstoke.
He was nowhere to be seen when Felix stepped ashore next morning. The young man hurried to his work, for he had sat up to write to Rona and overslept in consequence. At the dinner-hour he went to the post-office to see, before posting his letter, whether there was one for him. The spy was still not in sight, and the glorious idea that he had departed rejoiced the heart of Felix. There was a letter for him. It was written on very thick paper, with a crest in purple upon the envelope. He stared at the crest, which was his own. Rona's clear, immature hand had addressed the letter; but it was obviously written on Normansgrave stationery.
He had promised to look in on Vronsky at dinner-time, and have some bread and cheese with him, so he hastened to the inn without opening the letter, or posting his own. At the first possible moment he broke the seal, and read the contents with surprise.
Rona was in his brother's house. She described it with rapture. She was evidently treated as an equal, and as evidently found this quite natural. They were very kind, she had never been so happy. She was glad and thankful that David had pulled her back when she tried to fling herself upon the railway.
Inclosed with her letter was a brief, kind note from Miss Rawson, saying that they were much interested in Rona, and could see that the two young people were guarding some kind of a secret. They were ready to befriend the girl in a substantial way, but this must be upon condition of perfect frankness on his part. They hoped that he would come, on his return from Basingstoke, and explain to them in confidence how he and his sister came to be in such a plight, as they saw quite well that Rona was a well-brought-up girl, carefully educated, and they realized that some strong reason for her unaccountable destitution must exist.
Here was a dilemma for poor Felix. Rona urged him to allow her to make a clean breast of things. He knew that she could not tell her story without Denzil's becoming aware of his identity, since he must have received the letter he had left for him upon the table of his room at Hawkins Row.
He sat plunged in disquieting thought.
Vronsky was out, at the post-office, and Felix was alone in the parlor, among the shrouded and bulky packages of model machinery.
With a new clear-sightedness, born of harsh experience, the young man faced the thought of taking the girl away with him, out of England. Every pulse in his newly-stirred manhood was urging him to this course.
Till Rona fell into his arms he had had no object in life. Now she was his object in life. A new kind of excitement, white and blazing, flamed up in him. Let them be once married, no police, no interfering uncles could part them. She was young, but not too young for love. He could cherish her....
On a pound a week?
For a moment he saw the other side of the medal—saw the slender figure bowed with household toil, the hands—which to him had seemed like a child's hands—roughened with hard work.
Could he propose such a course? Would she agree? Suppose she refused to marry him, what could be done in that case? Feeling as he did, could he act the big-brotherly rôle? He told himself that he could. He could do anything for her that she demanded of him.
... And she was there, at Normansgrave, under the roof which had sheltered his infancy and boyhood! Why, she might even be sleeping in his old room, for aught he knew to the contrary!
He could picture her, moving through the rooms, sitting in the hall, crossing the trim lawns. It was the right home for her.
And it appeared that it was actually offered to her! Denzil and Miss Rawson were willing, he gathered, to keep her there. If, as seemed fairly certain, the detective Burnett did not know where she was, were not their hands far more competent than his to guard her from evil?
With such thoughts he was struggling when Vronsky came in. He unreservedly told him all, and translated Miss Rawson's letter to him. The Russian listened gravely, and was silent for a while. Then he said, "But this seems the solution of the problem, does it not?"
"How?" asked Felix, hoping against hope, yet guessing that Vronsky's answer would be:
"They offer to befriend her—ask them to do so—accept their offer, until such time as you can keep the girl better than you can now." He saw the light fade out of the young man's sensitive face, and he sat down near him.
"My son, she is too young to marry you and to rough it. But she cannot go about with you and me, unless you and she are married. You see that?"
"I have been trying not to see it for the past hour," faltered Felix.
Then Vronsky grew eloquent. There was no doubt that these kind English people had taken a fancy to the girl. Then he, Felix, with his miserable record and doubtful prospects, had no right to interfere. At Normansgrave she would be safe and happy. What he had to do was just to disappear from view until he had retrieved himself.
He fought against argument, but he was contending against his own better sense all the time.
By a most fortunate chance, the detective had missed the clew. And, as he had done so, Veronica was most probably safer at Normansgrave than anywhere else in England.
It may as well be mentioned here, that Mr. Burnett, on arriving at Plymouth, heard of the embarkation of a couple answering with some exactitude to those of whom he was in search, in a cargo boat, for America. He asked his employers whether he should go to America in a fast steamer and intercept them on landing; but this was too great an expense for Rankin Leigh to undertake. The girl was gone. Well, he was relieved of the necessity for keeping her. He called off the pursuit, and there the matter rested.
Felix naturally did not know this. But he could see that, if he were out of England, the risk of Veronica's being tracked was halved.
But on one point he was obstinate. He would, at all costs, see the girl once more before he went away out of her life.
How could he know how she felt about it? Suppose she did not wish to be left behind? If that were so, he vowed emphatically that he would take her with him, prudence or no prudence.
Vronsky thought him mad, but sympathized with him in every fiber of his emotional being. Together they evolved a plan. Felix knew every nook and corner of the home which now sheltered his waif. He knew the place where it would be safest to meet, he knew the hour when it could be done with least risk.
Down at the far end of the shrubbery which skirted the paddock was an old summer-house, long since passed out of use, which the gardener each winter filled with the brushwood intended for pea-sticks next year. It was in the most solitary part of the grounds, and the approach to it, for one who knew as he knew every inch of the way, was covered, all along from the entrance to the park. Every soul at Normansgrave went to evening service at six o'clock on a Sunday evening, except those who were left in charge of the house. He knew Rona could not yet walk as far as the church, and that no power could induce Denzil to have out the motor on Sunday evening.
He wrote to her, careful not to betray his own knowledge of the grounds, skilfully suggesting that there might be some arbor wherein a meeting could take place.
She sent a line in reply, describing what he knew so well, and saying she would do her best to be there, should the evening be fine.
He received her answer on Saturday morning, and set about making his final arrangements.
It became evident during the day that Burnett had left the town, and this gave greater freedom to his movements.
He received his wages, told them at the timber-yard that he should not be coming back on Monday, and went down to the abode of Old Man Doggett, to make him a present and take leave of him. Doggett was cordially pleased to hear of his good fortune in being given work by the Russian engineer, and told him he would always do him a good turn if it came his way.
That being so, Felix's request was at once preferred. Comrade Dawkes was to know nothing of his movements. If he inquired, as he surely would do, upon the next arrival of theSarah Dawkesat Limehouse wharf what had become of the runaways, the story was to be the same that he had given to the detective; namely, that Felix and the girl had tramped to Plymouth and there embarked for America.
He earnestly assured Mr. Doggett that a consistent adherence to this story might be worth quite a considerable amount of whisky and tobacco.
The force of the argument seemed great, as thus stated; and Felix wrote down the exact address of his late employer, in order to be able to send a postal order when circumstances connected with his exchequer should enable him to do so.
On Sunday morning Vronsky and he left Basingstoke with the model machinery and all their other effects. At Weybridge the young man left the train, Vronsky proceeding to London without him; and Felix started upon his ten mile walk in some trepidation.
He was now respectably dressed, and might be recognized by any native in the regions of his old home. But he was greatly altered. He had not been to Normansgrave, except on the occasion of his mother's funeral, since he was seventeen. He was now twenty-three, but looked far older, with the strain of his disgrace printed in deep lines upon his sensitive features. He had been clean-shaven, but the difficulties connected with shaving on board the barge had induced him to allow his beard and mustache to grow. The young, soft dark beard gave him a foreign look.
The only thing upon which he ventured in the way of disguise was a pair of blue-tinted spectacles. As a matter of fact, his eyesight was perfect, and no one who had known him in boyhood would have connected the idea of Felix and weak eyes.
He put on a necktie of a kind which in his own proper person he would never have worn; and though he could not suppose that he could be seen at close quarters by anybody who had known him well without recognition, ultimate, if not instantaneous, he yet felt it possible that even a friend should not know him at a glance.
From the police he thought the risk not great. He did not suppose that Rankin Leigh had more than one agent, and his agent had left the neighborhood. The police were not looking for Felix Vanston alive, but for a corpse, which, if their theories were true, could not be in the place where he now was. And even were they seeking for him alive, they would not seek anywhere near his old home.
If he could pass unrecognized by any of the natives round about Normansgrave, all would be well.
And well he knew the habits and haunts of the natives upon a fine spring Sunday!
If he could not keep out of people's way, with his foot upon his native heath, it was a pity!
And moreover, there was a point in his meditations, when risk ceased to count, and a mounting excitement took his breath and made the lovely landscape reel before his dazzled eyes. He was going to see Rona—the girl who was a stranger—the girl who was everything—the girl whom he had snatched from the wolves. Nothing else really mattered. No considerations of prudence must be allowed to intervene. Who knew what might, or might not, happen when they actually met?
He had taken some food in his pockets, and on leaving the station he made for the woods. They were full of Sunday strollers; but these, like a flock of sheep, kept all to beaten tracks, and Felix knew every wild hollow and deep thicket in the countryside. He plunged away deep in the glorious spring woodland, amid a white smother of wild cherry bloom, contrasting with the delicate bronze and purple of the bursting hazel bushes. The pale green tips of the larches rose as feathery and faint, as an exquisite dream. It was a wood of fairyland.
There, hidden away, he lay in solitude, eating his bread and cheese, drinking from a tiny spring which he knew like an intimate friend, and trying to still the wild thoughts in his heart by reading a book he had brought in his pocket. But his heart refused to be stilled. He had had nothing to love for so long—nothing ever to love much, for his feeling for his mother had been merely instinctive, and had grown less with advancing intelligence. Now all of a sudden, he loved—for no reason than because a helpless creature had sought his protection. He was going to look once more into her "lost dog" eyes. And to say good-by, after ... that was the bitter thing.
As afternoon faded into evening, he walked by hidden ways down to the old home. The air was full of church bells. He knew every note, and they cried out to him of his boyhood, of his days of innocence and youth. He shook with emotion, he could have wept for the thought of those two dread years cut from his wayward life.
As he approached the corner of the shrubbery he did not meet a soul. All was whelmed in Sabbath peace and stillness. Then he noticed something fresh. A young plantation of healthy-looking beech and copper beech, fenced round from the cattle in the park. He stopped to look at that; and as he halted he saw someone strolling along through the pasture grass, apparently bound for an inspection of this very plantation. It was his brother Denzil. He wore his Sunday clothes, and a decorous hat, and held his Prayer Book under his arm. He stood in contemplation of the promising growth of his new venture—and his reprobate brother stood behind the trees of the shrubbery in contemplation of him.
Then a voice called, "Denzil! Denzil! Are you coming?"
The sound of steps on the gravel sounded, not at all far from where he stood. Miss Rawson was coming down the long drive, and by her side, walking slowly, was a girl as tall as she herself, with chestnut hair falling below her waist, and with a cloak wrapped about her to shelter her from the keen air of the April evening.
"Lady," he said, "your lands lie burntAnd waste: to meet your foeAll fear: this have I seen and learnt.Say that it shall be so,And I will go."
* * * *
And there the sunset skies unseal'dLike lands he never knew,Beyond to-morrow's battlefieldLay open out of viewTo ride into.—D. G. ROSSETTI.
This was something new—something for which Felix, unused to women, to society, to youth and charm, was oddly unprepared. Was that Rona? That young immortal, with faintly blooming cheeks, elastic tread, and all those burnished locks? As frequently happens to girls of her age, she had grown considerably taller during the weeks of her illness.
The young man gazing at her felt his heart shaken by a pain which was worse than anything he had suffered yet. He was a skulking fugitive, a disgraced man, one who had taken dark oaths against society and authority, and was seeking to flee from the men who would have held him to them. What link was there between him and Veronica Leigh?
He bitterly recalled the proverb, "Necessity makes strange bed-fellows." Necessity had obliged the maiden, in the throes of her desperate struggle for liberty, to trust herself to him for a few short hours. Those hours had changed the face of the world for him. For her they were no doubt already half-forgotten. She had, as it were, set her foot upon his neck to climb out of the pit. Here she was once more, seated at her ease among the elect, safe, cherished, and no more in need of her slum companion. He thought of the kindly, peremptory, half-patronizing letter he had written to her, and grew hot all over to think that he had dared.
The figures of the three were disappearing down the drive together. He crept into the summer-house, where there were not so many pea-sticks as usual, sat down upon the dusty bench, and let his head drop into his hands. There was a swelling at his throat as if he must choke. The air was full of the tossing chimes, which, as he sat there, changed to the monotonous stroke of the five minutes bell. It was a knell, ringing for him, he thought—the knell of Felix Vanston, now forever dead and lost.
Askherto run away and marry him, upon a pound a week!
Only in that bitter moment did he realize that he had meant to beg and pray her to do so.
One sometimes has no measure by which to gauge height, except the violence of one's fall.
* * * * * * *
A sound, slight but distinct—the rattle of gravel beneath a light foot, the rustle—indescribable—of a woman's apparel—and he lifted his dim eyes to see Rona standing in the doorway. With no word spoken she slipped inside the hut, round behind the bunches of sticks, to where he sat. "David—here I am," she said, timidly.
He made her no reply, but let his craving eyes rest upon her. She flushed, and began to tremble. His evident misery pained her. Also, the surprise was not only upon his side. This young man was not the ragged, famished outcast who had grappled with her in his weakness and extremity, dragging her back to safety as she overhung the abyss. She, too, was smitten with the feeling that they were strangers.
Into his soul were thronging all kinds of desires and consciousnesses, for the first time. He wished he were shaved. He wished he had a better suit; he wished he were handsome; he longed to be rich.
True, the disfiguring blue glasses were hidden in his pocket; but even so, what kind of a champion was he, dusty pilgrim that he was, for this princess?
He stood up awkwardly, and his face was dyed crimson, with a shame the more awful because it was wholly inarticulate. His first words left his lips before he had time to consider them.
"Forgive me. I ought not to have come."
She gazed at him pitifully, her trouble growing. "Ought not to have come? Oh, David, why? I—I thought you were—my brother."
She was overswept with a sudden consciousness—much like that which had just overtaken the young man. After all, what was the link that bound them? A few hours of common danger, of frantic flight? She felt curiously friendless, and as though she had lived these past weeks under a comforting delusion. "Why ought you not to have come?"
He said, brokenly, "I have no right." Then, with passion, "I have no right, have I? You are happy, and among kind people of your own class. You have no need of a ruffian like me."
He turned away his face, lest she should see the working of his features, which he could not control. But Rona, with woman's swiftness of apprehension, had now the key to his unexpected mood. "David," she said, reproachfully, "are you jealous? Did you think I had forgotten you? How silly of you! You—you can't have a very high opinion of me."
She took his hand, in a steadfast, trustful grasp. She sat down upon the bench, and with a gentle pull drew him to sit by her. "Have I deserved it? Am I ungrateful?" she asked, wistfully.
He held on to the hand as if he had been drowning. Its warm contact sent comfort thrilling along his veins.
"Why should you have anything to do with me? Nobody else ever wanted me, or cared what became of me," he stammered, incoherently.
She lifted to his her shadowy eyes, full of understanding. "Perhaps you have not saved other people's lives at the risk of your own," she sweetly said.
"Then you do feel—you do consider that there is a kind of link between us," he faltered. "You don't wish me to resign you entirely? Oh—let us have no doubt about it! I haven't much heart for life, but if I thought you would not forget me it would make such a difference—such a difference——"
She broke in, "Forget you? Are you going away, then?"
He held his breath, for there was dismay in her clear tones. All the emotions that in his wild youth had never been called forth till now, woke to life and filled him with an ecstasy which made his heart pound, and his breath pant, and the currents of his being flow together till his head swam. "You care?" he gasped. "It matters to you whether I go or stay?"
"Matters? Oh, David! how can you?"
She turned to him impulsively. His arms went round her; and in a moment—exalted, unlooked for, sweet with a sweetness unbelievable—her head, with all its tumbled curls, was on his shoulder, and he was holding her close, close, as though again she was striving to hurl herself into eternity.
"Rona," he said at last. "Rona, I ought not to let you. I am not a fit man for you to love!"
"You are the man that saved me," said Rona, clinging to him. "How strange it seems. I never thought of you as a young man, somehow, until I saw you sitting here with such a sad, grave face."
"And I," said Felix, with a depth of wonder that was almost stupefaction—"I actually never knew that you were beautiful until this evening. But now I know. I see everything with a new clearness. I am a man, and you are going to be a woman in a year or two. And I want you for my wife."
She was silent, hushed with a new awe. "For your wife? Oh, David!"
"Will you?" he urged, beseeching her with eyes and hands and voice. "Will you promise that, if I can make a home for you, you will come and live in it? Will you give me something to work for, something to keep me from despair? Oh, Rona, I ought not to ask it! How can I be mad enough to ask it?"
"But of course I shall promise, if you wish it," said the girl, in her youth and immaturity eager to promise she knew not what, eager to give joy to the being who, apparently, depended upon her for all his hopes in life.
Even at the moment, even holding her against his heart, and feasting his famished nature with the sweetness of her womanhood and the brilliancy of his new hopes, her dutiful words, emphatic though they were, sent a chill through him. In spite of his inexperience, there is an insight which love gives; and he knew that Rona did not love him, but was merely willing that he should love her. She was not grown up, he told himself. When she came to be completely a woman she would love, as he now loved, with that surrender which to him was so new, so unexampled a sensation. It was long before he could calm down the turbulence of his emotions to anything like a consideration of the situation. But their time was short, and after ten minutes of more or less incoherent bliss and shy caresses, he began to explain to Rona some of his thoughts and plans. Now that they understood each other, these were far more easily explained than he had thought possible.
It appeared that the girl had not been informed of the extent of the benevolent intentions of the Squire and Miss Rawson on her behalf.
But she was quite sensible enough to understand that, as she and David were not really brother and sister, but desired another sort of relationship, it would not be fitting for them to travel about together, until the time came when they could be husband and wife.
Felix explained to her, fully and with care, the good prospect opened out to him by the patronage of Vronsky. He was also able to make her see clearly that it was dangerous for him to stay in England, seeing that the police supposed him to be dead.
He ascertained, by guarded and careful questioning, that neither Denzil nor his aunt had said a word to Rona concerning the black sheep of the family, nor his disappearance. As far as Normansgrave was concerned, it appeared that he was as though he had never been.
The main difficulty which Felix had foreseen in this interview, was that of convincing Rona that they must not make a clean breast of their circumstances, without giving her the true reason for his silence.
But on this point he found her unexpectedly amenable.
He began, with much diffidence.
"You know, Rona, you asked me in your letter, whether you might not tell Miss Rawson everything?"
"Yes," said the girl impulsively, "but I am sorry for that. As soon as I had written, I was sorry. Because, of course, I see that we can't do that."
He was puzzled. "You do see that we can't?"
"Certainly we can't. Because, if we did, they would have to know that you had been in—prison—and that they shall never know through me."
He gazed at her with ever-increasing admiration. "You see that?"
"Yes. I am growing up, you see. I think and hope I grow more sensible every day. I am learning, learning, every minute. Oh, David, you can't think how ignorant and foolish I am, or was. Inside those convent walls there was no world, only the circle of our everyday life, and the question of lessons and punishments, and being good, and being naughty, and fasts and festivals and penances and so on. But I believe that really I have plenty of brains, and I have a strong will too——"
—"That you have, or you never would have escaped, the determined way you did——"
—"And I know that, if these people, who are as kind as the people in a fairy-tale, do give me a chance to learn more, I shall take full advantage of it. Oh, David, by the time you come back, I shall be so changed! Twice as sensible and better instructed, and able to help you—to earn my own living, or help you earn yours."
"You are happy here?" he wistfully asked.
"Happy? I should think so. It is such a nice place, and they are so good. I don't mean only kind to me, but good to everyone. They do their duty all day long, and the priest and the doctor seem to come to them for everything they want."
"And you like the Squire?"
"Oh, very much. Not as much as I like Miss Rawson, of course. Miss Rawson is more—more—I don't think I can describe it. She has more mischief in her, somehow. He is fussy over little unimportant things, and he is rather prosy sometimes. But he is very kind, and he takes such an interest in me."
He sat gazing upon her as she spoke out her innocent thought. The idea of her being there, in his own home, until he came to summon her forth into the world with him, was so surpassingly sweet that it was with the utmost difficulty that he refrained from telling her how he had first seen the light within the walls that now sheltered her.
"It—it would disappoint you very much if they should decide not to keep you?"
She looked earnestly at him. "What would that mean? Would it mean that you would take me away at once?"
"Yes. They demand that I should make a clean breast of things to them. I can't do that. I will tell them all I can. But not everything. If they say, 'Very well, we can't keep her'—then I should have to fetch you, and we should have to fare into the wide world together. And I swear that I would take the same care of you that your own brother might."
He leaned forward, fervently, gazing deep into her eyes; and her lips curved into an adorable smile. "I don't think I should be so very much disappointed," she slowly said. "I believe you would let me learn as much as we could afford—wouldn't you?"
"I'd worship you—you should be to me like a saint—like a thing apart from the world," he whispered.
And she smiled happily.
After a few moments' thought, he asked her:
"You never heard of any other relative of yours, with the exception of this one uncle?"
"No, never."
"What did the Reverend Mother tell you?"
"That both my parents were dead. That was all she knew."
"You have no sort of clew to their family? Have you nothing that belonged to your mother?"
"I had one or two things—a pearl ring, a gold watch and chain, and a few other things, such as a cashmere shawl and some lace. But my uncle took them all away. There were no letters or papers of any kind: nothing that one could find out anything from."
"Then it appears that nobody but this brute has any claim upon you?"
"As far as I know, nobody at all."
"They would not run much risk in keeping you," said Felix, his brows knit in thought.
"I expect that was what Mr. Vanston was thinking of when he asked if I had ever been abroad," remarked Rona. "Suppose they should let me go abroad to be educated?"
"You would like that?"
She assented. "I want to see the world," she announced, very simply.
Felix smiled at the thought of Denzil's benevolence. He knew of old his pleasure in a certain tepid, but always well-meant philanthropy. The resentment and hatred of his half-brother, which for years back had filled his heart, seemed to him a thing to be ashamed of, now that, in love's light, he saw his own career with new eyes. He pitied Denzil, in an impersonal kind of way, for having such an unsatisfactory brother. No wonder they never spoke of him—the scapegrace for whom the old honorable family must blush when his name was mentioned.
And then came an idea which caused him to smile to himself. What would Denzil say, did he know that he was befriending that same scapegrace brother's future wife? He had no scruple in the feeling that money was being expended for such a purpose. But it reminded him of another matter.
"Listen, Rona," he said. "I shall send you money whenever I can. At first it will not be much. But as soon as I am in regular work, I should like to send you enough to buy your own clothes, and so on—so that you should not be beholden to these good people for absolutely everything. I have brought you half a sovereign to-day, just for pocket-money, and I shall send more at the first opportunity. That will make me feel as if you were real—as if, one day, you really would belong to me."
As he spoke, the church clock chimed a quarter to eight. In ten minutes, folks would be coming out of church. Their enchanted interview was almost over.
He looked at her with a kind of despair. "Rona, I must go! I never thought that it could be as terrible as this to say good-by!"
She looked at him helplessly, her eyes swimming in tears.
—"And I have nothing to give you—nothing to offer but my wretched self——"
He dived into his pocket, brought out a sixpence, and with a pair of pocket-pliers, divided it neatly in two pieces. Then, with a piercer in his pocket-knife, he drilled a tiny hole in each half, and made her promise that she would suspend the charm about her own neck, as he would about his—as the only tangible sign of their plighted vows.
There was but a moment, after this ceremony, to be spent in leave-taking. Felix, to his own utter astonishment, broke down completely.
"You'll be true to me, Rona—you won't fail me?" he gasped, half-blinded by the choking tears; and Rona, with those tears wet upon her cheek, promised, knowing no more than a kitten what she was promising, nor why.
For one instant their lips were together, the young man trembling, ashamed of his weakness, his hot heart filled with a surge of emotion so unexpected as to be to him alarming; and then he was running from her, not daring to look back, stumbling away in the evening dusk with a heart more joyful, but with pangs more dire than he had imagined possible.
And now the future lay before him, like the battle-field upon which to-morrow's conflict should take place. To the old Felix he had bidden farewell. He had now no mind to regenerate society, only to make one woman happy. Rona, who knew the worst of him—Rona, who had come to him at the moment when he touched bottom—Rona loved him.
Then to conquer the world was a mere detail. It could be done, and he, Felix, was the man to do it.
* * * * * * *
In the course of the ensuing day, Miss Rawson received the following letter.
It was typewritten, and dated from a London hotel.
"Miss Rawson (Private).
"DEAR MADAM,—I must begin this letter with some attempt to express my deep sense of the great kindness you have shown to my young sister. I scarcely know how to write. Words mean so little. But as I have nothing else, I must, all the same, make use of them to tell you of my undying gratitude to you and Mr. Vanston for a help so prompt and so effectual as that you have already bestowed. But, madam, not only am I your debtor for all these favors—you actually speak of interesting yourself further in my sister's case—upon conditions.
"I cannot tell you how much it would mean to me to know that she was safe, and in trustworthy hands, during the next year or two. I have thrown up my old work, and, for reasons I shall explain, I cannot return to it. I have now the offer of work which will, I trust, turn out well for me, but of such a character—involving residence abroad and much movement from place to place—as would make it very difficult at first to have my sister with me.
"But now, madam, we come to the crucial point. You most naturally stipulate that the kind offer you make is contingent upon my frankness. Before we go further, let me avow, without disguise, that I dare not be perfectly frank with you. The reason for this is that we are fugitives. We have an uncle, who was in charge of my sister, and from whose wicked hands she was escaping when she met with her accident. Should he find out where she now is, he would no doubt try to repossess himself of her.
"We are orphans; and in justice to your kindness, and relying on your secrecy, I will own to you that our name is not Smith in reality, but Leigh. My uncle made an unjustifiable attempt to compel my sister to adopt as her profession the music-hall stage—to which she was strongly averse. He paid a premium for her complete training to a man who was neither more nor less than an unprincipled scoundrel. On my sister's declining to submit to his treatment, he tried to starve her into submission by locking her up and leaving her without food. In rescuing her from this terrible position—only just in time—I was so unfortunate as to allow her to fall from a considerable height, with the result that, as you know, she was seriously hurt.
"We made our escape, penniless and without resources, in the canal barge.
"You will see that I am being frank with you as regards the circumstances. I refrain only from the mention of names and places. I am fully aware that, by so doing, I put it out of your power to verify any part of my story. But what can I do? My uncle is furious at having paid down a large sum for my sister's training, only to lose her. He will leave no stone unturned to recapture her. He has set detectives upon our track, though he has not allowed the newspapers to make our flight known. I cannot even give you the address of the school at which my sister was educated, as this is the first place in which my uncle would make inquiries; and the lady-principal might think it her duty to answer them, should you let her know where we are.
"My uncle is my sister's legal guardian until she comes of age. Any court of law would, on his application, restore her to his care, unless we could adduce satisfactory proof of his brutality, which would be very difficult.
"I hope you will see that there are strong reasons for my reticence. Nevertheless, on reading this over, I feel that it is very likely that you may, even if you believe what I say, wish to disembarrass yourself of a charge who might quite possibly prove a difficulty should her guardian discover her place of refuge.
"But I am perfectly determined that, whatever happens, she shall not go back to a life she justly loathes—a life in which she would be ruined, body and soul. Should you decide not to keep her, I will fetch her away, take her abroad with me, and manage as best I can for her.
"I will add no more to a letter already long enough to need apology. Accept, then, madam, my profound thanks, and my assurance that, however you decide, I consider myself deeply your debtor. If you feel that you do not care to accept further responsibility in the matter, please let me know at once, as I must then make arrangements to fetch my sister.—I am, madam, your grateful and obliged servant,
"DAVID SMITH.
"P.S.—With the exception of the uncle in question, we have no relations."