So she wrote her letter, and went to bed with a mind slightly more at ease. And meanwhile, downstairs, Denzil and Aunt Bee sat together in the billiard-room, discussing the extraordinary revelation made by their protégée that day.
Aunt Bee had guessed that there had been some kind of avowal on her nephew's part, and that it had been met by some corresponding confession of an unexpected nature on that of the girl. But she was far from being prepared for the surprising truth.
Denzil put into her hands his brother's letter, which Rona had given him leave to show, and related to the astounded lady the true story of the escape of the young man and the girl from the power of Rankin Leigh and Levy.
Miss Rawson sat for some time silent, taking it all in. The young canal bargeman, the handsome, unkempt tramp, whose tragic face had dwelt with her ever since her short interview with him—he was actually Felix Vanston, the black sheep—the boy whom she had last seen in riding breeches, mounted on his pony before the door of Normansgrave, and arrogantly declining to take off his hat to her at his mother's peevish bidding.
"Why," she burst out, "he must have known me! Why did he not tell me who he was? But, of course, that was the last thing he would have been likely to do. He was not long out of prison—out of prison! Oh, think of it! He was actually starving, in despair, a suicide in all but actual accomplishment, and yet he was straining every nerve, defying the law, eluding pursuit, to put this unknown child into safe keeping! He is a hero, Denzil."
Denzil's face grew sullen. "If she had not been so sweet, so lovable, would he have been so willing?" he asked, resentfully. "Who that saw her could resist the desire to help her, to do all in their power for her? What did I do?" His voice broke—only rage enabled him to go on speaking. "I have done for her a thousand times as much as he did. If gratitude constitutes a claim——"
"Oh, Denzil!"
The reproof in her voice brought him up short. "I beg your pardon. I am a brute, I know. I am jealous of him, bitterly jealous! I believe I always have been. My father loved him better than he loved me. My father loved that woman—I daren't trust myself to talk of her—better than ever he loved my poor good mother. I have always been jealous of Felix. In the light of what I am suffering now, I know that much, But—but"—his eyes gleamed, and he set his teeth—he looked a different man—"but he has not got her love. She likes me best—and I am going to have her, too. She asked me to save her from him."
Miss Rawson viewed him steadily. She was desperately sorry for him.
"I am in favor of keeping one's word," went on Denzil in an exculpatory tone. "I would never urge anybody, man or woman, to back out of a promise given. But a promise of this kind stands on a different footing. A girl of Rona's age at that time cannot give a promise that shall be binding when she is grown up. Look how human beings change! And nobody could urge her to keep the letter of a promise which in spirit she not only has already broken, but which she has never, in fact, kept."
"That is true," said Miss Rawson slowly. And after some consideration she asked him, "What are you going to do?"
"I am going to write to him to come home at once, at my expense, and we will have this thing decided," said Denzil, in a voice which told that his mind was made up. "She must not, of course, give me any promise until he has released her: though from this letter I judge that he understands pretty well the state of her feeling for him. But let him come—let it be fair and square between him and me. He must have his chance."
Miss Rawson was still very thoughtful. After another pause she went on: "There is another aspect of the case, you know, Denzil, which, in your absorption over this curious complication, you have put on one side. Did Rona tell you nothing of her birth or parentage?"
He started, as if the idea occurred to him for the first time. "Nothing," he said; "as you say, the subject was not touched upon."
"Yet it will be impossible or most unwise for a marriage to take place, dear Denzil, without further details," said Aunt Bee. She spoke hesitatingly, loath to wound, but with a gravity which fixed his attention. "If this man is still alive—this Rankin Leigh—I suppose he would be fairly certain to hear of his niece's marriage. You cannot marry her under any but her true name. Veronica Leigh is not a common name; and the wedding of Denzil Vanston of Normansgrave must be publicly announced. You would not like ugly facts to crop up about your wife."
Denzil crimsoned. "Why, what facts?" he asked. "What could turn up?"
She replied cautiously: "If, as you tell me, this man was intending to hand her over to the kind of life that is implied by such a training, he must be a person on a very different social level from ourselves. Remember, Felix rescued her from a lodging-house in Deptford. I am not a snob, my boy, and I know that lilies-of-the-valley are now and then found on dust-heaps. I acknowledge with all my heart that Rona is a lily of a girl. But it will not be pleasant for you to have undesirable people coming about you, perhaps blackmailing you to have facts about your wife's origin kept dark. However dearly we love Rona, the fact remains that we do not know who she is. Remember, Denzil, it is a question of the mother of your children—of future Vanstons, dear boy."
The young man hid his hot face in his hands. "You," he said, in smothered tones, "you did not dissuade me—we have acted together in this—you and I."
"Yes, Denzil. I willingly shoulder the blame. The girl herself was her own passport; and her brother's letter convinced me of his own gentle birth and education. But remember, I thought them brother and sister. That made all the difference. Had I known that they were almost strangers—that he took her from such a place—had I known, in short, what I know now—I might have acted differently. I might have given other advice. For it is well for a man to marry his equal; it makes for happiness."
"One can see," said Denzil, in a hollow voice, "why he dare not let it out. If we had known he was not really her brother, we should not have allowed him to take her away. We should have considered him utterly unfit to be the guide or helper of such a girl. What do you advise, Aunt Bee? Shall I write to the Convent School and see whether the Reverend Mother can tell me anything?"
"An excellent idea," said Miss Rawson, "though, judging from what you say Rona told you, the Reverend Mother does not know much. Still, she might give us a clew. I do think we ought to inform ourselves as far as we can."
"There is one thing," remarked the Squire, "if the uncle knows the girl is to make a really good marriage, and be off his hands, he would not be likely to object, would he?"
"No," said his aunt; "one would think not. But such a man would make something out of you if he saw his way to do it. If he knew you to be much in love, he might impose conditions."
"Such as——?"
"Well, such as that you should ask him down here to stay, or subsidize him to keep quiet, or something of the kind——"
Denzil shuddered involuntarily.
"—He must be a pretty nefarious villain not to have made public the fact of the girl's disappearance," continued Aunt Bee. "He must have had good and strong reasons himself for keeping dark. I wish we could find out something which would give us a hold over him, so that in case of his being troublesome we could keep him quiet."
"That is not a bad idea," said Denzil, thoughtfully. "It gives one something to do—something to take off one's thoughts from the disappointment—the anxiety." He fell silent, twisting his hands in his nervous misery. "Aunt Bee," he brought out, at last, "whatever happens—whatever should come out—I must marry her. I feel towards her as I never thought to feel towards any woman in the world. I always thought all the stuff in books about being in love was such nonsense. But now——" He could not go on.
"God bless you, old man; it will do you all the good in the world," said his aunt, heartily. "A thing like this shows one how far one's feeling is really genuine and deep. It is a good thing the path of your happiness is not too smooth. I do think myself, though I am not in love with her—I do think the girl is fine, and worth a fight. I have always known she had some secret anxiety, but have put it down to the fact that she could not be candid with me about her birth and so on. That she was actually engaged all this time to your remarkable brother has been a heavy burden to be borne by such young shoulders. Her courage and prudence are both wonderful."
"Think," said Denzil, hardly able to speak for a feeling which threatened to choke him. "Think of her actually throwing herself out of a window down upon railway lines, sooner than suffer degradation! You are right. She is wonderful. Good-night, my dear aunt."
They separated, feeling more in sympathy than ever in their lives before.
But did she love him?—what and if she did? ...Love has no spell can scorching winds forbid,Or bring the help which tarries near to hand,Or spread a cloud for curtaining fading eyesThat gaze up dying into alien skies.—JEAN INGELOW.
A fortnight passed at Normansgrave, in doubt and discomfort. It was fortunate that the house was full of visitors, for their entertainment served to take off the thoughts of the master of the house from his own interrupted and absorbing romance.
Upon the day following his proposal to Veronica in the Abbey ruins he wrote to Felix, a letter which seemed to him of a dignified and most fraternal character. He said, in effect—"All is known, but at the same time all is forgiven. Come home and let us settle things up. I wish to treat you quite fairly, though I do not think that you have so treated me."
His next care was to go to London, and, with the utmost secrecy and precaution, set on foot a private inquiry for the man Rankin Leigh. He likewise spent some time in Somerset House, searching the register for the entry of Rona's birth. She knew the exact year, month, and day, but, for safety's sake, he also investigated the corresponding month in the years following and preceding. There was no entry of any Veronica Leigh during the three years studied by him.
He found himself continually lost in speculation as to who the girl was. He wrote to the Mother Superior of the Convent, and her reply disturbed him greatly. She asked him, if he could possibly arrange it, to come and visit her personally. She had very little to tell him, but should be most grateful to hear good news of the girl, over whose fate she had grieved many times since she left the Convent.
Glad of any pretext to be upon the move, Denzil did as she asked him. He pleaded sudden and very important business connected with his ward, Miss Leigh, and left his visitors for a couple of days to the care of Aunt Bee and Rona.
But he wished afterwards that he had not gone, since all that the Reverend Mother could tell him went to confirm the suspicion which had lain at the bottom of his mind ever since he first saw the girl—namely, that Rona had no legal father.
A firm of solicitors, said the good lady, had written to her, asking her to receive a girl child, of the age of six months. It was said that she was doubly an orphan, and that it was believed that she had been duly baptized, but, as her mother was suddenly dead, nobody knew by what name. A sum for her maintenance was guaranteed. When the baby arrived at the Convent, the good nuns thought it best to be upon the safe side, and re-baptized her, under the name of Veronica; the record of this provisional baptism was shown to him in the register of their private chapel. They were told that the child's parents both belonged to the Roman Catholic faith. The sum promised them was duly paid, every quarter, through the same firm, until Rona was sixteen. The lawyers then wrote to the Convent, saying that their client, who had paid the money, was dead. He had left no instructions in his will as to the continuance of the payments, and they found no member of his family willing to sanction such a course. Nobody knew who the child was, and, so far as was known, she had no claim upon the man who had hitherto supported her. As she had attained the age of sixteen, the legatees thought she should now support herself. In these circumstances, the firm had communicated with Mr. Rankin Leigh, who was, they were informed, uncle to the child, upon her mother's side; and he had replied to the effect that he would travel down to the school and see his niece, with a view to making some provision for her future.
This Mr. Leigh had, after some weeks, presented himself. He was a seedy-looking individual. He declared, in conversation with the Reverend Mother, that he was wholly unable to support Veronica, who must earn her own living, but that, if she were a well-grown, nice-looking girl, he thought he might put her into a very good situation. Having seen his niece, he was evidently much struck by her beauty. "She is beautiful, do you not think?" asked the Mother, eagerly, of Denzil. "We all thought she promised to be lovely; though at that time, she was in the awkward stage. I have often wondered whether she has grown up as beautiful as we thought she would."
Denzil was able to produce a good photo of Veronica, taken within the last few weeks, and was touched at seeing the joy of the kind woman at her grace, and her happy look.
Denzil then, as well as he could, confided to her the terrible experience through which Rona had passed. He told of her rescue, and of their taking her into the Cottage Hospital. "Of course," he said, "we could see at once that she was no common girl."
The Mother agreed. She expatiated on the subject of Veronica. She had been an exquisitely pretty baby, and the joy of the nuns' hearts. Her clothes had been good and carefully made. She had evidently been the child of someone who cherished her tenderly.
But there was the significant fact that she seemed to be called by her mother's surname. It all contributed to the idea that Rona was nobody's child. And, deeply in love though Denzil was, he did not like the notion at all.
Rankin Leigh, it appeared, was an elderly man, and he had owned to the Mother that he was not the child's own uncle, but her great-uncle—her mother had been his niece. He had pumped hard to find out whether anything was known of the child's father, but, of course, had ascertained nothing.
Denzil asked if there was any reason to suppose that Rankin Leigh was the girl's legal guardian. Nothing was known on this head; but, as he was apparently the only living relative, and as there was no more money to support the child, they had felt bound to let her go.
"I really did not know what to do with her," said the good woman. "I thought her much too handsome to be in business, and much too refined for service, and, of course, she was too young to teach."
The Squire returned to Normansgrave with much food for thought. He had obtained from the Mother one thing which he thought of great importance, and that was the name and address of the firm of solicitors who had arranged for the child's reception at the Orphanage.
To them he wrote, at the earliest possible moment. His letter came back to him through the dead-letter office, marked "Gone away." And no search of Postal Guides revealed any address for a firm of that name. He began to wonder whether the simple-seeming nun had played him false after all. Yet, what motive could she have had for doing so?
The visit brought him home, restless and dissatisfied. He determined to say nothing to Rona of where he had been. On his way home in the train he had serious doubts as to whether he should not disentangle himself altogether from this intricate affair of his brother and the Girl from Nowhere. It was completely out of his line to be thus mixed up in questionable matters.
But the moment he saw her again—the moment, when, standing on the terrace, he beheld her drifting across the lawns with an armful of flowers, walking without a hat, the boisterous wind ruffling her hair back from her flawless forehead—there awoke in him the long ignored natural desires. His heart beat, his eyes filled, his being grew big with the craving to take her, to make her his at any price he might afterwards be called upon to pay.
Rona, when she saw him standing there, stopped short. She blushed as she met his gaze. She could not now encounter him without confusion. She felt certain that she did not love Felix. But she was anything but certain that she did love his brother.
Since his declaration at Newark there had been something in the quality of his affection which she disliked. His eyes were always seeking hers, he tried to take her hand when occasion offered. If they were alone he would seat himself beside her, closer than she liked. She was growing very shy of him. The virginal instinct to fly from pursuit was strong in her.
He began to wonder how much longer he should be able to bear the present situation. It was anomalous. They could not expect a letter from Felix for another ten days or more. And it might not be a letter which came. It might be Felix himself.
As he hastened down from the terrace, and relieved her of the tall delphiniums and golden rod and dahlias which she carried, it was in his heart to catch her and hold her close, and cry to her that she was his, and that Felix should not come between them. Instead, he merely smiled upon her, and asked affectionately, but somewhat tritely, if she had missed him. She replied, with lowered eye-lids and a charming dignity, that she had.
He meant to say something to the effect that he chafed against the restraints imposed upon him by their waiting, by their scrupulous regard for the absent man. Instead of that, he burst forth without reflection—
"Come and let us sit on the stone seat and talk! It is about a hundred years since I left you."
Veronica did not look at all delighted, but she obediently turned with him, and they went slowly across the lawn to a distant part of the garden, where there was an Alpine rockery. They sat down together upon a small bench, let into the rocks which bordered the path. They had sat there often, during the few golden weeks since her return. But this afternoon Rona felt a restless insecurity, a desire to rise up and go and leave Denzil to himself. What could they say to each other? There was nothing to be said. Her heart was empty of any feeling for him, beyond the grateful affection which by no means craves stolen interviews.
As for Denzil, for the first time in his life his impulses were galloping off with his reason. The very aloofness and gentle coolness of the maiden spurred him on.
"Rona," he said feverishly, "I feel as if all my life I had been waiting to know that you are free."
She smiled ambiguously. "Don't let us talk of that."
"Of what, then? I don't feel at this moment as if I care a pin for anything else in the world."
She regarded him with curiosity. "Do you really feel that?"
"Indeed I do. Don't you?"
She was gazing straight before her, and she shook her head. "Not a bit. I must tell the truth, you know. I feel the world is big, and very—frightfully—interesting. And there are many things I want to know about, and talk about."
He sat very silent. "Then—then—you don't—er—return my feeling? You are not in love with me, as I am with you, Rona?" he wistfully demanded, at length.
After a pause, "I don't know," she replied.
He felt dashed and piqued, both at the same moment.
"I wonder if you have any idea of how cruel it is of you to say that?" he asked, half pleading, half annoyed.
"Oh, I don't want to be cruel," she hastily answered. "I want to be very kind to you, Mr. Vanston."
"Say Denzil—give me my name, Rona."
"Oh!" said Rona, quite as if the suggestion shocked her. He leaned forward, staring at her, taking in the beauties of her with thirsty eyes—the quality of her skin, the modeling of the corners of her lips, the bend of her lashes, the heaving of her throat under her embroidered muslin bodice.
"Why not?" he asked, in a low, hoarse voice. The voice warned Rona, for it was unnatural. She stood up. "It is chilly in the wind," she said, standing there, her face and, hair gilded by a long sun ray which struck upon her through the trees.
He sprang to his feet, and his eyes glittered. "Oh!" he said, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" He caught both her hands in his hot grasp. "You must tell me," he panted, "do you hear? You must tell me what you feel? Did you mean what you said, that you don't care for me? Oh, you couldn't mean that—Rona!"
He was close to her—so close that he could feel the contact of her slim form. Some instinct warned her that to move suddenly would provoke further demonstration. She grew white, and took his hand in her own. "Have I not asked you," she said, in a very still voice, "not to talk of this—yet?"
It was the woman's device to gain time. But it did not seem to have succeeded. "Not yet?" he cried, on a high note. "Is that what you mean, really? That we ought not to speak freely yet? I can wait—or I thought I could, half an hour ago! But give me a word, just a word, Rona."
He followed her up, his arm ready to go round her waist. She but just eluded him. "The word is—wait," she said: and in her fear she began to lose the control which had subdued him. "You must wait, if I say wait," she cried imperiously. And her next words sounded curiously irrelevant. "After all, I am only nineteen," she urged, indignantly.
He felt like a man pushing against a closed door—felt a deep desire to batter it down with force. Yet he could not risk her displeasure.
"Oh, Rona," he said, "it is too bad of you to torture me."
She retorted quickly, "It is you who are torturing me"—and broke off upon the word, for there was the sound of a voice raised, calling Mr. Vanston.
Impatiently Denzil went to the flight of steps which led down into the little garden where they sat. "Who is there? What do you want?" he cried testily.
"Oh, there you are, sir," cried Chant, the butler. "I knew you had come in, but couldn't find you. A cablegram, sir. Is there any answer?"
Rona's heart seemed to stop. She stood where she was, still as a statue, while Denzil opened the envelope. He seemed to grope, to fumble, to take incredibly long over the simple process.
A cablegram! Doubtless to announce that Felix was on his way. That flimsy bit of paper showed how terribly near, how accessible he was and always had been, though he had seemed so far away as not to count in one's scheme of life. And now he was coming! When? How much respite yet before she must look upon his strong, reproachful face?
Denzil glanced up, white as ashes, from the paper he held. "There is no answer," he said to Chant; and the man went away.
The Squire came up to Rona and held the paper to her. She took it and gazed for a moment with blurred eyes. Then her vision cleared and she saw:—
"Felix missing. Fear foul play. Vronsky."
She stared upon the message, her heart contracting till the pain was physical. Was this to be the way out for her? Was the man who had rescued her, and trusted her, and loved her to die at last a violent death at the hand of inhuman wretches who called themselves brothers to humanity? The oppression of her spirits threatened to choke her. She cried out, in a tone she hardly knew to be her own.
"Denzil! Denzil? Tell me it isn't true!"
He ran to her, his arms held out, his sympathy ready to be poured forth upon her.
"Oh, don't! oh, don't!" she pleaded, not choosing her words. "Don't behave so, when we have this to consider! What are we doing here in England safe and happy, when perhaps they are torturing him to death!"
Denzil drew out a handkerchief, passed it across his face, and collected himself. "I beg your pardon. This—this is terrible. But he has brought it upon himself—as a man soweth——"
"Oh!" cried Rona, unable to repress a strong shudder of disgust.
He stood silent a moment, surprised and confused. The news, following upon his moments of unrestraint, had unstrung him somewhat.
"What," he asked vacantly, "what ought we to do?"
"Do?" cried the girl. "There is only one thing to be done! You must go there, and move heaven and earth! You must appeal to the Government, you must spare no money, no effort, to find him; if he is dead, to avenge him, and if he is alive to deliver him from the hand of these brutes."
Denzil stood sullenly brooding. For the second time Felix had disappeared, and left him in doubt as to whether he was alive or dead. In a flash it came to him! Rona was right!—This time there should be no doubt. If he was, now free of his disreputable younger brother, the fact should be known, ascertained beyond dispute!
And for many reasons he had better go. This afternoon's experience had shown him to himself in a new light. He feared that he could not trust himself much with Rona until the knotty situation was unraveled. And if he left her she would become aware of the state of her own affections. He was a firm believer in the adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Never in his life had Denzil Vanston made up his mind so quickly. Never perhaps had he been called upon to decide so important a matter. He saw the whole thing with a clearness born of his own vital interest in the case. His going out would obviate the necessity for Felix to come home at all. And it was obviously far better that Felix and Rona should not meet.
Short as was his musing, it was too long for Rona's impatience.
"You must go, you must go," she reiterated, "or we shall have it on our consciences till we die! You must send cables to the Russian police, you must let them see that he has powerful friends, that he cannot be spirited away with impunity! Oh," she burst out, in anguish, "never in all his life has anybody helped him! And now I, the one creature that he thought was his own, the one object for which he lived—I have failed him! But if you will go, Mr. Vanston, you may be in time! By God's help you may not be too late to let him know that he is not all alone in the world."
Her lover raised his eyes and looked firmly upon her. He also folded his arms. "Rona," he said solemnly, "I have made up my mind. To go is my duty; and it shall be at once."
She gave a gasp of relief. "Do not try to hinder me," continued Denzil, with unnecessary heroism.
"To hinder you? I should think not," cried Rona. "As you say, to go is your duty, and at once. I will not try to prevent you. Every minute is precious." She moved, as if to leave the spot.
Denzil gazed at her with wistful reproach. "You agree—you think," he faltered, "that I should set out literally at once?"
"Of course I do! There can be no doubt! Come, let us go to the house and tell Aunt Bee, and arrange about the guests and so on. Each moment that we stand talking here may increase your difficulties when you get out there."
He tried once more. "Rona! Will you really send me away like this?"
She stopped short, looking blank. "I thought you had decided that it is your duty."
His voice was broken by emotion. "But I thought—I thought—that you would have been sorry to let me go."
"Forgive me," said Rona, "but I don't seem able to think about that. I feel so guilty, my own heart has been such a traitor, I can't bear to think of him out there, alone, unwanted ... when I think that I have wished so earnestly to be free from him I could—Oh, I tell you I could kill myself!"
She turned away, hiding her face in her hands. And Denzil, after a moment's hesitation, chose the wiser part, and turning, went away and left her to wrestle with her remorse.
She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day.The Lay of the Brown Rosary.
Miss Rawson had frequently before been left, while Denzil was away, in sole charge at Normansgrave. She was a woman of courage, and it had never occurred to her before to be nervous in the absence of the master of the house. But now she was nervous, and for a reason which she could not define.
She told herself that she was no longer young, and that she had been unduly shaken by the surprising turn of events. The knowledge that Felix still lived, the tidings of his danger, the sudden departure of her nephew, the break-up of the house-party, and the waiting for news in the forsaken house, broke her rest and gave her bad dreams.
The sight of Rona's white face and dilated eyes affected her uncomfortably. Rona was in a very highly-strung condition, and would start at the least sound. She had seemed feverishly anxious to let Denzil go—had displayed a curious reserve on bidding him farewell; but her manifest depression since he went could be attributed, thought Miss Rawson, to but one cause.
Rona was so restless that it was painful to see her. She wandered from garden to park, and back into the house, aimlessly. Her usual occupations, reading, writing, gardening, cycling, golfing, were all laid aside. Nothing interested her, far less contented her. And she either would not or could not confide in the elder woman who had been so good to her. Her wide, unseeing eyes, her tightly folded lips, kept Miss Rawson at a distance. She could see that the girl was desperately unhappy—she would have said more unhappy than even the circumstances satisfactorily accounted for—but she could do nothing for her but leave her free to indulge her melancholy.
On Sunday, after breakfast, she asked whether she thought of going to church. Rona said "No" hastily, rose from the table abruptly, and seemed as if she would go out of the open French window upon the lawn. Miss Rawson felt that she ought to remonstrate.
"Rona," she said, "I think you should go. Denzil would wish it; I am sure we stand in need of help at this moment."
The girl stood in the window, her eyes fixed, her attitude tense.
"I feel afraid to go," she said, after a minute's pause.
"Isn't that rather a foolish thing to say?" asked Miss Rawson, gently.
"Something dreadful is going to happen—don't you feel it?" said Rona, in a whisper. "I feel as if it might happen in church."
Miss Rawson stared. She knew that she, too, was under the influence of that strange idea that something was about to happen. She looked upon it as a thing that should be fought against. "Surely," she said, kindly, "church is the safest place."
Rona looked at her wistfully, and heaved a sigh. "Very well, dearest," said she, affectionately, "if you think so." So saying, she crossed the room and went upstairs to get ready.
It was a lovely morning, and the pretty little church was very full. But it seemed that Rona could not fix her mind upon what she was doing. She sat all the time like one in a dream, furtively glancing behind her, over her shoulder, as though she expected to see something alarming.
During the sermon it was painful to watch her difficulty in remaining quiet. She was usually full of repose, but to-day she changed her position, fidgeted, looked up, looked down, looked around; until the irritation of Miss Rawson's nerves grew almost unbearable.
At last the service was over. They rose from their places, and moved slowly down the central space, between the chairs. Three parts of the way down, an elderly man, coarse and stout, but dressed like a gentleman, stood hat in hand, his eyes fixed upon them both, something that was not quite a smile, nor quite a sneer, lurking in his eyes and unpleasant mouth.
As they passed him, he spoke quietly, but quite audibly.
"Well, Veronica," he said, smoothly, "have you nothing to say to your Uncle Rankin?"
In that awful moment Miss Rawson was the more agitated of the two. It seemed that, now the blow had fallen, the strange tension and restlessness of the girl had passed away, and her spirit leaped up to wrestle with this realization of her vague forebodings. She gravely shook hands with her uncle, and said, in an undertone, "Let us wait to talk until we are outside."
They moved with the thinning stream of people to the porch, and out into the oppressive heat of a gray day that threatened thunder.
There Rona turned to Miss Rawson, and said, still very quietly, "This is my mother's uncle, Rankin Leigh."
Aunt Bee had had a moment in which to collect herself. She bowed to the disagreeable looking man who stood truculently there in the road, his hat slightly pushed back upon his head, his eyes full of an odious triumph, as thinking he had the whip hand of the situation.
"Pleased to meet any friend of my niece's, ma'am," said he, familiarly. "And who may you be, if I may take the liberty to inquire?"
"My name is Rawson," said Aunt Bee, with a valiant attempt not to display the distaste she felt. "Are you—are you—staying near here?"
The man grinned unpleasantly. "Oh, yes, quite near," he said—"most convenient indeed."
"It is convenient," said Miss Rawson, whose mind, working with velocity under the stress of the moment, had determined that, as the man was there, he must be more or less propitiated and made use of. How thankful she felt that Denzil had so lately heard all of the affair that Rona and the Mother Superior could tell them! "I have been wishing to meet you, as your niece begins to feel that it is time she knew her own history."
The man looked at Rona. He looked at her from head to foot. It was a look that made Miss Rawson burn with disgust—such a look as the owner of a beautiful slave might cast over her points when bringing her to the slave market. The girl was charming. From head to heel she was worth looking at. Her form, her head, her wrists and ankles, her hands, and even such details as finger-nails and eye-lashes, were all exceptionally good. He gazed with the eye of the expert, appraising everything.
"She looks very well," he said, evidently trying to speak civilly.
"I think she is very well. She never ails anything," said Miss Rawson.
"May I ask how long she has lived with you, ma'am?" asked Mr. Leigh.
"For more than two years," replied the lady. She had by now decided what to say. "I came across her case in a hospital, and was much interested in her. She had been very badly hurt."
The man, still peering at Rona, licked his lips. "And you have taken upon yourself the burden of her ever since?" he said, with evident surprise. "I assure you, madam, you should have been relieved of your charge before this, had I known where to find my niece. She ran away from me. Perhaps she did not tell you that?"
"Oh, yes, she did," replied Miss Rawson, steadily. "She is a very good girl, and I have no wish to be relieved of the care of her."
"That is very kind of you, ma'am. But unfortunately, the young woman has her living to earn," he said.
"I know," replied Miss Rawson, "and she has been so educated that I hope she can do so without difficulty. Her plans are made. Come, Mr. Leigh," she went on, briskly, "we must have some further talk on this matter, and, I think, not in the middle of the road. When can you come to see me?"
He was evidently surprised and pleased at her tone. "Any time, practically, would do for me," he replied, more politely than he had yet spoken.
Miss Rawson reflected. "Well," she said, "I should like you to dine with me, if you will be so kind. But to-day and to-morrow we are, unfortunately, particularly engaged. Will you come to dinner with us on Tuesday, at seven-thirty?"
As she spoke, the victoria, which had been waiting at the side of the road, drove up quickly at a slight signal from herself. The man was evidently taken aback by her manner, and flattered—perhaps a little fluttered—by her invitation.
"I am obliged to you," he said. "Dinner on Tuesday at seven-thirty."
He was not used to dealing with women of her class, and though he was ready to bully or bluster, he found nothing in her self-possessed, impersonal manner which he could take hold of. Besides, he reflected, it was far better not to frighten her. If he did, she might produce lawyers, or such other undesired persons, to take part in the proceedings. He knew, far better than she, the flimsiness of his own claims. He was not the girl's legal guardian, and never had been. A moral claim was all that he could urge, joined to a cunning by means of which he hoped to attain his end, for he was convinced that it would be well worth his while to get hold of Rona. She had grown into just such a woman as he had foreseen. He did not feel any doubt of being able, with little difficulty, to reconcile her to the way of life he had in view for her, when once she realized her own power, and what a splendid time she could have if she were but sensible. But he knew well that the tactics he had formerly adopted were woefully mistaken. Of all things now, he must not scare her. As his mind flew rapidly over his intended course, he felt that he could not do better than accept this dinner invitation. He helped the two ladies into the carriage, little dreaming how the heart of the haughty-looking Miss Rawson was knocking against her side.
"If you would kindly give me the address," he said.
Miss Rawson was seated in the victoria. She opened her card-case. "Home," said she to the coachman, in the act of handing the card to Mr. Leigh, with a bow and a condescending smile. The man touched his hat, and started. They glided away, leaving Mr. Leigh staring fixedly at the card, with a face suddenly crimson.
"Normansgrave!" he repeated over and over to himself. "Why, that's the Vanstons' place! His brother's place! Well, of all the fools, that detective of mine, Burnett, was the worst! And yet, of all the places that I should have thought he would not have taken her to, his brother's place was certainly the one." He was so thoroughly disconcerted that he actually grinned. "I thought they had slipped through his fingers somewhere," he reflected. "He said he was certain that he sent her across from Plymouth—such stuff! I told him. I said, 'He left her somewhere between London and Basingstoke, or my name's not Rankin Leigh.' But they always think they know best, these blooming detectives! Well, it's a queer thing! Young Vanston must have brought her here, yet I'll swear that he never went near the place himself, and, what's more, I can swear that his brother didn't know where he was, unless Denzil Vanston, Esq., is the most finished liar on the face of the earth. Why, at that very time, he was paying the police a pretty penny to find the ticket-of-leaver—or his corpse! Humph! Well, I thought I had only a woman to deal with, but if the two Vanstons are in it the difficulties will be greater than I had foreseen. What did become of the other one, after all? Well, there may be some information to be got up at the hotel yonder, that's one thing."
He hurried back to the second-rate inn where he had put up, and, in the course of an hour or two, had found out something of some importance. The Squire had just gone abroad—very unexpectedly. It was even known at the post-office that he had had a cable from Siberia. This was good news. Leigh determined upon his plan of action. He would ask humbly, but with firmness, so as to imply that he could enforce obedience if he chose—he would ask that his niece be allowed to come and stay with him in his flat in London, to show that all was right between them. He would speculate; he would hire a furnished flat in a good position for a month, no matter at what cost. And he would take the girl about—give her clothes and a few jewels; take her to the theater and to race-meetings—he believed that the men to whom he could introduce her would do the rest.
For all the latter part of his life, the man had been a hanger-on at stage doors, a theatrical agent, a go-between of the profession. He believed all women to be like those with whom he was in daily contact—greedy, grasping, pleasure-loving, non-moral. To him, the life he found Rona living—going to church with a maiden lady—was a life from which any handsome young girl would escape, if she could.
If she once found that her beauty would bring to her—and incidentally to him—diamonds, motors, life on the champagne standard, he literally could not conceive that she could hesitate. What was the good of having a girl like that in your power if you could not make her keep you? He was determined to have an old age of comfort, as a result of the earnings of Rona. He knew all the ropes. He knew all there was to know about the "Profession." He knew that, given material of the quality of that girl, success, with the right steps taken, the right course adopted, was quite certain.
He sat smoking, and thinking it over, with his whisky on the table beside him. He considered what, or how much, he could or should tell Rona of what he suspected of her parentage. He was himself the son of a solicitor, and had received a good education. But there was a bad strain in the blood. Both he and his brother had gone to the bad, and his brother had died young, leaving an orphan girl, whose early associations were those of a life of discreditable shifts, but who had developed the backbone lacking in her father and uncle, had insisted upon qualifying to teach, and when her education was complete, had obtained a post as governess in the family of Mauleverer, a well-known old house of the Roman faith in the North of England. But it seemed as if this girl, too, were infected by the obliquity of the family morals, for, after a time, she disappeared from her uncle's view, his letters being returned to him marked "Gone away. Address unknown." One day he received a letter with a London postmark, written at her dictation. It said that she was married, that she had just become a mother, that she was dying. The letter, which bore no address, was only to be posted in case of her actual death, and then not until after a month had elapsed. She did not reveal the name of her husband, but said that her tiny daughter was to be brought up in a certain convent—the address of which she gave him—under the name of Leigh. She begged him to inquire from time to time of the child's health.
Her uncle and she had never been in sympathy. Evidently she had nobody else at all to whom she could appeal for her baby's sake to take some interest in her. She had always been a good and very quiet, steady girl, yet her uncle found it a little hard to believe in the story of her marriage.
There was a young man at Vane Abbey—John Mauleverer, the eldest son. But he was a shy, retiring, delicate youth, by no means the kind of man whom one suspects of making love to the governess. Rankin Leigh had made a few inquiries at the time, but had learnt nothing to confirm such a suspicion.
Other young men had come and gone, visitors at the Abbey; and as all these were Roman Catholics, the fact of the baby's being sent to a convent was not of much significance. Young Mauleverer married, a wife of his own rank, not long after the death of Veronica's mother. If he were the man, this gave some color to the dead girl's solemn assertion that she had been actually married. The fact that the supplies for Veronica's maintenance stopped upon John Mauleverer's death made Rankin Leigh morally certain that he was, after all, the father. He left a family of several children. Had Veronica been a boy, it would have been worth her uncle's while to incur the expense and trouble of hunting up evidence, and establishing her claims on the property. But since she was a girl, and her father had sons, he did not care to follow up the clew. And when, summoned to the convent by a letter from the solicitors explaining that the supplies had ceased, he saw his niece, he felt that she would be a more lucrative and less risky source of income than the levying of blackmail.
But what he had not cared to set on foot, he had little doubt that the Vanstons might be willing to undertake, if he told them the truth. Should he? He was still meditating on the subject, when the waiter looked in.
"Mr. Leigh! Gentleman of the name of Burnett to see you, sir."
"Burnett! Well, that's a coincidence! Burnett, by all that's wonderful! The very man!"
Burnett, the detective, came in with a twinkle. He sat down, and when he had refreshed himself at his host's invitation, he produced a letter from his pocket. "You're wanted, Leigh, seemin'ly," he remarked, with humor.
"I'm wanted, am I?" said Rankin, with a stare. "And who wants me?"
"No less a person than Squire Vanston, of Normansgrave, has written to me to trace you out."
"Well, I'm——" remarked Leigh, in amazement.
"Here's the letter, if you don't believe me. Got it yesterday. So I've come to ask—do you want to be traced or don't you?"
"No need, my dear friend," said Leigh, in an off-hand way. "I introduced myself this morning to Mr. Vanston's aunt, and to my own niece, who has lived with them ever since I had the pleasure of putting you on her track. If ever there was a confounded fool, it is you, Burnett, if you'll give me leave to pass the remark. I'm dining there Tuesday," he added, with nonchalance.
I should have cleaved to her who did not dwellIn splendor, was not hostess unto kings,But lived contented among simple things,And had a heart, and loved me long and well.—WILLIAM WATSON.
The victoria fled swiftly along the pretty country road for some moments without either occupant saying a word. Rona sat as if the falling of the long-expected blow had stunned her. Aunt Bee, watching her set lips and tragic eyes, felt vaguely alarmed.
"Rona," she said, in low tones, almost a whisper, "had you any sort of idea that he was in the neighborhood—before we set out for church?"
The girl hesitated. At last—"I thought I saw him," she said, reluctantly, "at the station the other day, when we went to see Denzil off. A race train came in from Virginia Water, and I turned, glancing idly along the carriage windows, and felt almost sure that I saw his face. I had the idea that he had suddenly risen from his seat, and was looking at me. But at that moment the train moved, and I—I could not be sure. But he must have been sure, and he must have spent all these days searching the neighborhood for me. It was a clever idea to go to church, wasn't it?"
Aunt Bee remained silent for a swift moment or two. Then she turned suddenly, stooping, her lips close to the girl's ear. "Rona—how long shall you take to pack?"
The girl started, a light came into her eyes and color into her cheeks. "For how long?" she rejoined, with bated breath.
"For a journey,—one hardly knows how long. One trunk, a hat-box, a hand-bag."
"Two hours, if there is time. Twenty minutes if there isn't."
"Good girl. I expect we can have our two hours. But I must study a time-table. I see nothing for it but flight, and before he can suspect us of anything of the sort. I cannot deal with him in Denzil's absence."
"No," said Rona, her eyes glowing. "You are simply splendid! Oh, what a relief! I have been so sick with fear. I am not a coward, really, but my nerves cannot bear the sight of him. If you could know the things he recalls! I feel like a thrashed slave when you show her the whip."
Miss Rawson caught her hand and held it tight. "Courage, darling! You know Denzil does not think he can really do much. Of course, it depends a great deal upon the exact terms of your father's will. But even if he is legally your guardian, I don't think he can actually force you to live with him. If he is not, Denzil says we can snap our fingers. But, for all that, I dare not tackle him alone. We must be off, and at once. And nobody must know, not even the servants, that we are going beyond London. I have about fifteen pounds in the house here, and I will write to my bankers, with a check, instructing them to cable out more money to me to Paris, or Brussels, or wherever it is we start from—I'll look out the route."
"Where are we going?"
"To St. Petersburg, I think—don't you?"
Rona gasped. She repeated the words mechanically. "To St. Petersburg! Oh, Aunt Bee!"
"It seems to me the safest course. The man looked to me as if he were prepared to be very disagreeable. If we simply go to Paris, he might follow us. But I should judge that the state of his exchequer would render Russia quite out of the question——"
"Oh, how wonderful you are! But we shall want a passport for Russia, shall we not?"
"I could get that anywhere where there is an English Embassy. Let me see, we had better take Gorham, I think."
Gorham was Miss Rawson's maid, a middle-aged, superior woman, attached to her mistress, and fond of Rona. "We will not tell anyone our destination until we are safely off," went on Miss Rawson; "Gorham must be told that we shall be away for a month, at least, but the servants here must be left under the impression that we return without fail on Tuesday evening. I will even order the dinner for that night before I go, and tell cook that I expect a gentleman to dine with us. Then if he does hear that we are away, and makes inquiries, his suspicions will be lulled."
Upon consulting the time-table, they found that all Was easy. By driving to Weybridge they could catch a 5.56 train, reaching Waterloo at 6.49, in plenty of time to dine comfortably and catch the 9 p.m. boat train, by which means they would arrive in Paris at five o'clock next morning.
Miss Rawson had a cousin—one Mrs. Townsend, known in the family as Cousin Sophy—who lived in Kensington and was in feeble health. Aunt Bee unblushingly told her household that she had news that this good lady was suddenly taken worse, and that she must go at once. As she did not like to leave Miss Rona at home alone, she should take her; and as they must put up at an hotel, she should also take Gorham. As they should probably stay only a night, or perhaps two, she wished nothing said in the village of their absence; and, as the Squire was known to dislike Sunday traveling, she wished Jones to drive the luggage cart out by the back way and go along the lane, and not by the high road, that the village might not be scandalized.
"I don't think," said the newly fledged conspirator, "that he will suspect us of bolting, after my asking him to dinner like that. Was it not a good thought of mine to say we were engaged to-day and Monday? Conspiracy comes terribly easy when once one tries it! Cheer up, darling, we shall get off with no trouble at all. And on Tuesday afternoon I will dispatch a telegram to him, saying that I am sorry to have been suddenly called away. Mercifully, I have a balance of several hundred pounds in the bank just now, which I have been saving up to buy furniture with when Denzil and you turn me out! We shall do admirably."
Rona flung her arms about her neck. "I think it is too much," she said, in a choked voice. "Let me go—let me disappear! Why should you lavish money, time, health, on me? Who am I? Nobody knows. And I have done nothing but harm. I have made them both unhappy. Give me ten pounds and let me go away and hide, and earn my own living—ah, let me!"
Her mouth was stopped with a kiss, and an injunction not to be a little fool. "I enjoy it," said Aunt Bee, with an air of evident sincerity. "I never got a chance to do a desperate thing like this before. Who would think of staid old Miss Rawson, the mainstay of the Girls' Friendly Society and the Clothing Club, telling tarradiddles to her servants, and rushing off across Europe, in defense of a helpless beauty with villains in pursuit! I feel as if I were in a book by Stanley Weyman!"
In fact, her capacity and energy carried all before them, and triumphed even over Gorham's consternation when, upon arriving in London, she found that, so far from having reached their goal, they were but at the starting-point of their journey.
The obtaining of their passport and waiting for their money delayed them in Paris for four-and-twenty hours. But they felt fairly safe, and made up their minds not to worry. They arrived at St. Petersburg absolutely without adventure, and found themselves in a spacious, well-appointed hotel, where English was spoken, and in a capital which did not seem to differ much from other foreign capitals, except in the totally unknown character of the language, and a curious Oriental feeling which seemed to hover in the air rather than to express itself in any form of which me could take note.
Miss Rawson was much inclined to plume herself upon her successful disappearance. They had written to Denzil to inform him of the step they had taken, and why. On reaching St. Petersburg, they telegraphed to him their arrival and address. If all had gone well with his journey, he should have been almost a week at Savlinsky by now, and might have important news for them.
A telegram arrived the following morning. "No news Felix. Please await letter—Denzil."
That was all. They could not tell, from its necessary brevity, whether he was displeased at their daring dash or no. But there was nothing for it but to stay on in their hotel for a week or two, until the arrival of the letter alluded to.
And in truth there was plenty to see, plenty to interest them. It disappointed Rona that the ice and snow which she had associated with the idea of Russia were absent—that the weather was fine, and, if anything, too hot to be comfortable. But this enabled them to go about and to enjoy the sights of the place.
And then their first misfortune suddenly befell them. Miss Rawson, in stepping out of a droshky, wrenched the knee which had been troubling her that summer, displacing the bone in its socket, and tearing and bruising the ligaments, so as to produce acute inflammation.
It was the kind of accident which happens one hardly knows how or why. One may get out of a cab every morning for five-and-twenty years, and the following day injure oneself seriously in so doing. The doctor called in—an English doctor was at once forthcoming—thought very gravely of it. It was a far worse matter than a simple fracture, he said. Absolute rest was the only thing possible. He used every effort to reduce the inflammation. But the pain was so great and so continuous that the patient could not obtain any sleep; and the day after the accident she was so ill that Rona was very anxious about her.
That same day came a letter from Denzil. He said he was very glad to hear that they had come out, though he could hardly have advised so extreme a course had he known it to be in contemplation. As they were there, he hoped they were fairly comfortable, and would not mind staying on until he had some idea as to what was best to be done. He said that the place where he was was far from civilization, and though the Russian, Vronsky, did all he could for his comfort, he found himself very unwell, as a result, he supposed, of his long journey, or the difference in climate, or way of living, or anxiety. There was no news of Felix. He related the circumstances of his disappearance, and of the pursuit of Cravatz. He said that Vronsky was far from hopeless, for the Governor suggested that Felix was perhaps keeping out of harm's way until he heard that the Nihilist was laid by the heels. He himself could not but think that had Felix intended to go into hiding, he would have informed Vronsky, and not left him to fret and distress himself. Vronsky's devotion to his brother was touching. He meant to leave him everything of which he died possessed. He was in a large way of business. He had confided to Denzil that he believed Nadia Stepanovna, the Governor's daughter, was interested in Felix——
("Dear me, what a good way out of our difficulty that would be!" sighed Aunt Bee.)
They had every hope of hearing of the arrest of Cravatz in a few days. The police had been put on his track by a wandering Kirgiz. ("What on earth is a Kirgiz?" said Aunt Bee.) When his arrest was a known fact, they might hope to ascertain where Felix was, unless he had been the victim of foul play. But an exhaustive search all along the route between Nicolashof and the mines had resulted in no discovery; and his attached servant, Max, was missing also. He concluded by remarking how fortunate it was that, owing to the proximity of the Governor's summer residence, they had a line of telegraph in so remote a spot. He recounted his own journey there, and added that he would write more, but that he felt increasingly unwell, and was afraid he should have to go and lie down.
It was a disquieting letter. They did not like to think of Denzil being ill, so far from them, or from a doctor, or from any friends. He could not speak a word of Russian; and though Vronsky had improved in his English under the tuition of Felix, he had had of late little use for that tongue, and it had grown rusty.
Aunt Bee almost forgot her pain in discussing the hard case in which Denzil must find himself. They talked of little else all day.
Next morning, when poor Miss Rawson awoke from the only nap she had been able to snatch during a night of agony, it was to hear that another telegram had arrived.
"Vanston very ill, wishes you to come.—Vronsky."
Miss Rawson buried her face in the pillow and sobbed. What was to be done? It was an impossibility for her to think of traveling. Yet the idea of Denzil alone and ill in that awful place was torment to her. Rona made up her mind.
If she could not offer to the man who loved her the devotion which he craved, she could at least offer service. She remembered his extreme kindness when she, the frightened, penniless little fugitive, had lain ill at the Cottage Hospital.
The least she could do would be to hasten to him, ill as he was, and lonely among aliens.
"I shall go, Aunt Bee," she said, quietly. "It is of no use your trying to stop me. I can manage quite well. I have Denzil's letter here, giving a full account of his journey. I have only got to get into the right train at Moscow, get out of it at Gretz, and hire a carriage to take me on. You have Gorham here to stay with you, and I shall be all right, I have plenty of common sense."
"Rona, it is impossible—impossible, and you know it! A girl of your age and appearance to go a drive of five hundred miles, alone, with these savages—what would Denzil say?"
"Denzil will not know until it is over," was the quiet answer. "Now, dear, it is of no use to fuss. What have the two Vanstons done for me? What have I ever done in return? Here is a thing I can do. Why, women do such things every day. I know a girl who went back to her husband from England to Japan, right along this trans-Siberian line, by herself. You must not hinder me, for I am going, dearest."
It was in vain to argue with her. Her mind was quite made up. She went out to Cook's Office, took her ticket, made her passport arrangements, and came back triumphant to pack her trunks. The doctor, when called into consultation, thought the plan a little daring, but by no means beyond the bounds of possibility. He had, as it chanced, a patient, a lady who lived farther along the line, and who was, by a fortunate coincidence, going that way, so that she could travel with Rona as far as Gretz. "As for the drive," he said, "it is a main road almost all the way; there are posting-stations and good horses. I think the drivers are an honest set of men; and I do not see why she should not be safe."
In short, the girl's determination carried the day. "Do not let us think of Mrs. Grundy," said she; "let us only think that Denzil is ill, and wants me. He has every right to have me, if I can get to him by any means in my power."
And so I look upon your face again.What have the years done for me since we met?Which has prevailed, the joy of life or pain?Do you recall our parting, or forget?
Show me your face. No! Turn it from my sight!It is a mask. I would lay bare your heart.You will not show me that? I have no rightTo read it? ... Then I know my doom. We part.Words for a Song.
In after days, when Veronica looked back upon that journey, it seemed to her as if it had lasted for months.
As its slow hours crept by, she grew to have a feeling that she had been traveling ever since she could remember, and must go on traveling till she died. The train moved on, and on, and on, like a thing which, once started, can never stop again. After the first twelve hours she had a bad attack of train sickness, an ailment from which she had never before suffered; and she lay sleepless during the night hours, with aching head and parched mouth, tossing about on her berth, and with her mind unable to detach itself, even for a moment, from a thought so dreadful that never, till faced by this dreary solitude, had she dared to put it into words.
She knew, she had known, ever since their interview in the rock garden, that she no more loved Denzil than she loved his absent brother. She did not love him, and she vehemently desired not to marry him. Yet, somehow or other, she had caused him to believe that she returned his affection. She was, practically, engaged to him. She had deceived both brothers, and it seemed to her that, search as deeply as might be into her own heart, she had not done so wittingly.
The case simply was that her heart had never been aroused. Her hour had not come. She did not know love. Each of these two young men had wanted of her something which she had not to bestow. To each she had offered in return something else. There was, however, one notable distinction between the two affairs. Felix had excited her best feelings. She had felt for him pity, sympathy, the instinctive womanly desire to comfort and sympathize with the lonely, the unfortunate. Denzil, on the other hand, had stood in her imagination for home, peace, safety, well-being. It had been her selfishness which had responded to his call. He could give her an assured position, and life in the surroundings which she loved. Felix was the asker, Denzil the bestower. To marry Felix demanded sacrifice; to marry Denzil was to accept benefits at his hands.
But, if she considered which of the two had the more claim upon her allegiance, she found herself bewildered, divided. Felix had saved her life, but Denzil had preserved it. As she envisaged the situation, she felt that the die was cast. Her letter to Felix had bound her to Denzil. She wondered, over and over to herself, whether Felix had received that letter, and what he had felt upon reading it. Here, in her isolated loneliness, far from Aunt Bee, far from Denzil, she began to have an inkling as to what letters would mean to the exile, and to realize what Felix might have experienced, upon seeing her writing, snatching open the envelope, and reading the complete extinction of her own feeling for himself....
Was his present disappearance—could it be—the result of her cruelty? Had it made him reckless?
Such thoughts poisoned the weary hours of the endless night. And through them all beat upon her brain the knowledge that Denzil was ill, so ill that he had wired for them to come to him. He would not have taken so extreme a course, had his sickness not been serious—had he not been in danger.
What should she do, if after the bitter strain of her long journey, she found him dead when she arrived at Savlinsky?
She pictured herself alone, in the mining village, with no woman near, with nobody but Vronsky, the Russian! Was it, after all, mad of her to undertake such a journey?
She was thankful to rise from her sleepless couch, and shake off the wild dreams which visited her with every moment of unconsciousness. The varying country, the dim Ural Mountains, into the heart of which they ascended, the increasingly strange garb of the people, left hardly any impression upon her usually active mind. But during the day she rallied from her misgivings of the previous night, and girded at herself for a coward.
There was nothing to take off her mind from its treadmill of apprehensions. The lady who was her fellow-traveler spoke English, but was very dull, and most likely herself thought the girl unresponsive. It had proved impossible to get English books for the journey, and she was without refuge from the harassing thoughts which yelped about her like snapping wolves.
As the train bore her along the endless road, as day faded into night and morning dawned again along the illimitable plain, and sun shone and wind blew and clouds drifted, and meal-times came and passed like telegraph posts, the thought of her treachery—her double treachery—was ever in her mind, aching, desolating.
Her fellow-traveler's encouraging assurance that they would be at Gretz in an hour or two was an untold relief. At Gretz she hoped for tidings of Denzil. She had telegraphed, before leaving St. Petersburg, that she was starting, and asked to have news wired to Gretz. Her telegram, in its brevity, said nothing of the fact that she was coming alone.
Of itself, the idea of escape from the noise and motion of the train was something to be eagerly anticipated. To walk upon firm ground, to stand still, to sit upon a chair—these were boons indeed.
But when the train had departed, bearing with it the one creature with whom she was on speaking terms, and she stood upon the platform at the station and looked around at the dull, dirty town and the wild-looking people, she had a moment of sheer panic. How isolated she was! How the days had rolled by, without her being able to hear, either from the beloved aunt she had left, or the lover to whom she journeyed!
She shivered as she stood, for a heavy rainstorm had but just passed over the town, and everything seemed dank and dripping.
She drew out her paper, upon which the doctor had written down for her, "Drive me to the Moscow Hotel." "I want to stop at the post-office." "I want a carriage and horses to go to Savlinsky," and various such necessary formulæ.
It was only half-past ten o'clock in the morning, so she was determined, if a carriage could be secured, to stay only for lunch at the hotel, and start upon her journey at once. The friendly St. Petersburg doctor had seen that she had a store of tinned food with her, but it was with a sharp pang that she realized that however much she wished to supplement her stores she could not do so, as she could not say one word of Russian.
She found herself the center of a gesticulating crowd of men, all proffering unintelligible service, saying to her things which she could not understand. She could not pronounce the words the doctor had written down for her, though she had tried to learn. She had to show the written paper to the barbarian crowd that surrounded her. Its purport was, apparently, understood, for, with many gesticulations, and noises which she hoped and believed were of a friendly nature, she found herself conducted to a curious-looking vehicle in waiting outside; and, earnestly repeating "Hotel, Post Office, Posting-house," she got in, and was driven through such a slop of mud as she had never before encountered. Pausing presently, she found they were at what looked like a stable doorway. Her driver made signs for her to alight, and she concluded that he was explaining that he had brought her first to the posting-house to give her order, as it was on the way. She dismounted trembling, almost slipping in the filth, and, peeping through the half-open gate, saw a dirty courtyard within, where one or two ostlers were at work; and, facing her, across an incredible swamp of stable refuse, the door of a house, which was presumably the place where she must give her order. Gathering her skirts about her, she entered the disgusting place, and stood wavering, glancing round in desperation, and despising herself for her want of resource.
She saw that she had been imprudent in trusting herself, with no knowledge of the language, in such regions. But she was in for this journey now, and meant to win through to Denzil if she died in the attempt. She must not be deterred by the smells nor the mire of the stable yard: and she advanced with determination.
Just as she did so, two men came out from the door-way which she was approaching, and stood upon the stone step in the full light of day. One was presumably the Russian stable-keeper, a wild kind of person, but apparently amiable. He was in eager converse with a tall man, very well dressed, who held a cigar between his fingers.