Ye are not bound! The soul of things is sweet,The Heart of being is celestial rest,Stronger than woe is will: that which was goodDoth pass to better—best.—EDWIN ARNOLD.
The shadows of that same exquisite evening fell very softly across the walled-in pleasance at Nicolashof. Dinner was over, and the Governor sat upon the terrace with his cigarette, and Vronsky as his companion. From within the drawing-room, which was but faintly lighted, came the sound of Nadia's singing. Miss Forester played, and the two men—Denzil Vanston within, and Vronsky without—listened spellbound to the magic of that mysteriously appealing voice.
The evening was untroubled even by a breath of wind. The tops of the forest trees, visible beyond the garden bowers, were motionless in the warm air. The hues of the sky were such as must have been seen to be imagined.
Denzil sat with a kind of helplessness in his whole attitude, his eyes devouring the girl who sang to him.
He had been in a pitiable condition when the kindness of Stepan Stepanovitch had carried him off to the luxurious simplicity of Nicolashof, and the unforeseen seductions of the life there. Fresh from his lonely journey, his heart full of sensations to which he had till then been a stranger, torn with anxiety respecting the fate of his brother, and uncertain as to the extent of the danger with which the reappearance of her uncle menaced Rona—he had been in dire need of sympathy.
He found himself received with a cordiality for whose charm he had been utterly unprepared. The change from foreign ways, discomfort, loneliness, and sickness, to the delightful atmosphere of sympathy, and the perfect comfort of a well-regulated household, modeled upon the English standard, was astounding, and its effects much greater than could have been foreseen.
In truth, his own frame of mind at this crisis of his history was a sealed mystery to himself.
Rona had touched in him springs of feeling of a kind different from anything in his previous experience. She had—all unconsciously—called these sensations into being;but she had not satisfied them. This last fact, so all-important, his intelligence did not recognize, though his physical instinct knew it well enough.
To his passion there had been, in Veronica Leigh, no response. No pulse in her had thrilled in concert with his own. This he felt, without knowing it. He had quitted England with a fierce desire unsatisfied.
And, all unknown to both of them, Nadia was bestowing what Rona had withheld.
This girl was very woman to her finger-tips. No intellectual education had trained her in the ways that Rona had gone. She lived in a world of emotions, with no actual knowledge of life.
The dream of her youth had always been to be English. She loved Miss Forester better than anyone else in the world. She absorbed the literature, the customs, of her beloved land. She read English novels, and longed to come in contact with an English gentleman.
It was not surprising that, when she met Denzil, she should idealize him.
In his quiet manner, his pleasant appearance, his outwardly calm bearing, she thought she perceived all the greatness, the depth, of the English character. She saw him through a haze of rosy dreams, just as he saw her in a circle of mystic light. Each was to the other a perfectly new type, with all the fascination of the unknown.
She had fancied herself in love with Felix, and had been thrown back upon herself in much the same manner as Denzil.
The feeling with which she inspired the bewildered young man was entirely mutual. Each to the other was the central figure of a romance in real life.
Everything in the circumstances of their association conspired to make the dream perfect. They were isolated from all the world. Each formed for the other the paramount interest of the moment.
Nadia differed essentially from the girls he knew in England. Her physical beauty appealed to his own thin blood with a force that shook him. The witchery of her voice, the splendor of her eyes, the atmosphere of mystery which seemed to radiate from her, acted like a narcotic upon his enfeebled system. For days past he had lived, steeped in a dream whose awakening he simply refused to picture. Just as Felix and Rona, in the forest, were longing that the journey might never end, so the blameless Denzil, who had lived so many years in the prosaic groove of a country gentleman of quiet habits and few tastes, was positively yearning that he might remain forever, slowly convalescing within the magic walls of that romantic inclosure where the outside world could be so completely forgotten that it might never have existed.
The notion that Miss Rawson and Rona, the two links with his own steady-going everyday life, were traveling to him, and must arrive in two or three days, was a notion which he put from him. He could not—would not think. He was steeped to the lips in a fairy tale, which he would read on to the end. He did not say this, even in his own heart. He was conscious of nothing of the kind. He drifted, like one floating out upon a warm current, carrying him away, whither he neither knew nor cared.
Outside upon the terrace the Governor took his cigar from his mouth, and said to Vronsky, "Your Felix assures me that in England those whom he calls the county gentlefolk are equal in their own eyes with us of the aristocracy in Russia."
"I believe that is true," said Vronsky, with a huge sigh.
After some minutes' musing:
"Life in Russia is uncertain for us of the upper classes," pursued Stepan Stepanovitch, who seemed to be thinking aloud. "I have an idea that my child would be happier in a country so secure as your England. If she were to decide to love an Englishman—I am not sure that I should say no to her. He has means, this Vanston—hein?"
"He is not what they in England call very rich," said Vronsky. "But he has enough to be very comfortable, and will have more when his aunt dies, I believe." He was glad that Nadia's father could not see his face as he answered these torturing questions. "But I am not sure that this young man's affections are free," he said, making his voice sound calm with great difficulty. "I understand from Felix that his brother has cut him out in the love of the young girl to whom he, Felix, was betrothed."
"So?" said the Governor, in astonishment. "He does not seem to me like a man who would do such things."
"There was some misunderstanding. What do I know?" said Vronsky, wearily.
The Governor moved slightly upon his chair, so as to look into the drawing-room. Nadia had left the piano, and was sitting upon a sofa, very much in the shadow. Denzil had left his big chair, and was seated beside her.
Her father lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I have never seen her so with anyone else," he confided. "He is unlike any man she has met—a different type, as you say. She does not care for the men of her own country. By St. Isaac! it would not be a bad thing. It would not do to frighten her; but of course I realize that if I am proscribed, I shall be taken off sooner or later. And I tell you the truth, her brothers are extravagant. I shall not have much power to leave her well dowered, when my pay from this province ceases. You think her attractive, Vronsky, my friend—hein?"
The tears were running down Vronsky's face in the darkness as he answered, "Yes, I do."
"Well," said the Governor, "then I do not interfere. As to the other girl, this can, perhaps, be arranged. In England that is so, is it not? They do break betrothals, and think no shame of those that do so. Felix should be back in a few days now. He cannot be far behind the ladies upon the road."
Vronsky drew a deep breath. His heart was full of rage. His Felix had been jilted for this little straw puppet—this man who did not know his own mind for a month together! He thought of the long months during which Felix had been exposed to the charms of Nadia. During all that time his allegiance to the girl in England had never wavered. And now this little sneak came, having gained the one woman, and succumbed without a struggle to the charm of the other.
The two upon the sofa rose and passed together out of the room, and away into the starlit garden.
"I hope," said the Governor, "that you will not be hurt if I express my strong desire that the two English ladies should be my guests here. I do not mean to disparage your own well-known hospitality."
Vronsky growled. "He had no right to send for them—what are English ladies to do here at the world's end?" he muttered. "He is as selfish as false"—but the final words were in his beard, and the Governor did not catch them.
"He was, however, very ill for a few days," he remarked.
"If he had died it would have simplified matters," said Vronsky, brutally.
The Governor looked slightly hurt. "You do not then think highly of him?"
"I? Oh, I know very little of him. It was plucky of him to come out here after his brother. He was quite sure, when he arrived, that his brother was dead. But he wanted to see the corpse, actually."
This speech, in the ears of the man who heard it, sounded like absolute nonsense, but Vronsky had been nervy and uncertain in his temper ever since Felix disappeared, and he was pardoned.
"Ah, well," said Stepan Stepanovitch. "A few days more will decide all. But it would please me well that Nadia Stepanovna should be the wife of an Englishman, if he is a man of position."
—Blame or praiseWhat was the use then? Time would tell,And the end declare what man for you,What woman for me was the choice of God.—ROBERT BROWNING.
In the bright sunshine the povosska sped on towards Savlinsky.
They sat together, the man and the girl, staring out upon a formless future.
They no longer read. But neither did they talk. What could be said between them?
Minute after minute, mile after mile. The road stretched before and behind, mocking them with a false suggestion of being endless. If but it were! If but it were! If this could go on forever—this closeness of undisturbed companionship!
Rona felt a kind of resentment against that cruelty of fate which seems to blind a young girl to her own feelings until it is too late. She recalled her sober fondness for Denzil, her eager clutching at any arrangement which would secure to her the continuance of her happy life. And the shock of repulsion which had seized her when some new feeling leaped to life in her at the touch of the man's lips in leave-taking, and she knew that she not only did not share his feeling, but that it excited in her the most complete distaste.
While, for this other, whom she had denied, whom she had forgotten, whom she had feared ... the intoxication of joy which she experienced in the mere fact of being there, side by side with him, would break in upon all her rueful thoughts, and shake her with a great emotion that had no resemblance to anything she had previously known. Scorning herself, she remembered that she had actually flinched from the idea of going out to Siberia, to banishment, to live with him. She gazed around, at the boundless, free, rolling country, that seemed but just wide enough to contain her love, her joy in his company. Banishment! Life here with him would be the garden of Eden!
Yet she had bound herself hand and foot. She had appealed to Denzil to save her from Felix. It was done, and to this she must stand, if he wished it. There must be no drawing back. Her very soul sickened at the thought of the pain she must inflict, did she confess to him that she did not love him, and never could love him, but that she could and did love another.
No, she could not, must not, do it. What, after all, was love? A mere emotion. She would go back with Denzil to England, and never see Felix again. The profound trouble which she now experienced would grow to be only a memory. Surely there lay the path of her duty. Perhaps, after all, it had been better had her leap for freedom landed her lifeless upon the railway lines at Deptford.
The reflections of Felix were even more somber. He knew Denzil. He knew him well, in and out. He felt sure that he would not release Rona.
The reasons for his refusal would be of the highest character. He would be quite sure that no good girl could ever be happy with a convicted felon, with a man with such a record as his unfortunate brother. He would deem her fancy for Felix a passing phase, and would carry her off, working upon her gratitude, using the claims he had upon her—and marry her to himself as soon as it could be done with decency, in order the sooner to efface the image of Felix from her heart.
And, after all, would not this be best? He looked longingly upon the grave profile of the girl beside him. He noted the fastidious curve of her mouth, the depth of expression in her eyes. Was it for him to imprison such a creature in Siberia?
What a mistress she would make for Normansgrave!
No. There was no chance of Denzil's giving her back. Her life was fixed. She was not his, she never had been, never would be. He had only these few minutes in which to realize her, these few minutes of agony and futile regret.
Was it not all absurd? Suddenly his heart rose up within him and shouted, and his passion mocked his sense of right and justice. Why bring her back to the man who would part them forever? She preferred him—he knew it. Why not tell the driver to turn his horses' heads, and dash away together into the unknown?
He felt the blood rush to his head, his heart began to beat with great slow thumps.
How much money had he? Enough to keep them for some weeks. He could communicate secretly with Vronsky, and tell him where they were, and as soon as Denzil had departed bring her back to Savlinsky.
That was surely the true way to cut the knot. Let him have courage, and take what was his own.
He breathed fast and with difficulty.
"Rona!" he said, in a whisper.
She started from her own sad, absorbed meditations. She turned her eyes to him, with a dumb appeal in them for mercy. There was something so sorrowful in the look that it acted like fire upon his senses.
"I can't—I can't!" he said, under his breath. "It's too hard. I can't let you go. I shall tell him to turn the horses, and we will go away—together."
She looked at him, all the blood in her body rushing to her heart. They were sitting side by side, but not close together. Now her body seemed to lean towards him; her eyes were alight, her lips parted slightly. But a look of mortal fear clouded the eagerness of her sweet face. She raised her hands with a pitiful gesture of entreaty.
"Oh, hush, don't! No, Felix, no, I trust you. You can't——"
She broke off with a gulping sob, snatching her handkerchief to her mouth lest the driver should hear, and turn his keen black eyes upon her weakness and misery. But the driver was gazing along the road ahead, his eyes shaded. Something had attracted his attention. Felix was too absorbed to notice. He did not speak, but he leant towards her, one clenched hand upon the seat between them, and relentlessly held her eyes with his own. His teeth were set. He knew she could not hold out for long if he set his will upon it.
"You said," she voiced, almost inaudibly—"you said—that I might trust you."
"Yes," he answered, in the same tone. "Will you? Trust me altogether? For always?"
The driver dropped his hand, and, making a violent motion along the road, pointed, shouting something in an excited way.
The movement, the unexpected shout, snapped the hypnotizing influence. Rona, startled, uttered a low cry. Felix gazed ahead as the driver bade him, and saw a mounted man approaching.
Even at that distance he was able to recognize Vronsky's ungraceful form. His moment was over. He let his head drop upon his breast, defeated.
Vronsky came on, feeling very shy. Two English ladies were under that hood, and he hardly knew how to meet them. He felt so severely himself towards Denzil, towards his selfish cowardice in sending for his womenkind to undertake so fatiguing a journey, that his attitude was one of abject apology. Then, as he drew nearer, he saw a handkerchief waved. The povosska drew up, and his own adored Felix leaped lightly to earth and ran forward.
Vronsky leant down from his saddle, caught his boy about the neck, and showered kisses upon the top of his head, quite unashamed of the possible amusement of the spectators.
He had come, he explained, not to meet Felix, whose arrival he had not certainly expected, but to greet the ladies, bear to them the Governor's pressing invitation, and escort them to Nicolashof. It was better luck than that coxcomb of a brother deserved. He had telegraphed in a fit of panic. Had he been going to die he would have been three times dead before they could reach him. He had merely been ill. What would you? Men got well again. Was it a journey for ladies? It was thanks to the saints that Felix had been at hand to protect them. A mad scheme. He grumbled on.
"Miss Leigh has taken no harm," said Felix, dully, "so why make such a song about it? All is well."
"Is all well?" said Vronsky, sulkily. "This girl who has come so far, who has preferred him to you—she is to find out something if she has eyes. Does she love him? Is her happiness bound up in him? For, if so, she is to be made very miserable."
Felix turned crimson. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. But why did you not have two carriages? I suppose you sent back the other at the last posting-house?"
"No, little father, we have come in one. Miss Rawson has not come at all. She lies ill at St. Petersburg. Miss Leigh has come alone. I don't know what would have happened to her, had I not chanced upon her at Gretz."
Vronsky stared. "Is it possible?"
Felix, with a thousand questions fighting to be uttered, choked and was silent. "Come and see her," he said, after a minute or two.
He went up to the carriage, said a word, and Rona rose, gave him her hand, and alighted to greet Vronsky. There was a hint of something tragic in her beauty which made an instant appeal to the emotional heart of the Russian. Ah, here indeed was the woman for his Felix! Yet she had preferred the ignoble little neat-mannered man up at Nicolashof—the man who was flirting deeply, dangerously, with Nadia, while he awaited the coming of this courageous girl.
"Madam, I greet you. You are a brave lady," he said, gravely, in English; and the girl's eyes filled with tears as she grasped his hand.
"I hope—I trust—that Mr. Vanston is quite recovered?" she faltered. "I mean, that he is much better? I have been in deep anxiety."
"He is as well as ever he was in his life," said Vronsky, "and as well amused. That is the truth. The Governor and his daughter have truly Russian notions of hospitality. They bade me bring you to them, mademoiselle. Will you go?"
"No," said Rona. "Unless you say that I must, I will not go. I would rather stay with you, please, if you are so kind as to make room for me. Mr. Vanston can come and see me at your house. I have no claim upon the kindness of these strangers."
"Our house will be more dear to us ever after if its roof has sheltered your beautiful head, mademoiselle," said Vronsky, with deep conviction.
Rona acknowledged this with a shy smile. "Let Felix ride your horse awhile, and come and sit with me in the carriage and let us make friends."
The suggestion completed the conquest of the big, affectionate fellow. And in this order they made the rest of the journey.
* * * * * * *
Denzil had opened his eyes that morning to the awful conviction that every dream must have an awakening, and that his awakening was come.
Until dawn he had not slept. He had lain awake staring at the ceiling, asking himself helplessly whether it could be true that he, the blameless, the well-conducted, the young man whose sober pulses knew not what it was to quicken, could really be false, could really be shamelessly in love, pushed out of his usual decorum and moderation, carried along upon the swift current of his senses, caring for nothing but this wondrous girl, hoping for nothing but some catastrophe which should keep him forever away from England, and happy at her side.
Wild thoughts of offering Normansgrave to Felix, if only he would take Rona away and leave him happy with Nadia, coursed through his mind. Absurd he knew such thoughts to be. But he had cast to the winds all sense, all propriety. He was as much out of himself as a man hopelessly drunk for the first time in his life.
Why had he hitherto led so jog-trot, so narrow a life? How could a man, ignorant of the possibilities of existence, judge of what was necessary for his own happiness? Had he only gone forth earlier to see the world, instead of staying at home, reflecting upon his own virtues, he would not have been tempted into that sickly and tepid course of sentiment with a half-grown girl like Rona.
And who was Rona? The curtain of romance that had veiled her had been in part drawn back by the Reverend Mother, and her mysterious uncle was now an established fact. Miss Rawson reported him to be woefully second-rate, apart from his moral defects. "Remember," that wise aunt had said, "Felix took her from a lodging in Deptford."
And he might have had this creature of fire and magic, this Russian aristocrat, with the blood of Royal Princes in her veins! He was Vanston of Normansgrave, proud of his old, clean name. How could he have indulged so unworthy a dream these last two foolish years?
He thought of Nadia, standing in the hall at home, walking in the gardens, learning the ways and customs of an English lady of position. How he would love to show her all the superiorities of his own beloved country! To see her the admired of all the countryside! Mr. Vanston's beautiful wife would have been the talk of the neighborhood. Poor Denzil!
He kept away from Nadia all that day, wandering alone, in moody meditation. His thoughts never dwelt for a moment upon the idea of the girl who was coming to him, so long a journey, at so great a fatigue. She was to him merely a disagreeable duty, which would have to be faced. He did not realize this. Had he really known what he felt, he would have hid his face in shuddering shame. As it was, he was conscious only of the pain he was suffering. Towards evening, Nadia, wandering alone, found him, seated in the shadow of a huge tree, his face hidden in his hands.
She seated herself beside him, her impulsive heart moved to keen pity. All day long she had been feeling hurt and angry. It had been charming to wield undivided sway over this curious, self-contained man for these last delightful days. She had no idea of the true state of affairs—no idea that the English girl now on her way to Savlinsky was, as an actual fact, the betrothed of Denzil Vanston. But she felt that the new arrivals would put an end to a companionship which had been strangely delightful.
She reflected with cold wonder that she had once thought herself in love with Felix—Felix, whose color had never changed, whose breath had never quickened at her coming—whose manner to her was as his manner to Miss Forester, civil, pleasant, neutral. She could not look at Denzil without becoming aware of his intense consciousness of her look. He was her slave. He reddened and paled, smiled or frowned, as she willed. Nadia was a young woman who loved her own way. Her intelligence had always warned her that with Felix she would not have had it. She had the same instinctive knowledge that she would be able to twist Denzil round her finger.
Now, she knew not why he suffered, but she could well see that he was suffering. A new feeling, of tender pity, a mother-feeling, took possession of her heart. She was at bottom a very simple-minded, domestic young woman, impulsive, and a little spoilt, but wholly feminine.
"Something is wrong with you," she said. "And I am grieved if you grieve."
He took her hand, and, hardly knowing what he was about, held it to his lips. The girl smilingly allowed it. The misery of thwarted passion rushing through his veins filled the touch of his lips with fire. As he held and kissed her small, soft hand, the contented smile faded from her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes grew deep and troubled. She trembled, and made an effort to draw back her hand. He let it go at once, and in a kind of despair, resting his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh," said Nadia, breathlessly, "what is it? Tell me, tell me, you make me so unhappy."
"To-day is the last," he brought out, thickly. "I am counting each second of it. My friends will arrive in an hour or two. We shall leave for England in a day or two, and you—you will forget me, the poor wretch who all his life will never be able to forget you."
She gave a little delicious sigh. "Ah," she said, "then you will feel it too. I thought you would be so glad to have your own countrywomen with you—to turn your back upon this desert place."
He lifted his head, showing her his eyes suffused with tears. "Desert!" he said. "This is the garden, and the King's daughter. I am the unfortunate stranger whom your bounty has succored. Now he must be driven forth again into the wilderness."
She laughed, with an assumption of lightness. "Wilderness! That is very unlike Miss Forester's description of England! She says it is the fairest place on earth. I have always"—her sweet, emotional voice dropped to its lowest notes—"I have always wished that I could go there. It is a land of peace, of safety, as well as beauty."
It was as if the voice, the words, touched a spring. He turned to her. "Come," he articulated, almost inaudibly; and his craving sounded in his broken voice. "Come to England—with me—Nadia."
He felt that he simply could not help it. It had to be said. It was bald, bare, it needed softening, it needed much explaining. But something in Nadia's heart apparently bridged all the gaps. In a moment he had her in his arms. And as he held her, there leaped upon him, out of the past, a memory of the moment in which he had so held Rona, in the Abbey ruins at Newark.
The thought went nigh to poison his ecstatic hour. Rona had not yielded herself to him. She had not exactly rejected, but she had by no means responded to his mood. But Nadia responded with a rush of feeling which astounded her lover. It almost frightened him. For the moment it carried him away completely. He had a dim feeling that all the careful maxims of centuries were borne away and swept down by the current upon which he was carried. Through it all was a sense that Nemesis must overtake him—that this could not last. Something was coming upon him—what was it? Remorse for treachery? Stuff! How could one be a traitor to a thing one had never felt? Yet, surely the avenging moment was at hand! Surely there was a hand outstretched to dash away this heady cup from his lips?
Yes—and close by.
As at last he lifted his burning face, and loosened the clasp of his arms from about Nadia's form, he saw, standing there before him, in bodily shape, his brother Felix. There stood the scapegrace, and there before him sat the virtuous elder brother, caught in the treacherous act. Felix had indeed changed since their last meeting. Tall, handsome, and altogether at his ease, he fixed a glance of ironic amusement upon the situation for a brief half-moment, and then, turning silently and swiftly, walked off among the trees of the garden, unseen by Nadia, whose face was hidden against her lover; leaving Denzil writhing in the pangs of a shame far more acute than the most scathing criticism in words of his conduct would have produced in him.
I yielded, and unlocked her all my heart,Who, with a grain of manhood well resolved,Might easily have shook off all her snares.—MILTON.
Vronsky had reluctantly decided, in spite of the young girl's own wishes, that it would not be well for Veronica to stay at Savlinsky, all unchaperoned as she was. The Governor's cordial invitation to Nicolashof must be accepted.
The girl was sensible of a distinct unwillingness to become the guest of Nadia Stepanovna. But she could not, of course, voice this sentiment, and obediently submitted, when she had rested an hour at Vronsky's house and had tea, to take her place, with him and Felix, in their own tarantasse, with the devoted Max to drive them, and to be conveyed to the Governor's house.
To Vronsky the drive was most painful. He felt that it would be inhuman to allow this girl to arrive with no inkling of the blow that awaited her when she should meet Denzil Vanston. It was in vain that he told himself that the girl deserved such a fall to her pride—that he tried to think of her as a heartless jilt, who had spoiled the best years of his beloved Felix's life, and then deserted him. There was that in Veronica's face which disarmed him.
He looked from her to Felix, and back again, continually, with his restless, keen dark eyes. He thought for the fiftieth time what a pair they would have made. He wondered that Felix did not seem more broken, more miserable than he did. But he knew the young man's strength and pride, and concluded that he intended to put a bold front upon the matter. He who knew him so well could see that he was laboring under some kind of suppressed excitement; and he could see, also, that Rona's emotions were on the very brink of being too much for her. She avoided the eye of Felix, who sat facing her; but her varying color and expression, the quivering of her mouth, the absent manner in which she replied to his mild small talk, convinced the good man that her anxiety to behold her lover safe and well was extreme. All the drive he was striving anxiously to give her a hint; but in vain. She had almost the mien of one being driven to execution, to whom the things of the world were all past; and Vronsky ended by thinking it unkind and unmanly of Felix to be so openly reproachful, almost resentful, in his manner towards her.
When they arrived at Nicolashof the old butler told them that the Governor was out, and the ladies and Mr. Vanston in the garden. They were shown into the drawing-room, and Felix went out into the garden, telling the old man that he would find the ladies and bring them in.
This seemed to give Vronsky his opportunity. Before the defaulting lover appeared, he must give the girl a hint—he must not let her meet him entirely unprepared for his defection.
But for a while, although the minutes were few, he could not speak. His throat felt hot and dry, and as though there were a lump in it.
Rona, all unintentionally, came to his rescue, by going to a table and taking up a photograph of Nadia that stood upon it. "Is this Miss—is it the Governor's daughter?" she asked.
"It is. She is attractive, you think—eh? What you call very pretty?"
His quaint accent made the girl smile. "She is beautiful," she replied, as if grudgingly.
"Her attraction is of the kind that some men find too much—not to be resisted," he said, hurriedly. "I know but one who gave not a thought to her. That was my poor, good Felix. His heart was filled with another—with the image of you, mademoiselle. But his brother——" he came and stood before Veronica, almost menacingly, "His brother—yes, it is right that you should know it. His brother has fallen—in—love with Nadia Stepanovna. You say that, hein?Fall-in-love?"
Veronica smiled a little sadly. "No such luck," was the thought in her heart. "Yes, that is what we say; but it cannot be what Mr. Vanston has done," she said, gently. "He is engaged to me, and he has loved me for two years and more. Besides, we English are not—not like that. We have our feelings under control. Particularly English gentlemen, such as Mr. Vanston."
She was really amused. The girl whose picture she held, beautiful as she undoubtedly was, was hardly Denzil's style. She gazed upon the sumptuous face, the pouting, childish mouth, the foreign suggestion given by the drop earrings, the somewhat extravagant arrangement of the hair. It was, however, quite likely that, Nadia being the only girl of her class within a thousand miles, she should seem to Vronsky to be quite irresistible. "I think you are mistaken, Mr. Vronsky," she said, very gently. The absolute incredulity expressed by her face and her voice staggered him.
"Mademoiselle," he urged, appealingly, "I entreat you to believe what I say. I wish you well. I bear you no grudge, though you have ruined my boy's life. Young girls have not always the control of their hearts. But I tell you that those two—Nadia and the Englishman—are in love—deep in love, the one with the other. Do I not know? Have I not sat here night after night and watched them? Do you think a passion like that can be hid?"
There was in his manner an intensity, an urgency, which carried weight.
"If I did not know that it was true, do you think I would stand here to stab you with such cruel words?" he vehemently asked her. "It is that I wish to prepare you—that you obtain a moment's warning—that when they come in from the garden you have the key of the situation in your hands."
Veronica turned towards him. It was growing dusk, and in the half-light her face was very pale. "If it should be true!" she murmured, with a catch of the breath; and then the notion of how ridiculous it all was, came over her. She collected herself, and laughed lightly. "You do not know Mr. Vanston," she said, with an air of gentle reproof. "I do. He could never feel any deep admiration for a young lady of this type. He is—he is—well, he is himself, and I cannot explain what I mean—only I know that what you think cannot be true." She thought a moment as to how she could best convince him. "Our ways in England are so different," she kindly told him. "Our intercourse is so much more free. Mr. Vanston is accustomed to be as natural in his manner to ladies as he is to his own sex. That is what makes you think——" she broke off. Felix was approaching the window across the lawns.
He was walking rapidly, and his face, visible in the fading light, which was stronger out of doors, showed signs of great agitation.
Veronica, urged by some nameless impulse, went to the window. Vronsky was in the shadow, and Felix either did not see him or forgot his existence. He entered precipitately:—
"Rona! Rona! We are free!" he cried, in a transported voice.
"What do you say?" she faltered, suddenly dizzy, and putting both hands upon his arm to steady herself.
"Denzil has played you false," he broke out, as if the news could not be withheld. "I found him and her in the garden. He held her in his arms—he was kissing her! After that—after that—whose is your allegiance, my beloved?" He caught her two hands, and drew them up to encircle his own neck, folding her in his arms.
"Felix!" she uttered; and, after a moment's whirling pause, during which she looked into his kindled eyes, she pleaded, "Let me sit down. I am faint!"
He supported her with his arms to a chair, in which he placed her; and was about to kneel upon the floor at her side, when she faintly said, "Felix! You forget Mr. Vronsky."
"By Jove!" said Felix, wheeling round. "But it doesn't matter. Come here, old man," he went on, "and hear the good news. Denzil has cut the knot for us. He has found a way out."
Vronsky, bewildered, said something very volubly in Russian.
"Yes, yes, I know all that," replied Felix, "but we found out the truth in our five-hundred-mile drive. I was right from the first. I always knew I was right. But it was natural that Rona should be bewildered. My brother had been conspicuously good to her, and it is not uncommon for a very young girl to mistake gratitude for love. But this is not gratitude—is it, Rona?"
On the last words his voice dropped to a lower key and shook with intensity. Rona let him take her hand, and with devotion he raised it to his lips.
"Felix," she urged, almost in a whisper, for she was profoundly shaken, "we did keep faith, did we not?"
"Thanks to you, not to me, we did," he replied thankfully.
She laughed a little hysterically. "I have just been explaining to Mr. Vronsky how impossible it all is," she cried. "Of all the women that I could not imagine Denzil to be in love with.—I always thought it was you, Felix!"
"It might have been," put in Vronsky. "Felix might have been her favored suitor, had he so willed."
"That cannot be said, since such a thing was never contemplated by me," replied Felix, promptly.
"Hush, someone is coming," whispered Rona, suddenly; and Felix rose with alacrity, as the door was opened, and Miss Forester entered, followed by two menservants with lamps.
* * * * * * *
She stopped short as soon as the persons present became apparent to her. "Miss Rawson?" she began, as if bewildered.
Felix stepped forward, to be greeted by her with kind cordiality. "Miss Rawson has not come. She had an accident—she was ill," he explained. "This is Miss Leigh, myfiancée."
He led Rona across the room, and presented her. "By great good fortune I found Miss Leigh quite unexpectedly at Gretz, and brought her on," he said. "The journey was one which she should never have attempted alone. But she thought my brother was dying."
Rona had recovered her wonted control by now. "Mr. Denzil Vanston has been like an elder brother to me ever since Felix was obliged to go away," she explained. "When he telegraphed for us to come to him, it did not seem to me possible to disregard the message. But I fear that I have inadvertently given a great deal of trouble, for there is no inn at Savlinsky where I could stay. Please forgive me. A telegram sounds so peremptory. When Denzil telegraphed 'Come,' I concluded that he must have made arrangements for our reception."
"All arrangements are made for your reception, my dear child," said Miss Forester, warmly. "I tremble to think of your undertaking such a journey; but what a good thing that Felix met you! And now that you are safely here, all is well."
She could afford to say, "All is well."
A short week ago it would have been otherwise. The story of the broken sixpence about the neck of Felix had then been a thorn in her memory, for she feared that the girl she loved might have to suffer.
But since the coming of Denzil all was changed. She was able to welcome Rona without reservations, and to feel thankful that the two girls were not rivals; for, even in her traveling garb, Veronica was beautiful enough to strike the eye of any unprejudiced person.
"My friend, I congratulate you," said Miss Forester, turning with a mischievous smile to Felix.
His eyes were upon the face of the woman so incredibly surrendered to him, and he smiled gravely. He had not yet had time to realize his happiness—to appreciate what it all meant. The one supreme fact that Rona loved him was destroying the proportions of everything else.
Vronsky had not spoken since Miss Forester's entrance. He had a divided heart. He loved Felix, and he was assured of his happiness; but also he loved Nadia, and wanted to feel secure of hers. At the moment the steps of the other pair of lovers sounded in the veranda, and the Governor's daughter, in her white gown, her eyes full of light, pushed open the window and stepped inside, followed by Denzil.
The Squire's brow was wet with the dews of apprehension. His heart was in his mouth. What kind of situation was this? He had played the traitor, and he stood confronted by the two girls—his old love and his new.
Blindly he had followed Nadia to the house, unable to utter a word of warning, unable even to own to her that he had seen Felix. He had a confused idea that nothing that might now happen could be worse than the expression of his brother's eyes when lately they had met his own.
And behold, that same brother stood just within the room with the mien of a conqueror, his head high, his glance confident, his mouth smiling.
"Ah," said Nadia, drawing a long breath, "I told you that they had arrived—they must have arrived——" She came slowly forward.
"It is delightful to meet again," said Felix, taking her two hands. "May I present to you myfiancée, Miss Leigh?"
Denzil started visibly. It was upon his tongue to cry "No!"
Even as the impulse arose it was smothered. In his dazed condition he yet took in one point, namely, that apparently the dilemma from which he shrank existed no longer. He was free to avow himself the suitor of the Russian girl.
Was not this the summit of his desires?
Nadia smiled rapturously. Snatching her hands from Felix, she held them impulsively to Rona.
"Oh," said she, "I have wanted so long to see an English girl! And you are—you are—like the girls in story books, just as Mr. Vanston is exactly like the men!"
"Why," cried Rona in astonishment, "how well you talk English!"
Over the heads of the two girls the glance of the brothers met. There was no malice in Felix's steady gaze. He went to Denzil and took his hand. "It is long since we met," he said, kindly. "Am I to congratulate you, Denzil?"
The Squire made an effort to speak, but no words came. He licked his dry lips. Was this some device of his younger brother to torture him?
"Where is Aunt Bee?" he asked, that being the sole non-contentious remark that occurred to him at the moment.
"Lying up, lame, at St. Petersburg," said Felix. "But you need not be anxious. I met Veronica at Gretz, and have taken care of her. She has not felt the journey at all."
Denzil stammered, "That—that was good of you. I—er—feel that I was inconsiderate to suggest it. Of course, I did not contemplate her coming alone."
"Naturally," was the calm reply. "If it was an indiscretion on your part, it was a blessed one for me. I was able to renew my acquaintance with Miss Leigh, which had been of the briefest, in the favorable circumstances of a five-hundred-miletête-à-tête; and now we understand each other perfectly."
As he spoke Nadia and Rona turned to them.
"Look at him," said Nadia, prettily. "He is quite convalescent, don't you think? Miss Forester and I have done our poor little best for him."
"He will be all right now," said Rona, extending her hand with a smile that certainly was unmixed with any resentment, "now that he knows that Felix is safe and well and—and happy—won't you, Denzil?"
He could not speak. He wrung her hand and turned away, crimson. Miss Forester was a little surprised, but Nadia thought tenderly of the Englishman's proverbial taciturnity under pressure of emotion. These people were heroes and heroines of romance to her.
She flung her arm caressingly about Rona's shoulders and led her from the room. Miss Forester followed, and the three men were left in a gulf of silence.
* * * * * * *
It was as though Felix, like some champion of old entering an enchanted castle, had cut with his sword clean through the many-hued curtain which shut out the world. The moment his eye and that of his brother met scales fell from Denzil's sight—the spell was broken: he emerged, as it were, once more into a life in which men were responsible for their actions, and wherein gentlemen did not break faith, however strong the temptation.
What was this magic which had held him chained? Was it love, or sorcery? He had never asked himself. He only knew that it was too strong for him. It had blinded him to constancy, to honor, to his plighted word. He stood aghast at the power of it.
It is one thing to feel; it is quite another to be carried away by the strength of one's feelings. He still thrilled with the memory of the scene in the twilight garden; and yet underlying his joy there was a profound misgiving.
The passion which possessed him was real enough; but he was no boy, and even as he felt it he knew it could not last. What was worse, he knew that he did not even wish it to last. He was a steady-going prosaic person, and he foresaw that he could not dwell continuously upon the heights to which his infatuation had drawn him.
His present ecstasy was not real life. It was illusion. The moment he saw Felix he realized this.
What was he to say? And then, in the midst of his confusion, light leapt to his mind. He had broken plight; but then, so had Rona!
The notion went far to restore his self-respect to him.
"Well," he said, hurriedly, addressing Felix, who stood regarding him critically, "so Rona changed her mind upon the journey here?"
"As you did upon your arrival," was the instant retort.
Denzil looked crestfallen.
"Rona discovered," went on Felix, "upon the way here, that she had done what many a very young girl does—she had mistaken gratitude for love. But, having made this mistake, she was determined to abide by it, and at all costs to keep her faith to you. She is, however, absolved from her allegiance I think, by the scene I witnessed just now in the garden."
There was a pause. "Come, Denzil," said Felix, composedly, "do you suppose that I want to quarrel with you for a slip which gives me my happiness? Let us never speak of this again. And let me assure you that never, in all the future, shall you hear a word from either of us of what has happened. Nobody but Vronsky, Rona, and I know that any engagement existed between you; and we shall never speak of it to anybody. I wish you happiness with all my heart."
* * * * * * *
The Governor had, as we know, previously received a hint from Vronsky. But, in his satisfaction at the engagement, he willingly accepted the Russian's assurance that he had been completely mistaken.
To Aunt Bee, at St. Petersburg, the news came as a shock.
Upon the previous day she had received a letter, forwarded from Normansgrave, and written by no less a person than Rankin Leigh himself. He wrote to say that he felt sure, judging by Miss Rawson's action in removing his great-niece from the vicinity directly she found that he was there, that his hopes of an old age soothed by her care and affection were destined to remain unrealized. As it might, however, be important to the family, in view of the deep interest they seemed to take in the girl, to know more of her antecedents, he offered to go into the matter thoroughly, if his expenses were guaranteed, and a certain sum over and above paid to him.
At the time of receiving this letter Aunt Bee was fully persuaded that Denzil would marry Rona; and it seemed to her most desirable that all that could be ascertained about her should come to light before things were irrevocable. She considered that Rankin Leigh had most probably means of coming at the truth, or sources of information, which they had not; and she wrote empowering him to make inquiries, and mentioning the sum she was prepared to pay for his services.
Hardly had she done this, when she received the startling news of Denzil's faithlessness and the double engagement.
It was an occasion upon which the good lady became vividly sensible of the mixture of motives which exists in the best of us.
She was really attached to Rona; yet it was impossible to deny that there was a certain sensation of pleasure or gratified family pride that the new mistress of Normansgrave would bring a suitable dower, and that she boasted a noble pedigree, instead of being, however attractive, a Girl from Nowhere.
It was arranged that the two couples, with Miss Forester as chaperon, should all come to St. Petersburg together. There Felix and Rona would be married, and Nadia and Miss Forester accompany Denzil and his aunt to England, that the Russian girl might have a sight of her new home before returning to Russia in the winter for her own wedding.
Before they arrived Miss Rawson was in possession of all that could ever be known of Veronica's origin.
Rankin Leigh succeeded in ascertaining that her mother had been secretly married to John Mauleverer. The young man had taken this step, as is frequently done by the weak, hoping against hope that some chance of avowing his marriage without incurring the displeasure of his parents might arise. He was a delicate, timid young man. The strain of the position, the anguish of knowing that the unconscious parents were arranging another match for their son, was too much for the unacknowledged wife, who fretted herself ill in her solitude, and died when her baby was six months old.
The young father, thus released, married almost immediately the lady chosen by his parents. He placed his daughter in the Convent School, keeping her existence a secret to the last. He probably intended to provide for the child, but took no steps to do so. He was still a young man when his death occurred, very unexpectedly. He left two sons by his second wife.
The discovery of the marriage certificate putting it beyond doubt that Rona was legally his daughter, Rankin Leigh thought that the Mauleverers, if approached, must be willing, if not to acknowledge her, at least to make her some allowance.
Over this information Miss Rawson pondered much in the solitude which she had to endure before the young people joined her.
The Girl from Nowhere was then, as she had always felt, of good blood. The race instinct had not deceived Aunt Bee, and she felt a pardonable pride in realizing this.
She wondered how far Denzil had, unconsciously, been influenced by the obscurity of origin of the girl he had befriended. His aunt, reflecting as we have seen upon the mixed nature of human motive, thought it possible that the fact might have turned the scale for him without his being conscious of its weight.
She laid side by side the photo of Nadia and the photo of Rona, and marveled as she reflected that Denzil had chosen the alien type.
She could not tell whether Rona was happy. She was haunted by the idea that she must have stood aside upon finding that Denzil had changed his mind, and that it had not been possible for her to evade an engagement with the younger brother.
Altogether, in her lonely sojourn in the Russian capital the maiden aunt went through a good deal.
It was with more agitation than she remembered to have experienced in her sixty years that she awaited the arrival of the party from Savlinsky.
A very brief survey, however, sufficed to convince her of the happiness of Felix and Rona. There was no mistaking the light in the girl's eyes, nor the significance of her added bloom and sweetness.
With regard to Denzil she was not so sure. When she actually saw the lady upon whom he had fixed his mature affections, she was invaded with a wonder as to what they would make of a life together in England in the provinces.
Nadia was lovely, and in her presence he was evidently so moved out of himself that he could not reason, he could only feel. But his temperament was wholly unromantic, because unimaginative. As time went on, would he be able to sustain the standard of feeling which the highly-wrought, emotional girl demanded?
Aunt Bee fell back upon the comforting thought that such girls, when touched by marriage and motherhood, often settle down into quite humdrum persons. Meanwhile, the troubling of his whole being which the Squire was undergoing was no doubt an excellent thing for him. Had he married Rona, he would—nay, he must—have remained King Cophetua to the end of the chapter, horribly pleased with himself. If anything would ennoble his character, the experience of being Nadia's husband would be likely to do it. It was better so.
Before their marriage Miss Rawson took an opportunity privately to tell Felix and Rona all that she had learned from Rankin Leigh.
They listened with interest, and Rona was evidently gratified to ascertain that she had no need to be ashamed of her mother.
Aunt Bee suggested that it might be well to announce her existence, or in some way approach her father's family, since there was no doubt at all of her being the eldest daughter of John Mauleverer.
Rona turned to Felix, as usual; he to her. Their eyes met, and they smiled.
"As Rona likes, of course," said Felix, "but I hardly see any reason for our troubling them. The present Mrs. Mauleverer apparently knows nothing at all of her late husband's former marriage. Would not the disclosure wound her, cruelly and unnecessarily? We have nothing to ask from them. Affection they are not likely to bestow, money we do not want. Were Rona's father living, it might be her duty to go to him. As it is, there does not seem to be a question of duty. Moreover, if they are such a high and mighty set of people, how would they like to know that she was married to a man of my record?"
Rona turned to him, her face alive with championship.
"I want nothing," said she, "from my father's people. My name is neither Leigh nor Mauleverer: it is Vanston. But, for all that, one day I shall go and see them, and let them know who I am, simply in order that they may have the privilege of knowing—my husband."
THE END