The clouds were breaking, and a watery sun at this moment lit up the squalid scene. It shone upon this unexpected figure, and it shone also upon the far more surprising appearance of the English girl, in her dainty apparel, picking her way through the muck.
The stranger's keen, alert gray eyes grew fixed, and for a moment he stood, rigid and still as a stone, while his bronzed, finely-cut face turned pale.
Rona stopped short. There was no recognition at first upon her face. But something in the change which passed over his struck a wild conviction into her mind.
It was the missing man—Felix Vanston.
* * * * * * *
How changed! That was her first thought. The image in her memory of a gaunt, pale, bearded youth, thin and stooping, faded and died away. This was a Man, in the fullest sense of all that word can mean. It was fortunate that his own recognition of her had been instantaneous. Even now she was not sure, until he came towards her, through the rotting straw.
His color had not changed, while hers was now fading visibly from the cheeks to which it had rushed in tumult. He was wholly self-possessed and dignified, though his surprise must have been greater than hers. As he came nearer she had a conviction, deep and certain. He had received and read her letter. She could have declared that the lines of his mouth expressed a light, scornful contempt.
Without a word said, she knew and felt herself condemned.
But, whatever the young man's feelings at the meeting, hers must be predominantly those of relief. In spite of the violent shock which his appearance gave her, she was conscious of almost frantic joy, at sight, in that weird place, not merely of a compatriot, but of a friend.
"David!" she uttered at length, using in her confusion the name by which she had always known him. "Then you are alive—you are safe, after all."
He was quite close to her now. She felt dizzy, and as though she could hardly bear such nearness. She thought, suddenly and irrelevantly, of the way in which they had clung together, she and he, in the little arbor at Normansgrave—clung each to each, and felt that to part was terrible.
... He was speaking. She must listen, must bear herself rationally. He was holding her hand, lightly—for an instant—then he had dropped it, and she heard his voice. That, too, was changed, with the subtle transmutation which had passed over him.
"I am sorry," he said, "that my disappearance has apparently caused far more anxiety and trouble than I could have anticipated." He hesitated, rather as if he expected her to explain her miraculous appearance in Siberia. But she could not have uttered a word. After a pause he went on—"Surely it cannot be—on my account?—I mean, I am at a loss to explain your being here."
She made a mighty effort then, and brought out a few gasping words.
"Denzil—he is at Savlinsky. He is very ill. I am on my way—to him."
He looked oddly enlightened. The lines of contempt, or indifference, deepened about his almost too expressive mouth. "May I ask if my brother has any idea of the—er—remarkable course you are pursuing?"
She assented eagerly. "He is expecting me. I—I must go on directly." For a moment she wrestled with her feelings, then commanded herself. "You don't know what it is to see you—to see the face of a friend," she faltered. "I feel so lost, so bewildered. You will help me, will you not? I want a tarantasse."
"No," he replied, "what you must have is a povosska—a thing with a hood. I was just ordering one for myself. I, too, am going to Savlinsky—" he paused, eying her doubtfully. She forestalled him.
"Then, for pity's sake, let me travel with you! I—I will try not to be troublesome. I hope you don't mind, but it would be such a relief—I feel much less courageous than I expected. I can't understand a single word, and it makes me feel helpless."
Felix bowed. "At what time would you wish to start?" he asked.
"As soon as I have had some lunch. I am very hungry. Eating upon the train made me feel ill."
"Let me put you into your carriage, and, if you will wait a minute for me, I will give the order and escort you to the inn."
He piloted her through the dirt, seated her in her carriage with a few words to the driver, whose manner at once became more respectful, and, having returned to the stable-keeper, soon rejoined her, and in a few minutes they were seated, side by side, clattering through black, gluey mud, among swarms and swarms of excited people, who thronged the streets in dense crowds.
"What quantities of people," she said wonderingly, glad to have something upon which she could remark naturally. "I never knew that such a place could be so thickly populated."
"Oh," he answered, with a certain frigid reluctance, "it is not always like this. To-day is exceptional. These are sightseers."
"Indeed!" she replied, anxious only to avert silence, "what was the sight they have come to see?"
There was a perceptible pause before he replied: "An execution."
She grew crimson, and flashed a look at him. He was staring in the opposite direction. "Was it—was it Cravatz?" she asked, under her breath.
"It was." The words seemed to issue from a steel trap.
"Then you are free?" she breathed.
"And unattached," he responded, dryly.
She was silenced, and they drove on some little distance, until a thought flashed into her mind.
"Oh," she said, "I was forgetting! Please ask him to drive to the post-office. I must see if there is a message from Mr. Vronsky about Denzil."
Felix called an order to the driver, and then turned to her. "Do you really tell me that my brother demanded of you that you should take this formidable journey to him alone?"
"Oh, no, no! Please don't imagine that! He thought Miss Rawson would come too. We were both at St. Petersburg, but Aunt Bee had an accident, and hurt herself so seriously that she could not move. So I determined to come alone. Mr. Vronsky's telegram was alarming."
"I congratulate you upon your devotion," remarked Felix, as the carriage stopped at a wooden house. "My brother is a lucky man."
"He is a very good man," said the girl, nettled by the sneer. "Please ask for the name of Rawson," she added, pettishly.
He soon came out, with a message. "Condition much improved."
She gave a sigh of relief, and handed him her purse. "How thankful I am! Will you please dispatch a message to say—'Safely arrived Gretz, coming on.' Don't say I'm alone, or Denzil will be nervous."
Felix ignored the purse, but went once more within the building, sent off the desired words, and soon emerged. "Any further orders?" he asked.
"No," said Rona, faintly.
Her feelings were a most curious mixture of joy and pain. It was wonderfully consoling, after her nightmare journey, her loneliness and helplessness, to find herself in charge of a strong man. But it was horrible to have the relation between herself and Felix so acutely strained. She only ventured one more question.
"Did you know, before I told you, that Denzil had gone to Savlinsky to seek you?"
"Yes; I heard that."
"From Mr. Vronsky?"
"No."
"Does Mr. Vronsky—does Denzil know that you are safe?"
"I think so, by now."
"You have not seen them?"
"No."
She dared not pursue the subject, and spoke no more until they reached the place known as the Hotel Moscow. And then, indeed, when she saw the edifice which called itself a hotel, marked the wild crowds surging about the doors, and heard their strange tongue, she felt so thankful for the presence of Felix that for a space she forgot all other discomforts.
You saw her fair, none else being by,Herself poised with herself, in either eye:But in that crystal scales let there be weighedYour lady's love against some other maidThat I will show you shining at this feast,And she shall scant show well, that now shows best.—SHAKESPEARE.
Vronsky had been wholly unprepared for the burst of indignation which descended upon his devoted head when Stepan Stepanovitch heard that he had telegraphed the disappearance of Felix to England.
The English relatives of young Vanston had not entered into the calculations either of the Governor or Felix, when they planned their little coup to bring Cravatz into the trap. Of all things which they did not desire, it was that publicity should be given to their movements.
Once the news of the disappearance of a young Englishman, with a suspicion of Nihilist terrorism, had flashed over English wires, there was the risk of some enterprising journalist taking up the matter—the risk that the lost man's brother should appeal to the Government of his country—the risk of questions in Parliament!——
The mind of Stepan Stepanovitch rapidly reviewed all the possibilities which this new complication suggested.
It was a pity that they had not taken Vronsky into confidence from the first. But it had seemed to them essential that he should be, at least for a time, in the dark. Any such desperate step as this had not occurred to them. He could, of course, be kept quiet by being given a hint; but what of the forces he had let loose?
They did what they could. They telegraphed to Denzil the need of secrecy, begging him to come first to Savlinsky, and hear all details, before putting the matter before the representatives of either the British or Russian Government.
Cravatz was still at large, and the Governor trembled lest he might have such information as should lead to any interference with Denzil upon his journey. He actually sent an English-speaking official to Moscow, to intercept the traveler and bring him on, and this was so successfully accomplished that Denzil arrived at Savlinsky having had everything made easy for him during the journey, and not having spoken a word to anybody except such persons as his escort considered safe.
When he arrived both the Governor and Vronsky were much relieved to find what manner of person he was. He had but a moderate intelligence, they soon agreed, and his desire to find his brother seemed also to be of a conspicuously limited nature. He spoke of Felix with a subdued and resigned pity, as of a brand snatched from the burning, a reformed ne'er-do-weel, a person of whom it was to be expected that he might suddenly break out into discreditable conduct, though his behavior latterly had shown distinct signs of improvement.
Vronsky disliked him from the first. He had an unfortunate manner, possessed by many of our nation, a manner which seemed to suggest that no foreigner could be considered as truly the equal of an Englishman. Even with the Governor there was a distinct tinge of condescension in his politeness. But Stepan Stepanovitch, less sensitive than Vronsky, and less devoted to Felix, got on better with him.
Nadia was very anxious to see him. In her eyes, the man who had undertaken such a difficult journey, to try and rescue his brother from danger, was a chivalrous figure. She was disappointed to hear that he had fallen sick—that too, she thought, was a sign of his anxiety of mind respecting Felix.
The next news from the mines was that the Englishman was not merely ill, but very ill indeed.
By this time the main features of the case, as regards the conspiracy, had changed altogether. Cravatz was arrested, and Felix, disguised as one of the Governor's police, had left the Castle, and was reported safely arrived at Gretz. With Cravatz was arrested the man who had posed as a Kirgiz, and who had sheltered him. This disposed of all the suspected persons in the province, since Streloff was dead. There was no longer any need to keep Mr. Vanston in ignorance of the fact of his brother's safety.
The Governor rode over to Savlinsky, and when he saw the patient, ill and shaken, his heart smote him for all the unnecessary strain of mind which he imagined him to have undergone. In an impulse of hospitality he begged him to come up with him to Nicolashof as his guest, and allow his daughter and Miss Forester to do what they could to counteract the ill-effects of their climate, and obliterate the memory of the unhappy circumstances of his first coming to the province.
The idea of going to a place where there would be an English lady was delightful to Denzil, who was exceedingly sorry for himself. A domestic man, and one used to a woman in the house, he had been miserable with Vronsky, with whom he was not in sympathy; and dimly conscious that this inferior person presumed so far as to think anything but highly of himself.
He was so weak that he had to be carried to the carriage, and laid down among the rugs and pillows. Thus he was driven swiftly across the plain, into the birch-wood, and on through the pines to Nicolashof.
In the higher air of the woodland place he awoke next morning feeling strangely invigorated. After breakfast he arose, with the help of the manservant detailed to wait upon him, and was helped downstairs, out upon the terrace overlooking the lovely garden, one bower of flowers and beauty.
There was something very familiar, even home-like, in the English arrangement of this house. When he was seated upon a luxurious lounge chair, there was a table at his elbow, with English books and magazines upon it. Miss Forester had welcomed him upon his arrival the previous evening, but they had had no talk. Nadia he had not seen. In this place he felt as though he should soon recover. The deadly depression, which had been largely nostalgia, though of this he was not aware, was dispelled as if by magic.
A new, dreamy, blissful content overspread him. He almost wished he had not sent for Aunt Bee and Rona. It seemed unnecessary expense and trouble for them. He thought of it, in a fashion more and more broken, as sleep stole over his eyelids. Even the slight effort of dressing and coming downstairs had made him weary. He slept.
When he opened his eyes he thought he was still dreaming. For over him there stooped a face, lovely, vivid, delicately flushed. It seemed to rise above a bank of flowers, of every gorgeous hue. To gaze into its eyes was like looking into deep wells. He lay there taking in the vision, saying nothing; and by degrees he saw that it was a real girl, whose rounded throat rose above an embroidered white gown, which was without the high collar which is usual in England, and that she held a sheaf of blossoms in her arms.
When he had looked for a moment which seemed endless, her lips parted in a smile which gave the effect of a glow of hot sunshine. "Oh," she said in fluent English, and a voice of atimbrewhich he then heard for the first time—"Oh, are you awake?"
"I think so," said Denzil vaguely. The tones of the voice moved him strangely. Then, aware of the stupidity of his remark, he sat up, and reddened a little.
"I am Nadia Stepanovna," said she. "You look very ill. I hope you are feeling a little better this morning?"
"I feel a different man altogether," he responded with warm cordiality. "My mind is at rest since I knew of my brother's safety. And then this place—this fine air, this peace and repose—how good of you to let me be here!"
"I have wanted to see you for some days," said she, frankly. "I was so interested when I heard that you had come. Of course, I know your brother quite well. He is often here."
"Of course," said Denzil, a little coldly.
"But then he has lived so long with Vronsky, he is more like a continental," went on Nadia, seating herself upon a chair nearby, and laying down her flowers upon a table. "But I have read quantities of English books, and the men in them are so unlike our Russian men, and I have always wanted to see a real, genuine Englishman—a man like you."
She rested her two elbows upon her knees, and her delicate chin upon her palms, gazing her fill upon the real Englishman.
"I'm a poor specimen of my race just now," said Denzil, in some confusion. "When I have been here a day or two I shall be very different, I hope."
"Father ought to have gone and fetched you before," she remarked. "I told him so. I said that dear old Vronsky has no more idea of nursing than a kangaroo. And we would have taken such care of you!"
"I could not have troubled you," he replied. "This is unheard-of kindness. I feel sorry now that I sent for my aunt. You know she is at St. Petersburg, with my—my——" he hesitated painfully, and at last said, "My ward, Miss Leigh."
"And you sent for them—to come to Savlinsky?" cried Nadia, in surprise.
"I did. I was so frightfully ill the night before last, I thought I was dying. And you see, there is no doctor to be had."
"Oh!" said Nadia, "I wish we had known!"
His eyes roamed round the garden. "I had no idea there could be a place like this in this country," he said. "Nor—nor anyone so—anyone like you."
"Like me?" cried Nadia, with animation, glowing upon him. "How do you mean—anyone so what?"
"Anyone so perfectly beautiful." It was out before he knew it. He, Denzil, had said it—he, who never in his life previously had paid a compliment to a woman. In England he would no more have said such a thing than have taken his coat off and sat in his shirtsleeves in her presence. But here all was different. And she was not angry, but on the contrary, much pleased. She smiled slowly, mysteriously, with lowered lashes, and Denzil, leaning forward, took up her childishly small, delicately tended hand, and kissed it. "Forgive me," he said. "My heart is full. Your great kindness!"
She raised her lids, very slowly, letting her night-deep eyes rest full upon him. The look dazzled him like strong sunshine. "Oh, you are just right," she said. "Just like the Englishmen in books. I have always wanted to meet one. And now—I have."
There was a delicious silence between them. Nadia sat passive, the hand which he had kissed resting lightly upon her lap, just as he had laid it there. Her skin was warm and clear, with a glow of carmine in either cheek. From each tiny ear hung a drop-shaped pearl. She wore no color at all. The contrast of her beauty with her white dress and the softly looped masses of her night-black hair was exquisite.
Stock doves cooed in the trees, and the summer breeze wandered by. The young man's eyes never left that astonishing little face, with its rosy, pouted child lips, and eyes almost too large for proportion.
Then she asked a question. It slipped over the edge of her lip quite harmlessly, but it made him tingle all over.
"Are you married?"
He sat bolt upright. "No," he said. And at the moment he was more glad than words can say that this was so.
"I suppose"—again the heavy fringes came down to veil the eyes—"I suppose there are many, many beautiful girls in England?"
"I daresay," replied Denzil.
"And yet you have not married any of them? Or—forgive me—perhaps you have been married, and have lost? ..."
"Oh, no." He hastily reassured her. "The beauty of English girls is—is different," he said. "They are—they are—I don't know how to describe it. They run about, and get sunburnt, and hot, and untidy. Or they are very sensible, and read a great deal, and improve their minds. Very few of them are like a princess in a fairy tale."
"Am I?" said Nadia, with a half-smile, eying him sidelong under her lids.
"Like the Princess that was a witch too," said Denzil, dreamily.
"A witch!" She reflected upon it, as not quite knowing herself gratified or not. "I have always wanted to be like an English girl. I am very fond of Miss Forester."
"You are just perfect. Don't try to change," said Denzil. "And you are a witch. I will tell you how I know. It is because strength is flooding back into me since I began to talk to you. I feel so much better I believe I could get up and walk round the garden."
She leaned forward with the prettiest concern. "Oh, I don't think you are strong enough yet! Do be careful, won't you?"
"I should do anything if you asked me like that! I am all the more certain that you are a witch."
As he spoke, Miss Forester came out upon the veranda, and greeted him very kindly. She, too, was delighted to welcome an Englishman, and still more delighted to find that Mr. Vanston was undeniable—the right kind of Englishman. Moreover, she was pleased to see Nadia interested, for she had been moping considerably since the departure of Felix.
"He says I am a witch," said the girl, half-pouting, half-laughing, to her friend, when the greetings were over.
"What! Does he know that already, even before he has heard you sing?" was the amused reply.
"Do you sing, Mademoiselle?" asked Denzil, wondering much how he ought to address a young Russian lady of good birth.
"You shall sing to him this evening, when it is getting dark, and see whether he does not want to light candles, and scare away the creatures of the night," said Miss Forester.
Denzil sighed with pleasure. Here were two delightful women ready to pet him. One of them more fascinating than he had believed a human woman could be. He was in a whirl. He hardly knew where he was, or what he said. He was sure that he said many things that in England he would never even think. Some of them were brilliant, he believed; but, as in a dream, he forgot one thing before the next bubbled up from the soil of his fancy.
In the afternoon they took him driving, and Nadia sat by his side. It was more like flying upon a rosy cloud.
And then, in the gloaming, as she had promised, Nadia sang.
Denzil, as we know, was not an emotional person. But in the friendly dusk, his tears overflowed his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. This, indeed, was music. This, indeed, was magic. It was as though, until now, he had been insensate clay, and that some potent spell had brought him, in a flash, to life. He was not physically strong—let it be remembered in his defense. In this enchanted palace his life of former days ceased to exist.
The white-robed girl, a miracle of slenderness, sang as she stood by the piano, and the light of the two wax candles by which Miss Forester played just gilded the edges of her outline and her features, as he sat in the dark distance gazing, gloating, trembling with the force of his feeling.
When that evening was over, and he retired to his room, he had ceased to reflect. He had begun to live solely in the present, as those in the clutch of a passion usually do. He gave no thought to his life in England, nor to the fact that the girl to whom he was virtually engaged was on her way to him by a difficult and dangerous route. He thought merely that he would see Nadia Stepanovna the following morning, and that he would pass the whole day in her company. Nothing else mattered.
She looked upon him with an almost smileAnd held to him a hand that faltered not....She did not sigh, she never said "Alas!"Although he was her friend.—JEAN INGELOW.
The town of Gretz stands upon a hill, and there was something very exhilarating in the wild way in which the "troika" (team of three horses) dashed down into the plains with all its harness bells merrily ringing.
The povosska was a curiously long carriage, quite long enough to lie down in at full length with comfort, and having a hood to shelter one from sun and rain. Felix, as an old traveler who knew the road, had all his arrangements, even to mosquito netting, to let down back and front at night. The luggage was secured behind, but the hand luggage was all stowed easily inside with the two passengers; and had she been in spirits for laughter, Rona would have laughed heartily at the number of provisions which Felix had procured. There was no danger of their starving!
The weather, which had been bad for the preceding two days, had now cleared up, and the sun poured down upon the wide expanse of steppe, heaving and undulating all around. By the time they had gone ten miles there was no sign of human habitation, except the road they followed. No house, no cultivation, no travelers, no cattle, nothing but widespreading desolation.
And there they sat together, in this remarkable vehicle, as once before they had sat together upon a canal barge. The past rolled back acutely upon the girl's mind. She recalled the breathless rush together through the mean streets, his upholding grasp about her. She remembered the relief of nestling down into his arms by the fire in the night-watchman's cabin, and the stupor of exhaustion in which she had sunk down upon her hay bed, while the smooth, gliding motion of theSarah Dawkessoothed her pain into unconsciousness.
Then she recalled the awakening in the dainty white bed of the Cottage Hospital, Denzil's visit, and Denzil's extraordinary kindness; and so her mind flitted on to the final scene in the old summer-house. She had vowed to be this man's wife!
Oh, no, it was a very different man to whom her promise had been given. Somebody who was humble and fervent, not cold and mocking. Somebody who loved her very much, not somebody who despised her. She turned and looked at Felix. Having made her as comfortable as he could, he was seated in his corner reading a Russian newspaper. He had asked her just such questions as seemed necessary, but no more. He had not, in so many words, asked her whether she were engaged to Denzil. Apparently he accepted as final the letter she had written to him. She began thinking, striving to remember exactly what she had said in that letter. And as she gazed at him, at the firm line between his lips, the squareness of his jaw, the breadth of his well-modeled forehead, she thought that had he come in person to claim her, instead of writing, she would hardly have found courage to say him nay.
In a sudden access of indignation she resolved not to let her mind dwell upon a person who, evidently, was not concerning himself with her at all. She turned her eyes upon the ribbon of road that wriggled like a snake before them, away into the unknown. She marked the glowing sun move downward toward the west. She watched the gesticulations of the uncouth driver, and the lines of the far horizon. How would she have been feeling had the evening been stealing down upon her all alone in the wild plain, with that man as her sole companion? She knew that she should not have dared to close her eyes.
She felt thankful that she had met Felix before seeing Denzil—before the brothers had met. Yet now that she saw her former lover, she found him so unlike her memory of him, that it was almost like beginning all over again with a stranger. Yet not quite. That glittering vein of vivid memory which danced before her eyes in the dull rock of the past—surely he shared it? How much—how little did he remember?
As the slow hours rolled by she began to wonder whether he meant to send her altogether to Coventry. He was now no longer reading his paper, but sat gazing upon the distance with fixed eyes, and lips so firmly folded that it seemed they could never unclose. She felt that at all costs she must break this weird silence. It was charged with too much feeling.
"David," she said, pitifully, "talk to me a little."
He turned slowly towards her. His eyes rested upon her face, severely critical, she thought. "My conversation can be of very little interest to you, Miss Leigh, I fear. We live quite out of the world at Savlinsky."
"But," said Rona, battling with a most unusual sensation of being snubbed, "the news we last heard of you was such as to cause us profound anxiety"—she snipped her sentence off short, because of the satirical curve of the young man's lips.
"That is surprising, though gratifying," he said, with irony. "But I have no adventures to recount to you. I have spent the last month and more in prison."
Rona was startled out of her attitude of reserve. "In prison!" she cried in horror.
"Again—you were about to add," he suggested with a sneer.
She quivered at the unjust taunt. But she dared not reproach him. She dare not trench upon any subject which would unlock the past. Her letter lay like an iron bar between them. She guessed that he felt it as strongly as she did.
"Do you wish not to tell me anything about it?" she asked with quiet pride, when she had swallowed her feeling.
"I am really more than sorry to have given poor Denzil another false scare," said Felix. "By the way, I hardly like to ask it—but do you object to my smoking?"
"Of course not," she said, impatiently.
"I was forgetting. Perhaps you will join me?" he went on, with elaborate politeness, offering a silver box of cigarettes.
She shook her head without a word, with nothing but a gesture of refusal. He lit up, tossed away his match, and leaning forward, remarked, with his eyes fixed upon the side of the road, "This is the second time he has thought that he has got rid of me—that I was safely and permanently out of his way. And once more I turn up! I assure you I pity him. And, really, I am not so much to blame as one might think, either this time or last time. In Deptford, you know how it was that I failed to eliminate myself. This time, I could not have ceased to exist without pretty well breaking up dear old Vronsky. But it's rough on Denzil, all the same."
Rona was filled with indignation. "You do your brother great injustice," she said, warmly.
"I always did, I fancy," was the cool response. "My opinion can, however, matter very little to him, who has so much besides."
There was a pause, the girl too much hurt to speak. Perhaps he felt that he had been cruel, for after a while, he went on—"But what is it that you wish to know?"—and his voice was more gentle. "About my disappearing? Well, to say the truth, that was a plot, arranged between the Governor and myself. Let me see—I believe I have mentioned to you a person called Cravatz?—Ah, of course, you already know that he was executed this morning. Well, we found out that Cravatz had a spy in Vronsky's service, and I disappeared in order to throw them off the scent. Everything depended upon Vronsky not being in the know. So I was waylaid upon the road, between the Governor's house and Savlinsky, and ostensibly kidnapped. But I was all the time at Nicolashof, within a few miles of the poor old chap. After a while, the Governor contrived to give him a hint, though too late, unfortunately, to prevent his stirring up Denzil about the matter. As soon as Cravatz was taken, the Governor sent down a party to Gretz, on Government business, and I went with them, disguised as one of the police. It was well managed. Nobody but Vronsky knows where I have been all the time. Quite a plot, was it not?"
"Most romantic," said Rona, copying the coldness of his tone. "I understand that the Governor's daughter is charming, so that, no doubt, relieved the dullness of your captivity. The anxiety of your brother and—and your other friends was a small matter."
He regarded her with some surprise before he replied.
"When I fell in with the Governor's plan, there was, to the best of my belief, no human creature but Vronsky who would feel the least concern about me. I had not then realized that I was supposed to stand between my brother and—his happiness." He paused a moment. "Perhaps, to avoid returning to an awkward subject, I had better say at once that I duly received your letter, though not until I emerged from my captivity; and that, of course, I resign all claim to—to something that is not mine, and never was."
She made no reply. She looked upon the broad, dusty back of the driver, who inquisitively glanced round every second minute, wondering what the foreigners were saying to one another. It was impossible to break through the wall that Felix had erected. She stared straight in front of her, and wondered how she could bear the long days of companionship which stretched before them.
He turned from her, to search in a bag, which he carried. "I have some English books here," he said, coolly. "Possibly you may not have read them all. Nadia Stepanovna has an English lady living with her, and they lent me some books to beguile the tedium of the journey."
"You are very kind. I will try to keep quiet for the future, and not annoy you with attempts to converse," said Rona, with slow, but fierce emphasis. He held out some English novels towards her, and she took them, without looking at them. Picking up one at random, she began to read it, the type dancing before her eyes, her brain absorbing no word of the sense. If this were his attitude, she could play at it too. She had been so steeped in compassion and compunction that she had yearned to tell him something of what she felt, of her difficulties, her anxieties. But since he bore her so bitter a grudge she would not try to explain, far less to apologize. How unlike he was to Denzil! How differently Denzil would have behaved, she told herself furiously. She did not look at him again until the first stage was over, and they were stopping at a post-house for a fresh team.
She saw, in the lovely, lingering northern twilight, the outline of a dark wooden house, surrounded by a somewhat filthy yard, the floor of which was formed of pine logs laid down side by side.
"We can get good tea here," said Felix, "but I think, as the house is pretty dirty, it would be pleasanter to eat our supper on the grass. If you think so, I will go and see about it, but if you prefer to go in, there is a guest-room."
She preferred to stay without. Never in all her life had she seen anything so beautiful as the starry sky which enveloped the Steppe from marge to marge.
The color ranged from rose tint upon the west, to deepest sapphire on the eastern side. The north was shot with pale amethyst, and the south was turquoise. She sat upon a rug whose under surface was mackintosh, her arms round her knees, reflecting bitterly how glorious this night, this adventure, this picnic would have been had she had a congenial companion.
Felix and the landlady of the little place brought out a delicious meal, and she was surprised to find how sharp her appetite was in the invigorating air.
"The man will go on as soon as we have done eating," said Felix. "They always drive all night. I shall make you comfortable, and you will sleep, I hope, with the protection of the mosquito net. Then, to-morrow morning, when you are rested, I will take possession, and have my sleep, though I daresay I shall get a nap sitting beside the driver."
She made some polite objections, but he did not seem to hear them. He went about, when he had finished his meal, arranging all for her comfort, and when the horses were ready they mounted into the povosska, and she lay down upon the soft rugs he had prepared. She thought at first that the motion would prevent her sleeping; but it was surprising how quickly she sank into profound slumber, though first she relieved her feelings by a flood of tears. When she awoke, it was only with the stopping of the carriage. It was early morning, and there greeted her the sight of a large village, with cottages and a tall church, and a delicious scent of coffee upon the air.
Here the woman was cleaner, and had plenty of hot water. Rona had brought her own soap and towels, so she retired into the guest-room by the advice of Felix, and made her toilet. They were off again, however, with but small delay, and Felix took her place and slept until about ten o'clock, when he woke, and produced an appetizing seconddéjeunerof tongue, rolls and butter, with excellent wine from his stores.
The day was radiant. Through its hot hours Felix slept, and Rona admired the view, read her book, and amused herself by asking the driver the names of such things as horse, whip, road, knife, plate, etc., and trying to repeat them after him.
When again the sun set, Felix and she had hardly interchanged a word all day, except upon the subject of stoppages, meals, and so on.
The young man looked after her comfort in all possible ways, and showed her every consideration. But his idea of sleeping alternately left them but little of each other's society; and he was evidently determined not to address to her one unnecessary word.
When they made their evening stoppage she realized, with astonishment, that all day long her disturbed thoughts had been fixed upon the younger brother. Her anxiety about Denzil had faded from her mind: she had barely remembered him.
It occurred to her to picture her reflections as they would have been had she made the journey alone. The image of Denzil, ill, suffering, lonely, craving for her, would have been continually evoked, to give her courage to complete her enterprise. She would have arrived at Savlinsky with her whole heart full of the thought of him.
The presence of Felix, in his mood of disapproving criticism, changed all. It was he upon whom her consideration was fixed: he and his relation to herself.
He inspired her with a feeling of self-condemnation, which she angrily repudiated, but from which she could not escape. She argued the thing in and out to herself all day, with increasing perturbation. Argue as she might, she came to no conclusion. Exonerate herself as she might, she could not shake off her unreasonable sense of guilt.
Felix, who had perhaps not fallen asleep at once, nor easily, awoke only with the cessation of motion, and, hastily arising, stumbled into the rest-house to make his toilet.
Rona, left to herself, descended from the povosska, and strolled about to stretch her cramped limbs, gazing with interest upon the little village which here surrounded the post-house. There was a cluster of wooden chalets, and, upon a mound hardly to be called a hill, a small church, also of wood, lifted its unpretentious finger to Heaven, gilded by the evening sunbeams.
The girl walked up to it, and noticed that a flight of steps led up, outside the tower, to a wooden balcony surrounding the base of the spire, whence, probably, the bell was rung, as in many of the old churches in Brittany.
It occurred to Rona that there must be a fine view of the surrounding country from the balcony, and that it would be interesting to ascend, and gaze upon the rolling steppe from its not very considerable altitude. She did so, and stood there in the effulgent light, looking down upon the tiny cluster of human occupation, which seemed merely to punctuate, without breaking, the vast encompassing solitude.
Siberia!
There it lay outspread at her feet, the minute section of the huge land which her finite human vision could embrace.
How hard, when sitting upon the lawn at Normansgrave, to realize that Siberia existed all the time; that the sun was shining upon these strange places, illuminating the paths of these weird members of the great human family in their isolation!
The sounds that rose to her from below—the voices of children, the trampling of horses, the faint stir village life—had the effect of drops of water falling into an abyss of encircling silence, a measureless void. It was almost terrible.
In that wide setting, she and Felix!
And they were unwilling, uncongenial companions.
The whole meaning and value of human companionship seemed to be revealed by the touch of the infinite desolation. The inter-dependence of two human beings must be, in such a place, their sole refuge. How foolish, how petty, to let injuries rankle, in circumstances so profound, in spaces so immense!
She saw the sun-steeped champaign through a mist of unshed tears.
Two or three village children, filled with curiosity, had trotted after her to the church, and were at play below, with half their attention fixed upon the almost unparalleled sight of the foreign lady on the tower. Rona felt in her purse for some copper coins for them, and she descended the steps, purse in hand, looking at her money, and not where she placed her feet.
The children had been playing with a ball, which had fallen upon one of the steps. In the absorbing interest of watching the lady descend, they dare not advance to pick it up. Rona trod upon it, slipped, and, her hands being occupied, was unable to recover herself. She fell with some violence, and as the steps were not straight, but turned a corner, she was precipitated against the rail, and struck her side with such force as to take away her breath for a moment, and to render her unable to pick herself up from the place where she fell, or to do anything but gasp and struggle to keep back tears.
The pain was acute; so much so as to render her for a time unconscious of anything else. She sat doubled together in her agony, a cold sweat broke out upon her, she could only draw her breath with difficulty, and she was beset with a deadly fear. This was much the fashion of her fall of two years ago. Suppose she had set alight any lurking mischief that was there? Dread of having done so combined with the pain to make her sick and faint.
For some agonizing minutes there was no diminution of her suffering. The children, as children will do all the world over, stood solemnly staring at the course of events, as at things they had not power to alter.
Rona lay and sobbed and hugged herself, until by degrees the intolerable nature of the pain began to lessen. She could draw her breath more easily. The sick, trembling faintness slowly dissipated itself.
The beautiful breeze of the evening wandered by and fanned her white face. Presently she felt able to slip a hand into her pocket for her handkerchief and wipe her forehead and lips with it. She leaned her head against the rough wood of the upright of the balustrade and closed her eyes.
Thank God, the pain was subsiding, and she began, almost at once, to school herself, and resolve that nobody should know what had happened. Nobody! In all her world just then there was but one body, namely—Felix.
Holding by the rail, she very slowly raised herself to her feet.
There, below her on the ground, lay her purse, the scattered coins in it strewn in every direction. The children had not touched it.
She crept down the few remaining steps, and, still obliged to support herself, made signs that they should pick up the money and purse and restore it to her. But the wild things took fright the moment they saw her take notice of them. They fled, and she sat down despairingly, not liking to go away and leave her wealth upon the ground, yet feeling that if she stooped she would faint away.
At the moment she saw Felix approaching. He looked surprised to find her seated upon the dusty step. "Supper is ready," he said. "Will you come?" Then he saw that she was very white, and added hastily, "Are you ill?"
She shook her head without speaking. He came nearer. "Something is the matter," he said.
She spoke with difficulty. "I'm shaken. I fell down these stairs. I trod upon something that—rolled. I am so sorry. If you will excuse me, I will come—soon."
His expression changed, and grew concerned. "You have hurt yourself. You can hardly speak," he asserted.
"It's getting better, fast—only it was a shock," she said, bravely trying for a smile. "I wonder if you would be so very kind as to pick up my—purse for me."
"Shall I get you some water or something?" he asked, anxiously.
She shook her head. "I am getting better. I shall be able to walk directly."
"Where are you hurt?" he inquired, kneeling beside her. His face expressed more than concern.
She felt a troubling of the senses, a commotion of the heart as she replied, "Oh, nowhere in particular. I—fell—against the railing. Just bruised a little—and it took away my breath."
He knelt there, gazing upon her with an intensity which she felt she could hardly bear. In the stillness each of them, in fancy, was back in the Deptford lodging. She guessed something of the thoughts in his mind.
"I shall be all right—I'm quite, perfectly strong," she eagerly assured him.
It seemed that he was unable to speak. To hide his emotion he turned from her, and began to collect the coins and put them back in the pretty silver-mounted purse.
"I suppose," he asked presently, speaking with his back to her, "that you don't remember how much you had?"
"I remember there were four—no, five—pieces of gold, and about a pound's worth of silver."
"Then I think I have got most of it." Still kneeling with his back to her, he opened the central division of the purse to put the gold inside it. Something lay there, safely shut in. It was a slender silver chain with half a broken sixpence attached to it by a ring.
Feelings such as he could not name shook the young man from head to foot. In his male selfishness, or not realizing what the girl was suffering, he turned round upon her, swift and keen, an angry glitter in his eyes because of the tears in his heart.
"I had better throw this away, had I not?" said he.
"Throw what away?" faltered Rona in surprise, and then in an instant realized what he had found. And again she blushed—blushed furiously—the stain of her former emotion having hardly faded from her cheeks. She turned away her head to hide the mingled feeling in her face. She was desperately hurt, she was ashamed, she was indignant ... she was something else too. What was it?
She knew not. There was no name for the strange force which shook her, as she managed to reply.
"Certainly not. Put it back where you found it."
There was a suggestion of his having pried unwarrantably into her purse's secret compartment.
"Let me give it to one of the children in the village," he said, in a low voice, urgently. "As long as you keep it you are acting a lie; you are acknowledging my claim. If I throw it away you are free."
She managed to speak at last. "I do acknowledge your claim. It is you who have renounced me. Denzil said there could be nothing binding between us until you and he had met—face to face."
She spoke with difficulty, with anguish, with a curious intensity. "It is you who will not listen," she said, "who have settled that we are to be ... as we are. I am perfectly miserable."
She stopped abruptly. If she died for it, Felix should not see her cry.
He knelt before her, the broken coin in his hand. "I am a brute," he said. "Oh, what a brute I am! And you are in pain! Forgive me!"
He hastily replaced the little token, fastened her purse, and handed it to her.
"Let me help you up," he said, stooping over her, with a voice most different from the hard, flippant tones he had used hitherto.
She looked up bravely. "I am——" she began, but broke off. She was not feeling well enough to have things out with him. "Yes, I fear I must hold on to you," she admitted. She grasped his arm with both hands, and so drew herself slowly to her feet.
"I can walk," she said firmly, "if I may hold on tight."
"As tight as you like," he replied. "Shall I—might I—carry you?"
"I don't think I could bear it," she replied, and then, seeing a double meaning in her own words, "I mean"—hastily—"that I have hurt myself, and could not bear to be touched."
"I would touch you gently."
"Yes," she answered, low. "I know you would. I remember that you did. I remember—very well."
He answered absently, as they moved slowly along together. "How it all comes back!" He stopped, gazing round. "What is it, just here, that brings the wharf and the Thames, and everything, flashing back like a snap-shot on my mind?"
They were standing just beside a rick of newly-cut steppe grass. "The scent of the hay," she whispered.
With a touch of her hand she urged him on. He said no more. No further word passed his lips until they reached the rest-house.
All alone, thou and I, in the desert,In the land all forgotten of God.—HENRY KINGSLEY.
Aunt Bee had insisted upon supplying Veronica, when she started upon her perilous enterprise in the wilderness, with all kinds of medicaments; and she was able to assure Felix that she hadPommade Divineto apply to her bruises. He made her bed up for her with an ingenious arrangement of cushions, and, when he had hung a lamp up inside, under the tilt, and lowered a curtain between them, she had a little private chamber to herself, where she could safely investigate the extent of her hurt.
There was a bruise and some swelling, and no doubt the pain had been sharper on account of the mischief done two years ago in her far more perilous fall. But as far as she could tell, it was merely external; and when she was snugly curled up among her pillows it gave her little discomfort. Her ensuing wakefulness was not due to pain, but to a disturbance of feeling which took long to subside to a point which would allow of her sleeping.
The fine air, however, came to her help, and now that she was used to it, the motion of the carriage also lulled her. She slept, and soundly, until past seven o'clock next morning.
On this day the weather, which had been fine from the first, became absolutely perfect. From sunrise to sunset no cloud appeared upon the face of the blue heavens; yet it was not too sultry. A tiny zephyr blew with seductive sweetness, and the late heavy rain prevented there being too much dust.
It was a day charged with oppressive silence between the traveling pair. Until last night Felix had been the one to hold off—Rona had been wistfully anxious to be friends. But now her coldness redoubled his own. She was as reluctant to speak as he, and what she said was more frozen. In truth, her own thoughts, her own emotions, were a greater puzzle to herself than they could be to anyone else.
She hardly dared look at Felix, except when she felt sure that his back was turned. But once, while they were eating their breakfast, she surprised his eyes upon her, and with an intentness which made her positively faint. She shuddered, with a kind of agony which was half bliss. Had she known it, her beauty that radiant day was enough to make a strong man weak.
The warm color of her hair, the rose stain upon her cheeks, and the new, strange light within her eyes, made her perilously attractive. They were young together, in so fair a world! Ah, if the barrier might but be swept away, so that they could talk heart to heart!
His questions as to her health, and whether her injury had prevented her sleeping, were miserably constrained, and her replies but just escaped the charge of rudeness.
They ate, almost in silence, and as soon as they started again, he lay down to sleep, upon the couch where she had rested all night, and which was still fragrant with a memory of her, in some hardly perceptible perfume.
Again it was long, very long, before the young man's eyes closed; and then he fell so soundly asleep, that he exceeded his usual six hours, and it was past four o'clock when at last he awoke.
That evening they came to a forest. It is the only one upon the route; and it makes a grateful change from the endless waste of treeless steppe.
Felix had been awake for the past hour, seated with his chin propped upon his hands, gazing before him with white face and glittering eyes.
It was now within two hours of sunset, and the rose-colored rays from the west burnt in among the foliage of the graceful birches, till they seemed like trees of silver and gold, seen in vision. One of the horses of their troika had been going badly for some time; and when they were in among the trees the driver turned to Felix and said something to him.
Felix turned to Rona, who, since he awoke, had been deeply immersed in her book, and said, in a manner which suggested an apology for addressing her, "The man thinks that unless we rest the horse a bit, it will not make the next stage. Do you mind stopping for an hour in this wood? We could eat our supper while we wait."
"Of course not. It is lovely," she said.
He gave an order, they stopped, and he helped her down—with great care to avoid shaking her. Then he turned to the driver, and gave his help in unspanning and rubbing down the ailing horse. Rona stood a while watching, then, turning, roamed away a little distance into the fairy wood.
It was indeed like an enchanted land. The Siberian stag-horn moss curled and furled itself about the roots of delicate fern, and the slanting sun-rays gilded it with effulgence indescribable. She sat down upon the warm, fragrant couch it made. The passion of sadness which too much beauty brings mixed with the feelings in her distracted heart. She had played both brothers false. She had said she loved Denzil—and she did not. She had said she did not love Felix—and she did!—Ah, she did!
She could not stop to ask why. She knew that it was so. She had not loved him, but now she did—now she knew what love was.
She felt herself near to breaking down, and, remembering the way in which she had given way and wept on the day of the picnic at Newark Abbey ruins, she fought to keep herself from tears.
But the long strain of the journey, the shock of her accident the evening before, and the strange influence of the desert place, all combined to overcome her control. She was obliged to weep, the tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, and for a while there was nothing for it but to give way.
Her surrender was short—a few minutes only; but her little handkerchief was soaked through and through. The knowledge that she must very soon go back and face Felix with a composed aspect, availed to call her to order speedily.
Just as her sobs began to die down, she heard his distant voice calling her through the wood.
It sounded very far away; she must have strayed farther from the path than she had been aware of. She must reply, or Felix would continue to advance, and find her with those tell-tale stains upon her face. She rose to her feet and cried back an answer—"Coming!"
Then she looked round in distress. Close to where she had lain a tiny brook rippled through the wood. She knelt down by it, held her handkerchief in it, and bathed her hot eyes repeatedly in its comforting coolness. Then she washed her hands also, passed her pocket comb through her locks, and slowly took her way back to the road she had left.
There was the povosska, and the driver munching at a plateful of supper. There was the cloth spread beneath a huge oak tree—but no Felix. However, as she appeared, he dashed out from a thicket, disturbance plainly written on his face. "Oh, there you are! I was afraid you had been too far," he said.
She shook her head, smiling, and they sat down to eat.
She tried valiantly to swallow the food he had so carefully laid out, but her throat seemed half closed, with a great lump which prevented appetite. He watched her. He saw the heavy lids, hardly able to lift themselves above the tear-dimmed eyes. He knew that she must have been weeping in solitude, unconsoled. He was pierced with the thought of his own selfishness. Here she was, all alone. The man she loved—the man to whom she journeyed through such difficulties—was ill. Her heart was full of anxiety; he had filled it, too, with self-reproach. He loathed himself. What had she done that he could fairly resent? Was it the action of anyone but a mad boy to ask a girl of sixteen, who had only seen him two or three times, to remain faithful to his memory? And if there was one thing more certain than another, it was that Denzil was blameless. He had never known the girl to be pledged in any way. He had not known who Felix was; he had believed him her brother. He, Felix, was responsible for the false position in which these two had been placed; he had invented the brother and sister fiction, and for his own selfish reasons. Yet, in his pride and revengeful anger, he was making her suffer desperately—he knew it. But he would beg her to forgive him.
As soon as they had finished supper—but she hardly ate anything—he said, "Let us stroll in among these trees. It is a relief to move one's limbs after the confinement of that old povosska."
Rona wavered. It were better for her not to walk with this man, not to be on terms with him. But something in her drove her on—made it impossible to refuse. She assented mutely. They passed together in among the silver trunks. The sun was dropping low. The clear call of a flight of herons came to them—and they saw the birds wheeling in the faint blue air above them. They reached a pool, starred with water strawberry, and, with a common impulse, they stood still upon its verge.
"Rona!" said the young man, hoarsely.
It was the first time he had uttered her name. The sound of his voice was low and strained. It raised feelings inexplicable in the girl's confused mind and newly-awakened heart.
She had an impulse that to listen would be dangerous; that she ought to avoid anything like a confidence from him. Yet a power much stronger than she held her there mute and waiting—waiting for the words from his lips. She did not speak; her eyes were raised for a moment to his, full of such unhappiness as he could hardly bear to see. But he knew that the look conveyed permission to continue. "I want," he said, under his breath, "to tell you I am ashamed of myself. I have been behaving like an unforgiving brute. I know I have made you unhappy; and you have enough to bear without that. Forgive me, will you? I'm—I'm beastly sorry."
She made no reply; she was wholly unable to speak.
"Of course," he began again, "I can see that you have been crying. And I can't stand it. So let us have it out, shall we? I know I was wrong, that time, when I clutched at your love, like a starving man at a loaf of bread. I had no right. It was unjustifiable. But like all men, I only thought of myself. I did want you so."
There was silence, except for the chirp of a sedge-warbler.
"And now," said Rona, half choking—"and now—you don't?"
He turned towards her in sharp surprise. "What do you mean?" he said. "You are engaged to Denzil." He stood there looking at her, until she thought his eyes would burn her. "How can I have any claim, when you have decided in his favor?"
She turned away, for her face was quivering. "I could not bear it," she faltered lamely, "unless I felt sure you would be—happy."
"Thank you," said Felix, ironically. "If I am not I can always go back, you know, to the point from whence you and I started."
In the pang which darted through her at this allusion she turned from him, and, in fear of a breakdown, leant against a birch tree trunk to hide her face. "Oh! Felix!" she sobbed, "Felix—don't!"
He was very white. It tore his heart to see her grief. The faint perfume of her handkerchief or her clothes came to him on the evening air, as to-day it had bewildered his senses when he lay in the povosska. She was saying something—something incredible—among her sobs. "You should not have written; you should have come to me. How could I tell until I had seen you? I did not know."
He caught his breath. "What are you saying?" he asked, huskily.
Something in his voice warned her. She checked her tears with a great effort. "Help me!" she craved. "Help me to be true to one of you! I have been false to you; but Denzil is different! He has loved me so long—he has done so much for me. Oh, I know what you did—everything! But, after all, we barely knew each other.... While I feel as if I belong to him and Aunt Bee! They have been home, love, everything ... you see, I could not betray him after all he has been through!"
He felt the blood rush to his forehead. "Are you asking me to stand on one side, and owning in the same breath that you love me best?" he said, through his teeth.
She held her breath. This was putting the thing plainly. Yet it was the truth. It made her angry to hear it. It goaded her on to fight yet.
"You only thought you loved me," she brought out, vehemently. "You had not seen me, you did not know me ... and there is a Russian girl—Nadia Stepanovna...."
He took her by the shoulders, gently, but with firmness, turning her round so as to face him; still she held her handkerchief to her eyes. "Rona, do you really believe that?"
She took away the handkerchief, and lifted her wet lashes; and she felt as though her soul were drowning in the mysterious compulsion of his look. For a space all strength left her. She was drained of power. This young man was her master; his claim could not be denied....
Still holding her with one hand, he slipped the other down inside his collar, and drew out a chain, with his half sixpence strung upon it. "Look here," he said. "Since I first saw you there has been no other thought in me."
"Oh!" the words seemed forced from her. "Oh, if I had been great enough to be loyal too!"
"No, no," he said, hastily, "that was my part. I to be loyal, the queen to reward or not, as she would. But if she will"—he held both her hands—"if she will, then nobody on earth—not Denzil, nor any other man..."
He was drawing her nearer, and how sweet, as well as how easy, to yield to that pressure, to feel the clasp of his arms about her, to rest in the knowledge that love had come to her indeed! But that must not be; and she collected all her strength to tell him so.
"David!" Somehow that name came to her lips when she would appeal to him. "Have pity, wait—Oh, I must say something to you...."
He saw, by the prayer in her eyes, by the urgency of her voice, that she was in earnest, and he held himself in check with an effort.
"Help me," she faltered, "to be faithful to my word. I did promise—just before he started for Siberia, I did tell him I would be—his wife. You saved me once ... save me again! This time from myself. I am so tossed about, I can hardly see what I ought to do. But I am not free—you see that, don't you? I am bound; I—we—we ought not to do this. Have pity on me, be good to me, be my brother till we reach our journey's end!"
He drew a long breath, and passed a shaking hand over his knocking temples. But she had, in her desperate fear, touched the right note with him. She was in his power. For two more days they must fare together; and she appealed to him for forbearance. To that appeal he could not turn deaf ears.
"It's a puzzle," he said, heavily; "and I don't see the rights of it. But don't be afraid of me, Rona. I—I am to be trusted. I would give my life for you. Make yourself easy; I promise not to distress you."
And as she lifted to him her quivering face, her suffused eyes, and her mouth just touched by a smile of complete trust, he knew that he was taking the very course that would make her love him more than ever.
"I must just say this," he muttered. "You ought not to marry him until he—knows."
She winced; but she stood firm.
"I shall tell him—as soon as I can," she replied, tremulously.