VOLNA IS A LITTLE REFRACTORY
She was dressed for her new character of the housekeeper’s niece, and
wore a white apron and a peasant girl’s picturesque head-dress.
She closed the door behind her, dropped me a little curtsey and said
with the demurest of glances: “Did you please to send for me, sir?”
Then she burst out laughing and ran to me, both hands outstretched, as
though we had not met for a long time. “Now, wasn’t my instinct right?”
I held her hands apart while I surveyed her costume. “Who was ever so
foolish as to question it?”
“And isn’t the Father just the dearest old man in the world?”
“The world is a big place and there are lots of old men in it,” I
answered. “But I knew you would win him round. He had no chance against
you.”
She laughed gaily. “He lectured me, however.”
“So he did me.”
“And to think that if we had only known, he would have taken care of
those papers yesterday.”
“And have saved us from all the horrors of last night.”
She shot a glance at me. “And have freed you from the encumbrance of a
very troublesome sister twenty-four hours ago.”
“Yes, indeed; if we had only known.”
“You’re in a very agreeing mood.”
“I am no longer a brother and must be polite.”
“Do you call that politeness?”
“Politeness or--policy.”
“Well, whichever it is, it’s not a bit nice. Not a bit like--Bob.”
“You forget. Bob is my own name, as well as my friend Garrett’s.”
“How formal you are. What is the matter? You can’t be annoyed about
anything Father Ambrose has said to you? Nor about his having helped
us? What is it?”
“I didn’t even know I was formal.”
She turned away to the priest’s table and sat in his chair turning over
the books on the desk. I sat facing her as I had faced the priest. Once
she sighed, and once shrugged her shoulders, and twice glanced across
at me in perplexity.
She was very pretty; very bewitching; more pretty and bewitching than
ever, in my eyes; but I was conscious of a new restraint--a something
like a barrier between us which had not been there before. I couldn’t
speak with the old freedom; in fact, I could think of nothing to say.
“Father Ambrose tells me you are going away,” she said at length, her
fingers still busy with the books.
“Yes, I am going away. I--I thought you’d like me just to say good-bye.”
“Well, I should hope so, indeed. After what you’ve done for me.”
“Never mind about that, please. I think I must be off.”
I rose; but she paid no heed, just sitting on at the table, her face
averted and her fingers moving the books restlessly. I looked out of
the window, fidgetted a moment, and then turned again.
“Yes, I think it’s time.”
“Of course I won’t keep you,” she said then; very stiffly and without
looking at me.
“Good-bye then.”
She rose and held out her hand. “Good-bye.” She turned her face to me
and her lip quivered as she bit it. I recalled the priest’s words about
her betrothal; and clamped down my feelings as I took her hand and
pressed it.
“I wish you God-speed with all my heart,” I said.
She lowered her eyes again and her hand fell listlessly as I released
it and turned to the door. I had nearly reached it when I heard the
rustle of her cotton dress and turned to find her at my elbow.
“But you’re not going to part like this?”
I should have liked to part in a very different fashion could I have
had my way. But I could not.
“Father Ambrose thinks that I had better go; and of course he is
right.”
“But Bob and Peggy haven’t said good-bye. Oh, think of all we’ve gone
through together. Don’t go away angry with me like this.”
“Angry! God forbid. Why you’re just the bravest little soul I ever
met in all my life. And some day I hope Sylvia and you will meet,
and--and----” I scarcely knew what I was saying and ended in partial
incoherence.
“That’s more like you. I mean it’s more natural, except that you
generally know exactly what you want to say and say it. Are you going
to--to England?”
“I don’t think I _have_ any definite plans. I----”
Her laughter stopped me. She shook her forefinger with laughing
assumption of gravity. “If I had not ceased to be Peggy, I should
say you were hiding something from me. And you know how true Peggy’s
instincts are?”
“What should I have to hide?” I asked with a smile.
“What a mask of a smile,” she cried, with a lifting of the hands.
“Father Ambrose is a wonderful man; he has changed you completely in an
hour.” She turned back to the table and sat down again. “I suppose it
couldn’t be helped,” she added half to herself with a sigh.
“What could not be helped?”
She did not reply at once but looked up at me from under her long
lashes, while her feet tapped the floor quickly and irritably. “Of
course you are doing this with a purpose,” she said after the pause.
“Why? Oh, don’t pretend to misunderstand me. You know as well as I do
that you’re entirely changed. It’s so unjust. What have I done? You
know that after all you’ve done for me I wouldn’t do anything to anger
you for all the world.”
“Don’t persist about my being angry.”
“Well, offended, then, only it’s such a stupid word. Estranged,
alienated, changed; any word you like. Something has happened--something
has come between us. Do you treat Sylvia like this? It’s maddening.”
“There is no change in me,” I protested.
She laughed. “It’s in me, then, you mean. That’s almost cowardly--at
least it would be if any one but you said it.” Then with a start her
eyes opened wide; she rose and stared at me with parted lips; and a
vivid blush spread all over her face. “I believe I understand. You
think in your English way, that I have been too forward, unwomanly,
too,--oh!” and she covered her crimson cheeks with her white strenuous
fingers.
“Don’t say that, please. Why the time we’ve been together has been the
brightest thing in the world to me.”
She took her hands from her face and sat down again staring at the
table while the flush died out of her cheeks slowly. “I’ve gone all
over that sentence. That ‘has been’ is the clue. Now I see. It’s all
over and we are conventional again.” With an exaggerated affectation of
a society manner she rose very slowly, held out her hand and simpered:
“I hope you will have a pleasant journey, Mr. Anstruther. The weather
is still open enough to be excellent for travelling. Will you make my
compliments to your sister, and say I hope to see her some day?”
I could not restrain a smile, but not a muscle of her face moved; she
kept up the vapid simper. “I will give your message,” I said, and tried
to take her hand; but she just let me touch her finger tips and then
bowed.
“I am so pleased to have met you; and thank you _so_ much for all you
have done. I hope you’ll not take cold from the rain. Colds are _such_
distressing afflictions.” Then another sudden change. With a stamp of
her foot she threw her head back and her rich blue eyes sparkled. “Is
that better?”
I bowed. “I am sorry you so misunderstand.”
“Misunderstand!” she repeated, quickly. “I don’t misunderstand that if
you were the kind of masculine formality you have been acting here this
morning you would never have done what you have for me in the last two
days. I am only a woman, of course--wait, you will wish to see Father
Ambrose again before you go. I’ll tell him;” and she crossed to the
door.
“Good-bye,” I said, but she paid no heed and went out of the room.
It was not the kind of parting I had looked for, but I smothered my
regrets. It was better so.
We could not go on being Bob and Peggy to one another of course; and
yet we had been too closely associated to drop back into mere formal
friendliness again without a wrench. She couldn’t see this in a moment;
but she would understand it later; and--well, the sooner I was away,
the better for my peace of mind.
Then she came back bringing the priest with her. He was very plastic
clay in her white young hands. He wore a look of deep and almost
comical perplexity, and was obviously very ill at ease.
“Now, Father, please. What have you said or done to Mr. Anstruther to
change him in this short time?”
He glanced half appealingly at me; but I was as little at ease as he
was. “My dear child, I--I--er----”
“You have lectured me already on the wisdom and necessity of complete
frankness, Father,” she interposed significantly.
“It is very difficult to gather----” he got no farther, for she held up
a warning finger and shook it at him with a laugh and then placed it on
his lips.
“There shall not be any difficulty,” she declared. “For two days Mr.
Anstruther has been just like a brother to me; treating me perfectly
frankly and saying as candidly as any brother whatever was in his
thoughts. We made a compact that he should do that, and he kept it
honestly. I left him in that mood when I first saw you. You then had a
long talk with him and I found him entirely changed; keeping something
from me; formal in manner; saying things he didn’t mean and meaning
others he didn’t say. Instead of a brother, he was an acquaintance. You
caused this by something you said. Now tell me, please.”
The good man was helpless; so I went to the rescue. “It is time for me
to go. You can discuss this when I have left.”
“Wait a moment. Two things I am certain of. You two have arranged to do
something that affects me and you won’t tell me; and you, Father, have
said something about me which has changed Mr. Anstruther. I won’t stand
that. I won’t let him go as if we were just how-d’ye-do--and--good-bye
acquaintances. He has saved me from prison, and I just can’t do it.”
The embarrassment was becoming almost painful. “I should never think of
you as a mere acquaintance; but please let me go,” I said.
“Yes. You may go. Good-bye--but don’t attempt to help me any more if
you _do_ go in that way. I will not let either of you help me, if you
mean to deceive me;” and with fingers that trembled she took off the
head-dress and laid aside her apron. “If you will not tell me, I will
go by myself and take my chance.”
“My dear child,” protested the priest.
“I will. I will. My mind is made up.”
“You had better tell her,” I said to the priest then.
She smiled, but through the promise of tears. “You know me, don’t you?”
Father Ambrose then told her the scheme in regard to my arrest and we
both enlarged upon the absence of risk to me. She neither acquiesced
nor vetoed it. “That’s number one. What is number two? What have you
told Mr. Anstruther?”
“You want to rule with a pretty strong iron rod, don’t you?” I said.
“But there is nothing to tell that need be told.”
“Tell me,” she cried to Father Ambrose. “I will know, or----”
“I only told him such facts about you as you had told me,” complied the
priest, taking refuge in generalities.
She stood thinking, shooting quick inquiring glances at us in turn.
“I ask you not to insist on anything more than that,” I urged.
A gleam of understanding was in her eyes and a semi-mischievous smile
hovering about her lips as she returned: “Who asked that?”
“Bob Garrett,” I declared promptly.
The smile deepened. “What will the police do with him?” she asked
Father Ambrose. “Take him to Cracow?”
“More probably to Warsaw,” was the reply; “but as we told you, his
friends will see he comes to no harm of any sort. You are quite sure of
that, are you not, Mr. Anstruther?”
“I haven’t the faintest doubt of it;” and at this Volna looked quite
her happy self.
“I may as well put these on again, then,” she said, and she slipped on
the apron and arranged the quaint head-dress. When she looked next at
me her face was almost preternaturally grave, except her expressionful
eyes.
“You see now what a lot of time would have been saved if you had been
frank like Bob, and not tried to deceive me like Mr. Anstruther. I can
say good-bye, just as formally as you please, now I know why you are
going.”
I took her hand and pressed it. “You’ll stay here and let this thing go
through all right?”
“Yes. Father Ambrose wishes it. Good-bye, Mr. Anstruther, and
good-bye--Bob.”
“Good-bye--Peggy. I may say that for the last time.”
“Yes, for the last time, of course. I am Volna, after to-day.” She
looked into my eyes with an odd inscrutable expression in hers and
smiled. “You’ll be all right, or else I shouldn’t agree. But I know
you, and I am sure.”
Then I hurried out of the room followed by the priest.