WHAT IS THIS LOVE?
Elle songeait--"C'en est fini de la vie heureuse!--Quelle est donc
cette loi cruelle qui régit le monde? Pourquoi l'homme ne peut il
vivre avec la femme ou même la voir simplement sans la convoiter?
Qu'est-ce que cette nourriture misérable dont ne peuvent se passer
les cœurs, ce pain de l'amour, toujours pétri de larmes et
quelquefois de sang?"--ANATOLE LE BRAZ.
Aunt Bee awaited with a good deal of humorous anticipation the return
of the picnic party from Newark. She had, as she well knew, shot an
arrow into the heart of the slowly-moved Denzil by suggesting to him
the imminent departure of Rona under certain circumstances. She felt
almost sure that upon this hint he must realize what was the matter
with him, and speak.
She eyed the various members of the party with some care during the
evening, and became pretty certain that something had happened, for
Denzil was unusually flushed; and the heaviness of Rona's eyelids
seemed to suggest that she had been weeping.
No word was said, however, and no announcement made. The evening
passed off a little heavily. Rona, hitherto the life and soul of the
party, was the victim of a depression she could not shake off.
Rallied upon her silence, she owned to being very tired; said she
thought the sun had made her head ache, and slipped away early to bed.
But, when she had gained her room--the pretty, dainty nest, with its
rose chintzes, and its air of subdued luxury--she did not attempt to
undress nor to lie down to rest.
Pushing wide the casement of her window, she sat down upon the window
seat, joined her hands beneath her chin, and gazed upon the stars.
The drifting by of the soft night wind, like an impatient sigh,
lifted her loosened hair from her brow. The beauty of the velvet
darkness, the perfume of the roses that clustered upon the wall
outside her room were all unnoticed. Her life was torn with the pain
of having to decide.
In spite of her convent rearing, in spite of a childhood so
sheltered, this young creature had come into contact with much that
maidens of her age never know.
Most girls begin life cradled in the soft lap of sentiment. As a
rule, the sentimental and diluted version of sex feeling which they
call love, comes to them first. They pass out from their world of
dreams into real life, through a fairy archway built up of the pretty
accessories which go to make a wedding.
But Veronica had no such initiation. Hardly had the door of her
convent closed upon, her than the wolves of life were upon her heels.
The shock which she had received, when first a glimmering of what was
meant by her uncle's arrangement with Levy dawned upon her, had as it
were flung her violently away from the mood of shy and artless
pleasure with which the average young girl awaits her destiny.
Rona had no idea what being in love meant.
Her nature was essentially an honest one. She wanted to do right.
But she felt as if, in her present distress, she had no rudder.
Denzil and Felix! Brothers! One had saved her life, the other had
preserved it. To which did she owe her allegiance?
As a matter of fact, she loved neither. But she knew she did not
love Felix, and she did not know that she did not love Denzil. The
elder brother was known to her, he was her daily companion, her kind
friend. She was very fond of him, and this was more than she could
say of any other man she had ever seen.
She was not fond of Felix--she feared him. She had preserved a
memory as of a great force--of something in him that might compel her
to do as he wished. This she resented, and hated.
All her own wishes inclined to the side of Denzil. But this very
fact made her anxious that Felix should have full justice.
Small things sometimes modify the feelings in a quite unexpected way.
Thus, the discovery that the cruel brother whose image she had
detested for two years--the brother whose brutal indifference had
goaded Felix to suicide--was none other than the moderate, sensible,
benevolent Denzil Vanston, had in some measure impaired her belief in
Felix's judgment, if not his accuracy. She felt so sure, so
convinced that Denzil would in all circumstances be reasonable, and
treat his younger brother with fairness; that she was shaken in her
sympathies, and doubtful of Felix's wisdom.
Denzil had to-day told her something of Felix's mother. She had
learned how, for the years ensuing on his father's death, the second
Mrs. Vanston had practically turned him out of doors. He told her of
the pain and anxiety which the light woman had caused her elderly
husband, and of the "goings-on" at Normansgrave after his death. She
discovered that family affairs have usually two sides, and that Felix
was by no means the injured innocent which, in her inexperience, she
had thought him.
But, all the more for this change of mind in herself, she was
determined that Felix must have fair play. Her notion of fair play
for him was that she should write to him and explain the whole
situation, as far as she herself understood it. If she were sure
that it was right, she would go out and marry Felix, and sacrifice
the rest of her life to him. But she did not believe that it was
right to marry a man without loving him, unless he clearly understood
that this was so. And Denzil manifestly had his claims, as well as
Felix. To her, his claims appeared the stronger.
Felix was now doing well. He had a good friend, in the person of Mr.
Vronsky, who was devoted to him. He was still quite young, and would
doubtless marry somebody else.
She thought out the thing in her own mind as clearly as she could,
and then went to her writing-table, sat down, and wrote to Felix
before she slept. After explaining to him the situation as well as
she could--
"--I do not love you," she wrote. "I own it. I do not wish to marry
you. I admit it. I do not think that this is my fault. One cannot
compel the feelings. To me you are almost a stranger. But your
brother is my friend. He is splendidly unselfish, and after he had
recovered from the shock of finding that I had been deceiving him all
the time that he has been benefiting me, he said that of course there
could be nothing between us unless you released me.
"But I admit that I promised I would marry you. And I will keep that
promise if you hold me to it, and do all I can to make up for the
fact that I have not love to give. And perhaps I ought to tell you
that I do not believe I shall ever be in love. Sometimes I think
that the agony I went through, before my attempt to kill myself, has
seared my feelings and made me hard and stupid. If you think of
marrying me it is right that you should know this.
"I am not including in this letter a word of thanks for all that you
have been to me. I feel that, were I in your place, thanks would
seem an insult if the love that ought to wing them were lacking.
"But do ask yourself honestly whether you really love me any more
than I love you. What could your feeling be but just a sentiment, a
figment of the imagination? You do not know me, or my tastes, or my
temper, or my habits. How can you desire my daily companionship? Am
I doing you a real wrong or only an imaginary one?
"I write far more coldly than I feel. My heart is aching with
sympathy for you. But if I were you sympathy would madden me, and I
do not offer it.
"I do ask forgiveness for my--what must I call it?--my involuntary
inconstancy."
At the back of her mind rankled the thought of all the money of his
which she had accepted and spent. But she did not dare allude to it
in the letter. She must await his answer to her confession. If she
were to accept Denzil, and marry him, this money must be repaid. She
wondered at herself now, to think how simply she had accepted it.
So she wrote her letter, and went to bed with a mind slightly more at
ease. And meanwhile, downstairs, Denzil and Aunt Bee sat together in
the billiard-room, discussing the extraordinary revelation made by
their protégée that day.
Aunt Bee had guessed that there had been some kind of avowal on her
nephew's part, and that it had been met by some corresponding
confession of an unexpected nature on that of the girl. But she was
far from being prepared for the surprising truth.
Denzil put into her hands his brother's letter, which Rona had given
him leave to show, and related to the astounded lady the true story
of the escape of the young man and the girl from the power of Rankin
Leigh and Levy.
Miss Rawson sat for some time silent, taking it all in. The young
canal bargeman, the handsome, unkempt tramp, whose tragic face had
dwelt with her ever since her short interview with him--he was
actually Felix Vanston, the black sheep--the boy whom she had last
seen in riding breeches, mounted on his pony before the door of
Normansgrave, and arrogantly declining to take off his hat to her at
his mother's peevish bidding.
"Why," she burst out, "he must have known me! Why did he not tell me
who he was? But, of course, that was the last thing he would have
been likely to do. He was not long out of prison--out of prison!
Oh, think of it! He was actually starving, in despair, a suicide in
all but actual accomplishment, and yet he was straining every nerve,
defying the law, eluding pursuit, to put this unknown child into safe
keeping! He is a hero, Denzil."
Denzil's face grew sullen. "If she had not been so sweet, so
lovable, would he have been so willing?" he asked, resentfully. "Who
that saw her could resist the desire to help her, to do all in their
power for her? What did I do?" His voice broke--only rage enabled
him to go on speaking. "I have done for her a thousand times as much
as he did. If gratitude constitutes a claim----"
"Oh, Denzil!"
The reproof in her voice brought him up short. "I beg your pardon.
I am a brute, I know. I am jealous of him, bitterly jealous! I
believe I always have been. My father loved him better than he loved
me. My father loved that woman--I daren't trust myself to talk of
her--better than ever he loved my poor good mother. I have always
been jealous of Felix. In the light of what I am suffering now, I
know that much, But--but"--his eyes gleamed, and he set his teeth--he
looked a different man--"but he has not got her love. She likes me
best--and I am going to have her, too. She asked me to save her from
him."
Miss Rawson viewed him steadily. She was desperately sorry for him.
"I am in favor of keeping one's word," went on Denzil in an
exculpatory tone. "I would never urge anybody, man or woman, to back
out of a promise given. But a promise of this kind stands on a
different footing. A girl of Rona's age at that time cannot give a
promise that shall be binding when she is grown up. Look how human
beings change! And nobody could urge her to keep the letter of a
promise which in spirit she not only has already broken, but which
she has never, in fact, kept."
"That is true," said Miss Rawson slowly. And after some
consideration she asked him, "What are you going to do?"
"I am going to write to him to come home at once, at my expense, and
we will have this thing decided," said Denzil, in a voice which told
that his mind was made up. "She must not, of course, give me any
promise until he has released her: though from this letter I judge
that he understands pretty well the state of her feeling for him.
But let him come--let it be fair and square between him and me. He
must have his chance."
Miss Rawson was still very thoughtful. After another pause she went
on: "There is another aspect of the case, you know, Denzil, which, in
your absorption over this curious complication, you have put on one
side. Did Rona tell you nothing of her birth or parentage?"
He started, as if the idea occurred to him for the first time.
"Nothing," he said; "as you say, the subject was not touched upon."
"Yet it will be impossible or most unwise for a marriage to take
place, dear Denzil, without further details," said Aunt Bee. She
spoke hesitatingly, loath to wound, but with a gravity which fixed
his attention. "If this man is still alive--this Rankin Leigh--I
suppose he would be fairly certain to hear of his niece's marriage.
You cannot marry her under any but her true name. Veronica Leigh is
not a common name; and the wedding of Denzil Vanston of Normansgrave
must be publicly announced. You would not like ugly facts to crop up
about your wife."
Denzil crimsoned. "Why, what facts?" he asked. "What could turn up?"
She replied cautiously: "If, as you tell me, this man was intending
to hand her over to the kind of life that is implied by such a
training, he must be a person on a very different social level from
ourselves. Remember, Felix rescued her from a lodging-house in
Deptford. I am not a snob, my boy, and I know that
lilies-of-the-valley are now and then found on dust-heaps. I
acknowledge with all my heart that Rona is a lily of a girl. But it
will not be pleasant for you to have undesirable people coming about
you, perhaps blackmailing you to have facts about your wife's origin
kept dark. However dearly we love Rona, the fact remains that we do
not know who she is. Remember, Denzil, it is a question of the
mother of your children--of future Vanstons, dear boy."
The young man hid his hot face in his hands. "You," he said, in
smothered tones, "you did not dissuade me--we have acted together in
this--you and I."
"Yes, Denzil. I willingly shoulder the blame. The girl herself was
her own passport; and her brother's letter convinced me of his own
gentle birth and education. But remember, I thought them brother and
sister. That made all the difference. Had I known that they were
almost strangers--that he took her from such a place--had I known, in
short, what I know now--I might have acted differently. I might have
given other advice. For it is well for a man to marry his equal; it
makes for happiness."
"One can see," said Denzil, in a hollow voice, "why he dare not let
it out. If we had known he was not really her brother, we should not
have allowed him to take her away. We should have considered him
utterly unfit to be the guide or helper of such a girl. What do you
advise, Aunt Bee? Shall I write to the Convent School and see
whether the Reverend Mother can tell me anything?"
"An excellent idea," said Miss Rawson, "though, judging from what you
say Rona told you, the Reverend Mother does not know much. Still,
she might give us a clew. I do think we ought to inform ourselves as
far as we can."
"There is one thing," remarked the Squire, "if the uncle knows the
girl is to make a really good marriage, and be off his hands, he
would not be likely to object, would he?"
"No," said his aunt; "one would think not. But such a man would make
something out of you if he saw his way to do it. If he knew you to
be much in love, he might impose conditions."
"Such as----?"
"Well, such as that you should ask him down here to stay, or
subsidize him to keep quiet, or something of the kind----"
Denzil shuddered involuntarily.
"--He must be a pretty nefarious villain not to have made public the
fact of the girl's disappearance," continued Aunt Bee. "He must have
had good and strong reasons himself for keeping dark. I wish we
could find out something which would give us a hold over him, so that
in case of his being troublesome we could keep him quiet."
"That is not a bad idea," said Denzil, thoughtfully. "It gives one
something to do--something to take off one's thoughts from the
disappointment--the anxiety." He fell silent, twisting his hands in
his nervous misery. "Aunt Bee," he brought out, at last, "whatever
happens--whatever should come out--I must marry her. I feel towards
her as I never thought to feel towards any woman in the world. I
always thought all the stuff in books about being in love was such
nonsense. But now----" He could not go on.
"God bless you, old man; it will do you all the good in the world,"
said his aunt, heartily. "A thing like this shows one how far one's
feeling is really genuine and deep. It is a good thing the path of
your happiness is not too smooth. I do think myself, though I am not
in love with her--I do think the girl is fine, and worth a fight. I
have always known she had some secret anxiety, but have put it down
to the fact that she could not be candid with me about her birth and
so on. That she was actually engaged all this time to your
remarkable brother has been a heavy burden to be borne by such young
shoulders. Her courage and prudence are both wonderful."
"Think," said Denzil, hardly able to speak for a feeling which
threatened to choke him. "Think of her actually throwing herself out
of a window down upon railway lines, sooner than suffer degradation!
You are right. She is wonderful. Good-night, my dear aunt."
They separated, feeling more in sympathy than ever in their lives
before.