DENZIL DOES HIS DUTY
But did she love him?--what and if she did? ...
Love has no spell can scorching winds forbid,
Or bring the help which tarries near to hand,
Or spread a cloud for curtaining fading eyes
That gaze up dying into alien skies.
--JEAN INGELOW.
A fortnight passed at Normansgrave, in doubt and discomfort. It was
fortunate that the house was full of visitors, for their
entertainment served to take off the thoughts of the master of the
house from his own interrupted and absorbing romance.
Upon the day following his proposal to Veronica in the Abbey ruins he
wrote to Felix, a letter which seemed to him of a dignified and most
fraternal character. He said, in effect--"All is known, but at the
same time all is forgiven. Come home and let us settle things up. I
wish to treat you quite fairly, though I do not think that you have
so treated me."
His next care was to go to London, and, with the utmost secrecy and
precaution, set on foot a private inquiry for the man Rankin Leigh.
He likewise spent some time in Somerset House, searching the register
for the entry of Rona's birth. She knew the exact year, month, and
day, but, for safety's sake, he also investigated the corresponding
month in the years following and preceding. There was no entry of
any Veronica Leigh during the three years studied by him.
He found himself continually lost in speculation as to who the girl
was. He wrote to the Mother Superior of the Convent, and her reply
disturbed him greatly. She asked him, if he could possibly arrange
it, to come and visit her personally. She had very little to tell
him, but should be most grateful to hear good news of the girl, over
whose fate she had grieved many times since she left the Convent.
Glad of any pretext to be upon the move, Denzil did as she asked him.
He pleaded sudden and very important business connected with his
ward, Miss Leigh, and left his visitors for a couple of days to the
care of Aunt Bee and Rona.
But he wished afterwards that he had not gone, since all that the
Reverend Mother could tell him went to confirm the suspicion which
had lain at the bottom of his mind ever since he first saw the
girl--namely, that Rona had no legal father.
A firm of solicitors, said the good lady, had written to her, asking
her to receive a girl child, of the age of six months. It was said
that she was doubly an orphan, and that it was believed that she had
been duly baptized, but, as her mother was suddenly dead, nobody knew
by what name. A sum for her maintenance was guaranteed. When the
baby arrived at the Convent, the good nuns thought it best to be upon
the safe side, and re-baptized her, under the name of Veronica; the
record of this provisional baptism was shown to him in the register
of their private chapel. They were told that the child's parents
both belonged to the Roman Catholic faith. The sum promised them was
duly paid, every quarter, through the same firm, until Rona was
sixteen. The lawyers then wrote to the Convent, saying that their
client, who had paid the money, was dead. He had left no
instructions in his will as to the continuance of the payments, and
they found no member of his family willing to sanction such a course.
Nobody knew who the child was, and, so far as was known, she had no
claim upon the man who had hitherto supported her. As she had
attained the age of sixteen, the legatees thought she should now
support herself. In these circumstances, the firm had communicated
with Mr. Rankin Leigh, who was, they were informed, uncle to the
child, upon her mother's side; and he had replied to the effect that
he would travel down to the school and see his niece, with a view to
making some provision for her future.
This Mr. Leigh had, after some weeks, presented himself. He was a
seedy-looking individual. He declared, in conversation with the
Reverend Mother, that he was wholly unable to support Veronica, who
must earn her own living, but that, if she were a well-grown,
nice-looking girl, he thought he might put her into a very good
situation. Having seen his niece, he was evidently much struck by
her beauty. "She is beautiful, do you not think?" asked the Mother,
eagerly, of Denzil. "We all thought she promised to be lovely;
though at that time, she was in the awkward stage. I have often
wondered whether she has grown up as beautiful as we thought she
would."
Denzil was able to produce a good photo of Veronica, taken within the
last few weeks, and was touched at seeing the joy of the kind woman
at her grace, and her happy look.
Denzil then, as well as he could, confided to her the terrible
experience through which Rona had passed. He told of her rescue, and
of their taking her into the Cottage Hospital. "Of course," he said,
"we could see at once that she was no common girl."
The Mother agreed. She expatiated on the subject of Veronica. She
had been an exquisitely pretty baby, and the joy of the nuns' hearts.
Her clothes had been good and carefully made. She had evidently been
the child of someone who cherished her tenderly.
But there was the significant fact that she seemed to be called by
her mother's surname. It all contributed to the idea that Rona was
nobody's child. And, deeply in love though Denzil was, he did not
like the notion at all.
Rankin Leigh, it appeared, was an elderly man, and he had owned to
the Mother that he was not the child's own uncle, but her
great-uncle--her mother had been his niece. He had pumped hard to
find out whether anything was known of the child's father, but, of
course, had ascertained nothing.
Denzil asked if there was any reason to suppose that Rankin Leigh was
the girl's legal guardian. Nothing was known on this head; but, as
he was apparently the only living relative, and as there was no more
money to support the child, they had felt bound to let her go.
"I really did not know what to do with her," said the good woman. "I
thought her much too handsome to be in business, and much too refined
for service, and, of course, she was too young to teach."
The Squire returned to Normansgrave with much food for thought. He
had obtained from the Mother one thing which he thought of great
importance, and that was the name and address of the firm of
solicitors who had arranged for the child's reception at the
Orphanage.
To them he wrote, at the earliest possible moment. His letter came
back to him through the dead-letter office, marked "Gone away." And
no search of Postal Guides revealed any address for a firm of that
name. He began to wonder whether the simple-seeming nun had played
him false after all. Yet, what motive could she have had for doing
so?
The visit brought him home, restless and dissatisfied. He determined
to say nothing to Rona of where he had been. On his way home in the
train he had serious doubts as to whether he should not disentangle
himself altogether from this intricate affair of his brother and the
Girl from Nowhere. It was completely out of his line to be thus
mixed up in questionable matters.
But the moment he saw her again--the moment, when, standing on the
terrace, he beheld her drifting across the lawns with an armful of
flowers, walking without a hat, the boisterous wind ruffling her hair
back from her flawless forehead--there awoke in him the long ignored
natural desires. His heart beat, his eyes filled, his being grew big
with the craving to take her, to make her his at any price he might
afterwards be called upon to pay.
Rona, when she saw him standing there, stopped short. She blushed as
she met his gaze. She could not now encounter him without confusion.
She felt certain that she did not love Felix. But she was anything
but certain that she did love his brother.
Since his declaration at Newark there had been something in the
quality of his affection which she disliked. His eyes were always
seeking hers, he tried to take her hand when occasion offered. If
they were alone he would seat himself beside her, closer than she
liked. She was growing very shy of him. The virginal instinct to
fly from pursuit was strong in her.
He began to wonder how much longer he should be able to bear the
present situation. It was anomalous. They could not expect a letter
from Felix for another ten days or more. And it might not be a
letter which came. It might be Felix himself.
As he hastened down from the terrace, and relieved her of the tall
delphiniums and golden rod and dahlias which she carried, it was in
his heart to catch her and hold her close, and cry to her that she
was his, and that Felix should not come between them. Instead, he
merely smiled upon her, and asked affectionately, but somewhat
tritely, if she had missed him. She replied, with lowered eye-lids
and a charming dignity, that she had.
He meant to say something to the effect that he chafed against the
restraints imposed upon him by their waiting, by their scrupulous
regard for the absent man. Instead of that, he burst forth without
reflection--
"Come and let us sit on the stone seat and talk! It is about a
hundred years since I left you."
Veronica did not look at all delighted, but she obediently turned
with him, and they went slowly across the lawn to a distant part of
the garden, where there was an Alpine rockery. They sat down
together upon a small bench, let into the rocks which bordered the
path. They had sat there often, during the few golden weeks since
her return. But this afternoon Rona felt a restless insecurity, a
desire to rise up and go and leave Denzil to himself. What could
they say to each other? There was nothing to be said. Her heart was
empty of any feeling for him, beyond the grateful affection which by
no means craves stolen interviews.
As for Denzil, for the first time in his life his impulses were
galloping off with his reason. The very aloofness and gentle
coolness of the maiden spurred him on.
"Rona," he said feverishly, "I feel as if all my life I had been
waiting to know that you are free."
She smiled ambiguously. "Don't let us talk of that."
"Of what, then? I don't feel at this moment as if I care a pin for
anything else in the world."
She regarded him with curiosity. "Do you really feel that?"
"Indeed I do. Don't you?"
She was gazing straight before her, and she shook her head. "Not a
bit. I must tell the truth, you know. I feel the world is big, and
very--frightfully--interesting. And there are many things I want to
know about, and talk about."
He sat very silent. "Then--then--you don't--er--return my feeling?
You are not in love with me, as I am with you, Rona?" he wistfully
demanded, at length.
After a pause, "I don't know," she replied.
He felt dashed and piqued, both at the same moment.
"I wonder if you have any idea of how cruel it is of you to say
that?" he asked, half pleading, half annoyed.
"Oh, I don't want to be cruel," she hastily answered. "I want to be
very kind to you, Mr. Vanston."
"Say Denzil--give me my name, Rona."
"Oh!" said Rona, quite as if the suggestion shocked her. He leaned
forward, staring at her, taking in the beauties of her with thirsty
eyes--the quality of her skin, the modeling of the corners of her
lips, the bend of her lashes, the heaving of her throat under her
embroidered muslin bodice.
"Why not?" he asked, in a low, hoarse voice. The voice warned Rona,
for it was unnatural. She stood up. "It is chilly in the wind," she
said, standing there, her face and, hair gilded by a long sun ray
which struck upon her through the trees.
He sprang to his feet, and his eyes glittered. "Oh!" he said, "Oh,
how beautiful you are!" He caught both her hands in his hot grasp.
"You must tell me," he panted, "do you hear? You must tell me what
you feel? Did you mean what you said, that you don't care for me?
Oh, you couldn't mean that--Rona!"
He was close to her--so close that he could feel the contact of her
slim form. Some instinct warned her that to move suddenly would
provoke further demonstration. She grew white, and took his hand in
her own. "Have I not asked you," she said, in a very still voice,
"not to talk of this--yet?"
It was the woman's device to gain time. But it did not seem to have
succeeded. "Not yet?" he cried, on a high note. "Is that what you
mean, really? That we ought not to speak freely yet? I can wait--or
I thought I could, half an hour ago! But give me a word, just a
word, Rona."
He followed her up, his arm ready to go round her waist. She but
just eluded him. "The word is--wait," she said: and in her fear she
began to lose the control which had subdued him. "You must wait, if
I say wait," she cried imperiously. And her next words sounded
curiously irrelevant. "After all, I am only nineteen," she urged,
indignantly.
He felt like a man pushing against a closed door--felt a deep desire
to batter it down with force. Yet he could not risk her displeasure.
"Oh, Rona," he said, "it is too bad of you to torture me."
She retorted quickly, "It is you who are torturing me"--and broke off
upon the word, for there was the sound of a voice raised, calling Mr.
Vanston.
Impatiently Denzil went to the flight of steps which led down into
the little garden where they sat. "Who is there? What do you want?"
he cried testily.
"Oh, there you are, sir," cried Chant, the butler. "I knew you had
come in, but couldn't find you. A cablegram, sir. Is there any
answer?"
Rona's heart seemed to stop. She stood where she was, still as a
statue, while Denzil opened the envelope. He seemed to grope, to
fumble, to take incredibly long over the simple process.
A cablegram! Doubtless to announce that Felix was on his way. That
flimsy bit of paper showed how terribly near, how accessible he was
and always had been, though he had seemed so far away as not to count
in one's scheme of life. And now he was coming! When? How much
respite yet before she must look upon his strong, reproachful face?
Denzil glanced up, white as ashes, from the paper he held. "There is
no answer," he said to Chant; and the man went away.
The Squire came up to Rona and held the paper to her. She took it
and gazed for a moment with blurred eyes. Then her vision cleared
and she saw:--
"Felix missing. Fear foul play. Vronsky."
She stared upon the message, her heart contracting till the pain was
physical. Was this to be the way out for her? Was the man who had
rescued her, and trusted her, and loved her to die at last a violent
death at the hand of inhuman wretches who called themselves brothers
to humanity? The oppression of her spirits threatened to choke her.
She cried out, in a tone she hardly knew to be her own.
"Denzil! Denzil? Tell me it isn't true!"
He ran to her, his arms held out, his sympathy ready to be poured
forth upon her.
"Oh, don't! oh, don't!" she pleaded, not choosing her words. "Don't
behave so, when we have this to consider! What are we doing here in
England safe and happy, when perhaps they are torturing him to death!"
Denzil drew out a handkerchief, passed it across his face, and
collected himself. "I beg your pardon. This--this is terrible. But
he has brought it upon himself--as a man soweth----"
"Oh!" cried Rona, unable to repress a strong shudder of disgust.
He stood silent a moment, surprised and confused. The news,
following upon his moments of unrestraint, had unstrung him somewhat.
"What," he asked vacantly, "what ought we to do?"
"Do?" cried the girl. "There is only one thing to be done! You must
go there, and move heaven and earth! You must appeal to the
Government, you must spare no money, no effort, to find him; if he is
dead, to avenge him, and if he is alive to deliver him from the hand
of these brutes."
Denzil stood sullenly brooding. For the second time Felix had
disappeared, and left him in doubt as to whether he was alive or
dead. In a flash it came to him! Rona was right!--This time there
should be no doubt. If he was, now free of his disreputable younger
brother, the fact should be known, ascertained beyond dispute!
And for many reasons he had better go. This afternoon's experience
had shown him to himself in a new light. He feared that he could not
trust himself much with Rona until the knotty situation was
unraveled. And if he left her she would become aware of the state of
her own affections. He was a firm believer in the adage that absence
makes the heart grow fonder.
Never in his life had Denzil Vanston made up his mind so quickly.
Never perhaps had he been called upon to decide so important a
matter. He saw the whole thing with a clearness born of his own
vital interest in the case. His going out would obviate the
necessity for Felix to come home at all. And it was obviously far
better that Felix and Rona should not meet.
Short as was his musing, it was too long for Rona's impatience.
"You must go, you must go," she reiterated, "or we shall have it on
our consciences till we die! You must send cables to the Russian
police, you must let them see that he has powerful friends, that he
cannot be spirited away with impunity! Oh," she burst out, in
anguish, "never in all his life has anybody helped him! And now I,
the one creature that he thought was his own, the one object for
which he lived--I have failed him! But if you will go, Mr. Vanston,
you may be in time! By God's help you may not be too late to let him
know that he is not all alone in the world."
Her lover raised his eyes and looked firmly upon her. He also folded
his arms. "Rona," he said solemnly, "I have made up my mind. To go
is my duty; and it shall be at once."
She gave a gasp of relief. "Do not try to hinder me," continued
Denzil, with unnecessary heroism.
"To hinder you? I should think not," cried Rona. "As you say, to go
is your duty, and at once. I will not try to prevent you. Every
minute is precious." She moved, as if to leave the spot.
Denzil gazed at her with wistful reproach. "You agree--you think,"
he faltered, "that I should set out literally at once?"
"Of course I do! There can be no doubt! Come, let us go to the
house and tell Aunt Bee, and arrange about the guests and so on.
Each moment that we stand talking here may increase your difficulties
when you get out there."
He tried once more. "Rona! Will you really send me away like this?"
She stopped short, looking blank. "I thought you had decided that it
is your duty."
His voice was broken by emotion. "But I thought--I thought--that you
would have been sorry to let me go."
"Forgive me," said Rona, "but I don't seem able to think about that.
I feel so guilty, my own heart has been such a traitor, I can't bear
to think of him out there, alone, unwanted ... when I think that I
have wished so earnestly to be free from him I could--Oh, I tell you
I could kill myself!"
She turned away, hiding her face in her hands. And Denzil, after a
moment's hesitation, chose the wiser part, and turning, went away and
left her to wrestle with her remorse.