FOREBODINGS
She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,
She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day.
_The Lay of the Brown Rosary._
Miss Rawson had frequently before been left, while Denzil was away,
in sole charge at Normansgrave. She was a woman of courage, and it
had never occurred to her before to be nervous in the absence of the
master of the house. But now she was nervous, and for a reason which
she could not define.
She told herself that she was no longer young, and that she had been
unduly shaken by the surprising turn of events. The knowledge that
Felix still lived, the tidings of his danger, the sudden departure of
her nephew, the break-up of the house-party, and the waiting for news
in the forsaken house, broke her rest and gave her bad dreams.
The sight of Rona's white face and dilated eyes affected her
uncomfortably. Rona was in a very highly-strung condition, and would
start at the least sound. She had seemed feverishly anxious to let
Denzil go--had displayed a curious reserve on bidding him farewell;
but her manifest depression since he went could be attributed,
thought Miss Rawson, to but one cause.
Rona was so restless that it was painful to see her. She wandered
from garden to park, and back into the house, aimlessly. Her usual
occupations, reading, writing, gardening, cycling, golfing, were all
laid aside. Nothing interested her, far less contented her. And she
either would not or could not confide in the elder woman who had been
so good to her. Her wide, unseeing eyes, her tightly folded lips,
kept Miss Rawson at a distance. She could see that the girl was
desperately unhappy--she would have said more unhappy than even the
circumstances satisfactorily accounted for--but she could do nothing
for her but leave her free to indulge her melancholy.
On Sunday, after breakfast, she asked whether she thought of going to
church. Rona said "No" hastily, rose from the table abruptly, and
seemed as if she would go out of the open French window upon the
lawn. Miss Rawson felt that she ought to remonstrate.
"Rona," she said, "I think you should go. Denzil would wish it; I am
sure we stand in need of help at this moment."
The girl stood in the window, her eyes fixed, her attitude tense.
"I feel afraid to go," she said, after a minute's pause.
"Isn't that rather a foolish thing to say?" asked Miss Rawson, gently.
"Something dreadful is going to happen--don't you feel it?" said
Rona, in a whisper. "I feel as if it might happen in church."
Miss Rawson stared. She knew that she, too, was under the influence
of that strange idea that something was about to happen. She looked
upon it as a thing that should be fought against. "Surely," she
said, kindly, "church is the safest place."
Rona looked at her wistfully, and heaved a sigh. "Very well,
dearest," said she, affectionately, "if you think so." So saying,
she crossed the room and went upstairs to get ready.
It was a lovely morning, and the pretty little church was very full.
But it seemed that Rona could not fix her mind upon what she was
doing. She sat all the time like one in a dream, furtively glancing
behind her, over her shoulder, as though she expected to see
something alarming.
During the sermon it was painful to watch her difficulty in remaining
quiet. She was usually full of repose, but to-day she changed her
position, fidgeted, looked up, looked down, looked around; until the
irritation of Miss Rawson's nerves grew almost unbearable.
At last the service was over. They rose from their places, and moved
slowly down the central space, between the chairs. Three parts of
the way down, an elderly man, coarse and stout, but dressed like a
gentleman, stood hat in hand, his eyes fixed upon them both,
something that was not quite a smile, nor quite a sneer, lurking in
his eyes and unpleasant mouth.
As they passed him, he spoke quietly, but quite audibly.
"Well, Veronica," he said, smoothly, "have you nothing to say to your
Uncle Rankin?"
In that awful moment Miss Rawson was the more agitated of the two.
It seemed that, now the blow had fallen, the strange tension and
restlessness of the girl had passed away, and her spirit leaped up to
wrestle with this realization of her vague forebodings. She gravely
shook hands with her uncle, and said, in an undertone, "Let us wait
to talk until we are outside."
They moved with the thinning stream of people to the porch, and out
into the oppressive heat of a gray day that threatened thunder.
There Rona turned to Miss Rawson, and said, still very quietly, "This
is my mother's uncle, Rankin Leigh."
Aunt Bee had had a moment in which to collect herself. She bowed to
the disagreeable looking man who stood truculently there in the road,
his hat slightly pushed back upon his head, his eyes full of an
odious triumph, as thinking he had the whip hand of the situation.
"Pleased to meet any friend of my niece's, ma'am," said he,
familiarly. "And who may you be, if I may take the liberty to
inquire?"
"My name is Rawson," said Aunt Bee, with a valiant attempt not to
display the distaste she felt. "Are you--are you--staying near here?"
The man grinned unpleasantly. "Oh, yes, quite near," he said--"most
convenient indeed."
"It is convenient," said Miss Rawson, whose mind, working with
velocity under the stress of the moment, had determined that, as the
man was there, he must be more or less propitiated and made use of.
How thankful she felt that Denzil had so lately heard all of the
affair that Rona and the Mother Superior could tell them! "I have
been wishing to meet you, as your niece begins to feel that it is
time she knew her own history."
The man looked at Rona. He looked at her from head to foot. It was
a look that made Miss Rawson burn with disgust--such a look as the
owner of a beautiful slave might cast over her points when bringing
her to the slave market. The girl was charming. From head to heel
she was worth looking at. Her form, her head, her wrists and ankles,
her hands, and even such details as finger-nails and eye-lashes, were
all exceptionally good. He gazed with the eye of the expert,
appraising everything.
"She looks very well," he said, evidently trying to speak civilly.
"I think she is very well. She never ails anything," said Miss
Rawson.
"May I ask how long she has lived with you, ma'am?" asked Mr. Leigh.
"For more than two years," replied the lady. She had by now decided
what to say. "I came across her case in a hospital, and was much
interested in her. She had been very badly hurt."
The man, still peering at Rona, licked his lips. "And you have taken
upon yourself the burden of her ever since?" he said, with evident
surprise. "I assure you, madam, you should have been relieved of
your charge before this, had I known where to find my niece. She ran
away from me. Perhaps she did not tell you that?"
"Oh, yes, she did," replied Miss Rawson, steadily. "She is a very
good girl, and I have no wish to be relieved of the care of her."
"That is very kind of you, ma'am. But unfortunately, the young woman
has her living to earn," he said.
"I know," replied Miss Rawson, "and she has been so educated that I
hope she can do so without difficulty. Her plans are made. Come,
Mr. Leigh," she went on, briskly, "we must have some further talk on
this matter, and, I think, not in the middle of the road. When can
you come to see me?"
He was evidently surprised and pleased at her tone. "Any time,
practically, would do for me," he replied, more politely than he had
yet spoken.
Miss Rawson reflected. "Well," she said, "I should like you to dine
with me, if you will be so kind. But to-day and to-morrow we are,
unfortunately, particularly engaged. Will you come to dinner with us
on Tuesday, at seven-thirty?"
As she spoke, the victoria, which had been waiting at the side of the
road, drove up quickly at a slight signal from herself. The man was
evidently taken aback by her manner, and flattered--perhaps a little
fluttered--by her invitation.
"I am obliged to you," he said. "Dinner on Tuesday at seven-thirty."
He was not used to dealing with women of her class, and though he was
ready to bully or bluster, he found nothing in her self-possessed,
impersonal manner which he could take hold of. Besides, he
reflected, it was far better not to frighten her. If he did, she
might produce lawyers, or such other undesired persons, to take part
in the proceedings. He knew, far better than she, the flimsiness of
his own claims. He was not the girl's legal guardian, and never had
been. A moral claim was all that he could urge, joined to a cunning
by means of which he hoped to attain his end, for he was convinced
that it would be well worth his while to get hold of Rona. She had
grown into just such a woman as he had foreseen. He did not feel any
doubt of being able, with little difficulty, to reconcile her to the
way of life he had in view for her, when once she realized her own
power, and what a splendid time she could have if she were but
sensible. But he knew well that the tactics he had formerly adopted
were woefully mistaken. Of all things now, he must not scare her.
As his mind flew rapidly over his intended course, he felt that he
could not do better than accept this dinner invitation. He helped
the two ladies into the carriage, little dreaming how the heart of
the haughty-looking Miss Rawson was knocking against her side.
"If you would kindly give me the address," he said.
Miss Rawson was seated in the victoria. She opened her card-case.
"Home," said she to the coachman, in the act of handing the card to
Mr. Leigh, with a bow and a condescending smile. The man touched his
hat, and started. They glided away, leaving Mr. Leigh staring
fixedly at the card, with a face suddenly crimson.
"Normansgrave!" he repeated over and over to himself. "Why, that's
the Vanstons' place! His brother's place! Well, of all the fools,
that detective of mine, Burnett, was the worst! And yet, of all the
places that I should have thought he would not have taken her to, his
brother's place was certainly the one." He was so thoroughly
disconcerted that he actually grinned. "I thought they had slipped
through his fingers somewhere," he reflected. "He said he was
certain that he sent her across from Plymouth--such stuff! I told
him. I said, 'He left her somewhere between London and Basingstoke,
or my name's not Rankin Leigh.' But they always think they know
best, these blooming detectives! Well, it's a queer thing! Young
Vanston must have brought her here, yet I'll swear that he never went
near the place himself, and, what's more, I can swear that his
brother didn't know where he was, unless Denzil Vanston, Esq., is the
most finished liar on the face of the earth. Why, at that very time,
he was paying the police a pretty penny to find the
ticket-of-leaver--or his corpse! Humph! Well, I thought I had only
a woman to deal with, but if the two Vanstons are in it the
difficulties will be greater than I had foreseen. What did become of
the other one, after all? Well, there may be some information to be
got up at the hotel yonder, that's one thing."
He hurried back to the second-rate inn where he had put up, and, in
the course of an hour or two, had found out something of some
importance. The Squire had just gone abroad--very unexpectedly. It
was even known at the post-office that he had had a cable from
Siberia. This was good news. Leigh determined upon his plan of
action. He would ask humbly, but with firmness, so as to imply that
he could enforce obedience if he chose--he would ask that his niece
be allowed to come and stay with him in his flat in London, to show
that all was right between them. He would speculate; he would hire a
furnished flat in a good position for a month, no matter at what
cost. And he would take the girl about--give her clothes and a few
jewels; take her to the theater and to race-meetings--he believed
that the men to whom he could introduce her would do the rest.
For all the latter part of his life, the man had been a hanger-on at
stage doors, a theatrical agent, a go-between of the profession. He
believed all women to be like those with whom he was in daily
contact--greedy, grasping, pleasure-loving, non-moral. To him, the
life he found Rona living--going to church with a maiden lady--was a
life from which any handsome young girl would escape, if she could.
If she once found that her beauty would bring to her--and
incidentally to him--diamonds, motors, life on the champagne
standard, he literally could not conceive that she could hesitate.
What was the good of having a girl like that in your power if you
could not make her keep you? He was determined to have an old age of
comfort, as a result of the earnings of Rona. He knew all the ropes.
He knew all there was to know about the "Profession." He knew that,
given material of the quality of that girl, success, with the right
steps taken, the right course adopted, was quite certain.
He sat smoking, and thinking it over, with his whisky on the table
beside him. He considered what, or how much, he could or should tell
Rona of what he suspected of her parentage. He was himself the son
of a solicitor, and had received a good education. But there was a
bad strain in the blood. Both he and his brother had gone to the
bad, and his brother had died young, leaving an orphan girl, whose
early associations were those of a life of discreditable shifts, but
who had developed the backbone lacking in her father and uncle, had
insisted upon qualifying to teach, and when her education was
complete, had obtained a post as governess in the family of
Mauleverer, a well-known old house of the Roman faith in the North of
England. But it seemed as if this girl, too, were infected by the
obliquity of the family morals, for, after a time, she disappeared
from her uncle's view, his letters being returned to him marked "Gone
away. Address unknown." One day he received a letter with a London
postmark, written at her dictation. It said that she was married,
that she had just become a mother, that she was dying. The letter,
which bore no address, was only to be posted in case of her actual
death, and then not until after a month had elapsed. She did not
reveal the name of her husband, but said that her tiny daughter was
to be brought up in a certain convent--the address of which she gave
him--under the name of Leigh. She begged him to inquire from time to
time of the child's health.
Her uncle and she had never been in sympathy. Evidently she had
nobody else at all to whom she could appeal for her baby's sake to
take some interest in her. She had always been a good and very
quiet, steady girl, yet her uncle found it a little hard to believe
in the story of her marriage.
There was a young man at Vane Abbey--John Mauleverer, the eldest son.
But he was a shy, retiring, delicate youth, by no means the kind of
man whom one suspects of making love to the governess. Rankin Leigh
had made a few inquiries at the time, but had learnt nothing to
confirm such a suspicion.
Other young men had come and gone, visitors at the Abbey; and as all
these were Roman Catholics, the fact of the baby's being sent to a
convent was not of much significance. Young Mauleverer married, a
wife of his own rank, not long after the death of Veronica's mother.
If he were the man, this gave some color to the dead girl's solemn
assertion that she had been actually married. The fact that the
supplies for Veronica's maintenance stopped upon John Mauleverer's
death made Rankin Leigh morally certain that he was, after all, the
father. He left a family of several children. Had Veronica been a
boy, it would have been worth her uncle's while to incur the expense
and trouble of hunting up evidence, and establishing her claims on
the property. But since she was a girl, and her father had sons, he
did not care to follow up the clew. And when, summoned to the
convent by a letter from the solicitors explaining that the supplies
had ceased, he saw his niece, he felt that she would be a more
lucrative and less risky source of income than the levying of
blackmail.
But what he had not cared to set on foot, he had little doubt that
the Vanstons might be willing to undertake, if he told them the
truth. Should he? He was still meditating on the subject, when the
waiter looked in.
"Mr. Leigh! Gentleman of the name of Burnett to see you, sir."
"Burnett! Well, that's a coincidence! Burnett, by all that's
wonderful! The very man!"
Burnett, the detective, came in with a twinkle. He sat down, and
when he had refreshed himself at his host's invitation, he produced a
letter from his pocket. "You're wanted, Leigh, seemin'ly," he
remarked, with humor.
"I'm wanted, am I?" said Rankin, with a stare. "And who wants me?"
"No less a person than Squire Vanston, of Normansgrave, has written
to me to trace you out."
"Well, I'm----" remarked Leigh, in amazement.
"Here's the letter, if you don't believe me. Got it yesterday. So
I've come to ask--do you want to be traced or don't you?"
"No need, my dear friend," said Leigh, in an off-hand way. "I
introduced myself this morning to Mr. Vanston's aunt, and to my own
niece, who has lived with them ever since I had the pleasure of
putting you on her track. If ever there was a confounded fool, it is
you, Burnett, if you'll give me leave to pass the remark. I'm dining
there Tuesday," he added, with nonchalance.