VERONICA "ON HER OWN"
And so I look upon your face again.
What have the years done for me since we met?
Which has prevailed, the joy of life or pain?
Do you recall our parting, or forget?
Show me your face. No! Turn it from my sight!
It is a mask. I would lay bare your heart.
You will not show me that? I have no right
To read it? ... Then I know my doom. We part.
_Words for a Song._
In after days, when Veronica looked back upon that journey, it seemed
to her as if it had lasted for months.
As its slow hours crept by, she grew to have a feeling that she had
been traveling ever since she could remember, and must go on
traveling till she died. The train moved on, and on, and on, like a
thing which, once started, can never stop again. After the first
twelve hours she had a bad attack of train sickness, an ailment from
which she had never before suffered; and she lay sleepless during the
night hours, with aching head and parched mouth, tossing about on her
berth, and with her mind unable to detach itself, even for a moment,
from a thought so dreadful that never, till faced by this dreary
solitude, had she dared to put it into words.
She knew, she had known, ever since their interview in the rock
garden, that she no more loved Denzil than she loved his absent
brother. She did not love him, and she vehemently desired not to
marry him. Yet, somehow or other, she had caused him to believe that
she returned his affection. She was, practically, engaged to him.
She had deceived both brothers, and it seemed to her that, search as
deeply as might be into her own heart, she had not done so wittingly.
The case simply was that her heart had never been aroused. Her hour
had not come. She did not know love. Each of these two young men
had wanted of her something which she had not to bestow. To each she
had offered in return something else. There was, however, one
notable distinction between the two affairs. Felix had excited her
best feelings. She had felt for him pity, sympathy, the instinctive
womanly desire to comfort and sympathize with the lonely, the
unfortunate. Denzil, on the other hand, had stood in her imagination
for home, peace, safety, well-being. It had been her selfishness
which had responded to his call. He could give her an assured
position, and life in the surroundings which she loved. Felix was
the asker, Denzil the bestower. To marry Felix demanded sacrifice;
to marry Denzil was to accept benefits at his hands.
But, if she considered which of the two had the more claim upon her
allegiance, she found herself bewildered, divided. Felix had saved
her life, but Denzil had preserved it. As she envisaged the
situation, she felt that the die was cast. Her letter to Felix had
bound her to Denzil. She wondered, over and over to herself, whether
Felix had received that letter, and what he had felt upon reading it.
Here, in her isolated loneliness, far from Aunt Bee, far from Denzil,
she began to have an inkling as to what letters would mean to the
exile, and to realize what Felix might have experienced, upon seeing
her writing, snatching open the envelope, and reading the complete
extinction of her own feeling for himself....
Was his present disappearance--could it be--the result of her
cruelty? Had it made him reckless?
Such thoughts poisoned the weary hours of the endless night. And
through them all beat upon her brain the knowledge that Denzil was
ill, so ill that he had wired for them to come to him. He would not
have taken so extreme a course, had his sickness not been
serious--had he not been in danger.
What should she do, if after the bitter strain of her long journey,
she found him dead when she arrived at Savlinsky?
She pictured herself alone, in the mining village, with no woman
near, with nobody but Vronsky, the Russian! Was it, after all, mad
of her to undertake such a journey?
She was thankful to rise from her sleepless couch, and shake off the
wild dreams which visited her with every moment of unconsciousness.
The varying country, the dim Ural Mountains, into the heart of which
they ascended, the increasingly strange garb of the people, left
hardly any impression upon her usually active mind. But during the
day she rallied from her misgivings of the previous night, and girded
at herself for a coward.
There was nothing to take off her mind from its treadmill of
apprehensions. The lady who was her fellow-traveler spoke English,
but was very dull, and most likely herself thought the girl
unresponsive. It had proved impossible to get English books for the
journey, and she was without refuge from the harassing thoughts which
yelped about her like snapping wolves.
As the train bore her along the endless road, as day faded into night
and morning dawned again along the illimitable plain, and sun shone
and wind blew and clouds drifted, and meal-times came and passed like
telegraph posts, the thought of her treachery--her double
treachery--was ever in her mind, aching, desolating.
Her fellow-traveler's encouraging assurance that they would be at
Gretz in an hour or two was an untold relief. At Gretz she hoped for
tidings of Denzil. She had telegraphed, before leaving St.
Petersburg, that she was starting, and asked to have news wired to
Gretz. Her telegram, in its brevity, said nothing of the fact that
she was coming alone.
Of itself, the idea of escape from the noise and motion of the train
was something to be eagerly anticipated. To walk upon firm ground,
to stand still, to sit upon a chair--these were boons indeed.
But when the train had departed, bearing with it the one creature
with whom she was on speaking terms, and she stood upon the platform
at the station and looked around at the dull, dirty town and the
wild-looking people, she had a moment of sheer panic. How isolated
she was! How the days had rolled by, without her being able to hear,
either from the beloved aunt she had left, or the lover to whom she
journeyed!
She shivered as she stood, for a heavy rainstorm had but just passed
over the town, and everything seemed dank and dripping.
She drew out her paper, upon which the doctor had written down for
her, "Drive me to the Moscow Hotel." "I want to stop at the
post-office." "I want a carriage and horses to go to Savlinsky," and
various such necessary formulæ.
It was only half-past ten o'clock in the morning, so she was
determined, if a carriage could be secured, to stay only for lunch at
the hotel, and start upon her journey at once. The friendly St.
Petersburg doctor had seen that she had a store of tinned food with
her, but it was with a sharp pang that she realized that however much
she wished to supplement her stores she could not do so, as she could
not say one word of Russian.
She found herself the center of a gesticulating crowd of men, all
proffering unintelligible service, saying to her things which she
could not understand. She could not pronounce the words the doctor
had written down for her, though she had tried to learn. She had to
show the written paper to the barbarian crowd that surrounded her.
Its purport was, apparently, understood, for, with many
gesticulations, and noises which she hoped and believed were of a
friendly nature, she found herself conducted to a curious-looking
vehicle in waiting outside; and, earnestly repeating "Hotel, Post
Office, Posting-house," she got in, and was driven through such a
slop of mud as she had never before encountered. Pausing presently,
she found they were at what looked like a stable doorway. Her driver
made signs for her to alight, and she concluded that he was
explaining that he had brought her first to the posting-house to give
her order, as it was on the way. She dismounted trembling, almost
slipping in the filth, and, peeping through the half-open gate, saw a
dirty courtyard within, where one or two ostlers were at work; and,
facing her, across an incredible swamp of stable refuse, the door of
a house, which was presumably the place where she must give her
order. Gathering her skirts about her, she entered the disgusting
place, and stood wavering, glancing round in desperation, and
despising herself for her want of resource.
She saw that she had been imprudent in trusting herself, with no
knowledge of the language, in such regions. But she was in for this
journey now, and meant to win through to Denzil if she died in the
attempt. She must not be deterred by the smells nor the mire of the
stable yard: and she advanced with determination.
Just as she did so, two men came out from the door-way which she was
approaching, and stood upon the stone step in the full light of day.
One was presumably the Russian stable-keeper, a wild kind of person,
but apparently amiable. He was in eager converse with a tall man,
very well dressed, who held a cigar between his fingers.
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.