TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
All alone, thou and I, in the desert,
In the land all forgotten of God.
--HENRY KINGSLEY.
Aunt Bee had insisted upon supplying Veronica, when she started upon
her perilous enterprise in the wilderness, with all kinds of
medicaments; and she was able to assure Felix that she had _Pommade
Divine_ to apply to her bruises. He made her bed up for her with an
ingenious arrangement of cushions, and, when he had hung a lamp up
inside, under the tilt, and lowered a curtain between them, she had a
little private chamber to herself, where she could safely investigate
the extent of her hurt.
There was a bruise and some swelling, and no doubt the pain had been
sharper on account of the mischief done two years ago in her far more
perilous fall. But as far as she could tell, it was merely external;
and when she was snugly curled up among her pillows it gave her
little discomfort. Her ensuing wakefulness was not due to pain, but
to a disturbance of feeling which took long to subside to a point
which would allow of her sleeping.
The fine air, however, came to her help, and now that she was used to
it, the motion of the carriage also lulled her. She slept, and
soundly, until past seven o'clock next morning.
On this day the weather, which had been fine from the first, became
absolutely perfect. From sunrise to sunset no cloud appeared upon
the face of the blue heavens; yet it was not too sultry. A tiny
zephyr blew with seductive sweetness, and the late heavy rain
prevented there being too much dust.
It was a day charged with oppressive silence between the traveling
pair. Until last night Felix had been the one to hold off--Rona had
been wistfully anxious to be friends. But now her coldness redoubled
his own. She was as reluctant to speak as he, and what she said was
more frozen. In truth, her own thoughts, her own emotions, were a
greater puzzle to herself than they could be to anyone else.
She hardly dared look at Felix, except when she felt sure that his
back was turned. But once, while they were eating their breakfast,
she surprised his eyes upon her, and with an intentness which made
her positively faint. She shuddered, with a kind of agony which was
half bliss. Had she known it, her beauty that radiant day was enough
to make a strong man weak.
The warm color of her hair, the rose stain upon her cheeks, and the
new, strange light within her eyes, made her perilously attractive.
They were young together, in so fair a world! Ah, if the barrier
might but be swept away, so that they could talk heart to heart!
His questions as to her health, and whether her injury had prevented
her sleeping, were miserably constrained, and her replies but just
escaped the charge of rudeness.
They ate, almost in silence, and as soon as they started again, he
lay down to sleep, upon the couch where she had rested all night, and
which was still fragrant with a memory of her, in some hardly
perceptible perfume.
Again it was long, very long, before the young man's eyes closed; and
then he fell so soundly asleep, that he exceeded his usual six hours,
and it was past four o'clock when at last he awoke.
That evening they came to a forest. It is the only one upon the
route; and it makes a grateful change from the endless waste of
treeless steppe.
Felix had been awake for the past hour, seated with his chin propped
upon his hands, gazing before him with white face and glittering eyes.
It was now within two hours of sunset, and the rose-colored rays from
the west burnt in among the foliage of the graceful birches, till
they seemed like trees of silver and gold, seen in vision. One of
the horses of their troika had been going badly for some time; and
when they were in among the trees the driver turned to Felix and said
something to him.
Felix turned to Rona, who, since he awoke, had been deeply immersed
in her book, and said, in a manner which suggested an apology for
addressing her, "The man thinks that unless we rest the horse a bit,
it will not make the next stage. Do you mind stopping for an hour in
this wood? We could eat our supper while we wait."
"Of course not. It is lovely," she said.
He gave an order, they stopped, and he helped her down--with great
care to avoid shaking her. Then he turned to the driver, and gave
his help in unspanning and rubbing down the ailing horse. Rona stood
a while watching, then, turning, roamed away a little distance into
the fairy wood.
It was indeed like an enchanted land. The Siberian stag-horn moss
curled and furled itself about the roots of delicate fern, and the
slanting sun-rays gilded it with effulgence indescribable. She sat
down upon the warm, fragrant couch it made. The passion of sadness
which too much beauty brings mixed with the feelings in her
distracted heart. She had played both brothers false. She had said
she loved Denzil--and she did not. She had said she did not love
Felix--and she did!--Ah, she did!
She could not stop to ask why. She knew that it was so. She had not
loved him, but now she did--now she knew what love was.
She felt herself near to breaking down, and, remembering the way in
which she had given way and wept on the day of the picnic at Newark
Abbey ruins, she fought to keep herself from tears.
But the long strain of the journey, the shock of her accident the
evening before, and the strange influence of the desert place, all
combined to overcome her control. She was obliged to weep, the tears
flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, and for a while there
was nothing for it but to give way.
Her surrender was short--a few minutes only; but her little
handkerchief was soaked through and through. The knowledge that she
must very soon go back and face Felix with a composed aspect, availed
to call her to order speedily.
Just as her sobs began to die down, she heard his distant voice
calling her through the wood.
It sounded very far away; she must have strayed farther from the path
than she had been aware of. She must reply, or Felix would continue
to advance, and find her with those tell-tale stains upon her face.
She rose to her feet and cried back an answer--"Coming!"
Then she looked round in distress. Close to where she had lain a
tiny brook rippled through the wood. She knelt down by it, held her
handkerchief in it, and bathed her hot eyes repeatedly in its
comforting coolness. Then she washed her hands also, passed her
pocket comb through her locks, and slowly took her way back to the
road she had left.
There was the povosska, and the driver munching at a plateful of
supper. There was the cloth spread beneath a huge oak tree--but no
Felix. However, as she appeared, he dashed out from a thicket,
disturbance plainly written on his face. "Oh, there you are! I was
afraid you had been too far," he said.
She shook her head, smiling, and they sat down to eat.
She tried valiantly to swallow the food he had so carefully laid out,
but her throat seemed half closed, with a great lump which prevented
appetite. He watched her. He saw the heavy lids, hardly able to
lift themselves above the tear-dimmed eyes. He knew that she must
have been weeping in solitude, unconsoled. He was pierced with the
thought of his own selfishness. Here she was, all alone. The man
she loved--the man to whom she journeyed through such
difficulties--was ill. Her heart was full of anxiety; he had filled
it, too, with self-reproach. He loathed himself. What had she done
that he could fairly resent? Was it the action of anyone but a mad
boy to ask a girl of sixteen, who had only seen him two or three
times, to remain faithful to his memory? And if there was one thing
more certain than another, it was that Denzil was blameless. He had
never known the girl to be pledged in any way. He had not known who
Felix was; he had believed him her brother. He, Felix, was
responsible for the false position in which these two had been
placed; he had invented the brother and sister fiction, and for his
own selfish reasons. Yet, in his pride and revengeful anger, he was
making her suffer desperately--he knew it. But he would beg her to
forgive him.
As soon as they had finished supper--but she hardly ate anything--he
said, "Let us stroll in among these trees. It is a relief to move
one's limbs after the confinement of that old povosska."
Rona wavered. It were better for her not to walk with this man, not
to be on terms with him. But something in her drove her on--made it
impossible to refuse. She assented mutely. They passed together in
among the silver trunks. The sun was dropping low. The clear call
of a flight of herons came to them--and they saw the birds wheeling
in the faint blue air above them. They reached a pool, starred with
water strawberry, and, with a common impulse, they stood still upon
its verge.
"Rona!" said the young man, hoarsely.
It was the first time he had uttered her name. The sound of his
voice was low and strained. It raised feelings inexplicable in the
girl's confused mind and newly-awakened heart.
She had an impulse that to listen would be dangerous; that she ought
to avoid anything like a confidence from him. Yet a power much
stronger than she held her there mute and waiting--waiting for the
words from his lips. She did not speak; her eyes were raised for a
moment to his, full of such unhappiness as he could hardly bear to
see. But he knew that the look conveyed permission to continue. "I
want," he said, under his breath, "to tell you I am ashamed of
myself. I have been behaving like an unforgiving brute. I know I
have made you unhappy; and you have enough to bear without that.
Forgive me, will you? I'm--I'm beastly sorry."
She made no reply; she was wholly unable to speak.
"Of course," he began again, "I can see that you have been crying.
And I can't stand it. So let us have it out, shall we? I know I was
wrong, that time, when I clutched at your love, like a starving man
at a loaf of bread. I had no right. It was unjustifiable. But like
all men, I only thought of myself. I did want you so."
There was silence, except for the chirp of a sedge-warbler.
"And now," said Rona, half choking--"and now--you don't?"
He turned towards her in sharp surprise. "What do you mean?" he
said. "You are engaged to Denzil." He stood there looking at her,
until she thought his eyes would burn her. "How can I have any
claim, when you have decided in his favor?"
She turned away, for her face was quivering. "I could not bear it,"
she faltered lamely, "unless I felt sure you would be--happy."
"Thank you," said Felix, ironically. "If I am not I can always go
back, you know, to the point from whence you and I started."
In the pang which darted through her at this allusion she turned from
him, and, in fear of a breakdown, leant against a birch tree trunk to
hide her face. "Oh! Felix!" she sobbed, "Felix--don't!"
He was very white. It tore his heart to see her grief. The faint
perfume of her handkerchief or her clothes came to him on the evening
air, as to-day it had bewildered his senses when he lay in the
povosska. She was saying something--something incredible--among her
sobs. "You should not have written; you should have come to me. How
could I tell until I had seen you? I did not know."
He caught his breath. "What are you saying?" he asked, huskily.
Something in his voice warned her. She checked her tears with a
great effort. "Help me!" she craved. "Help me to be true to one of
you! I have been false to you; but Denzil is different! He has
loved me so long--he has done so much for me. Oh, I know what you
did--everything! But, after all, we barely knew each other....
While I feel as if I belong to him and Aunt Bee! They have been
home, love, everything ... you see, I could not betray him after all
he has been through!"
He felt the blood rush to his forehead. "Are you asking me to stand
on one side, and owning in the same breath that you love me best?" he
said, through his teeth.
She held her breath. This was putting the thing plainly. Yet it was
the truth. It made her angry to hear it. It goaded her on to fight
yet.
"You only thought you loved me," she brought out, vehemently. "You
had not seen me, you did not know me ... and there is a Russian
girl--Nadia Stepanovna...."
He took her by the shoulders, gently, but with firmness, turning her
round so as to face him; still she held her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Rona, do you really believe that?"
She took away the handkerchief, and lifted her wet lashes; and she
felt as though her soul were drowning in the mysterious compulsion of
his look. For a space all strength left her. She was drained of
power. This young man was her master; his claim could not be
denied....
Still holding her with one hand, he slipped the other down inside his
collar, and drew out a chain, with his half sixpence strung upon it.
"Look here," he said. "Since I first saw you there has been no other
thought in me."
"Oh!" the words seemed forced from her. "Oh, if I had been great
enough to be loyal too!"
"No, no," he said, hastily, "that was my part. I to be loyal, the
queen to reward or not, as she would. But if she will"--he held both
her hands--"if she will, then nobody on earth--not Denzil, nor any
other man..."
He was drawing her nearer, and how sweet, as well as how easy, to
yield to that pressure, to feel the clasp of his arms about her, to
rest in the knowledge that love had come to her indeed! But that
must not be; and she collected all her strength to tell him so.
"David!" Somehow that name came to her lips when she would appeal to
him. "Have pity, wait--Oh, I must say something to you...."
He saw, by the prayer in her eyes, by the urgency of her voice, that
she was in earnest, and he held himself in check with an effort.
"Help me," she faltered, "to be faithful to my word. I did
promise--just before he started for Siberia, I did tell him I would
be--his wife. You saved me once ... save me again! This time from
myself. I am so tossed about, I can hardly see what I ought to do.
But I am not free--you see that, don't you? I am bound; I--we--we
ought not to do this. Have pity on me, be good to me, be my brother
till we reach our journey's end!"
He drew a long breath, and passed a shaking hand over his knocking
temples. But she had, in her desperate fear, touched the right note
with him. She was in his power. For two more days they must fare
together; and she appealed to him for forbearance. To that appeal he
could not turn deaf ears.
"It's a puzzle," he said, heavily; "and I don't see the rights of it.
But don't be afraid of me, Rona. I--I am to be trusted. I would
give my life for you. Make yourself easy; I promise not to distress
you."
And as she lifted to him her quivering face, her suffused eyes, and
her mouth just touched by a smile of complete trust, he knew that he
was taking the very course that would make her love him more than
ever.
"I must just say this," he muttered. "You ought not to marry him
until he--knows."
She winced; but she stood firm.
"I shall tell him--as soon as I can," she replied, tremulously.