A DOUBLE DILEMMA
--Blame or praise
What was the use then? Time would tell,
And the end declare what man for you,
What woman for me was the choice of God.
--ROBERT BROWNING.
In the bright sunshine the povosska sped on towards Savlinsky.
They sat together, the man and the girl, staring out upon a formless
future.
They no longer read. But neither did they talk. What could be said
between them?
Minute after minute, mile after mile. The road stretched before and
behind, mocking them with a false suggestion of being endless. If
but it were! If but it were! If this could go on forever--this
closeness of undisturbed companionship!
Rona felt a kind of resentment against that cruelty of fate which
seems to blind a young girl to her own feelings until it is too late.
She recalled her sober fondness for Denzil, her eager clutching at
any arrangement which would secure to her the continuance of her
happy life. And the shock of repulsion which had seized her when
some new feeling leaped to life in her at the touch of the man's lips
in leave-taking, and she knew that she not only did not share his
feeling, but that it excited in her the most complete distaste.
While, for this other, whom she had denied, whom she had forgotten,
whom she had feared ... the intoxication of joy which she experienced
in the mere fact of being there, side by side with him, would break
in upon all her rueful thoughts, and shake her with a great emotion
that had no resemblance to anything she had previously known.
Scorning herself, she remembered that she had actually flinched from
the idea of going out to Siberia, to banishment, to live with him.
She gazed around, at the boundless, free, rolling country, that
seemed but just wide enough to contain her love, her joy in his
company. Banishment! Life here with him would be the garden of Eden!
Yet she had bound herself hand and foot. She had appealed to Denzil
to save her from Felix. It was done, and to this she must stand, if
he wished it. There must be no drawing back. Her very soul sickened
at the thought of the pain she must inflict, did she confess to him
that she did not love him, and never could love him, but that she
could and did love another.
No, she could not, must not, do it. What, after all, was love? A
mere emotion. She would go back with Denzil to England, and never
see Felix again. The profound trouble which she now experienced
would grow to be only a memory. Surely there lay the path of her
duty. Perhaps, after all, it had been better had her leap for
freedom landed her lifeless upon the railway lines at Deptford.
The reflections of Felix were even more somber. He knew Denzil. He
knew him well, in and out. He felt sure that he would not release
Rona.
The reasons for his refusal would be of the highest character. He
would be quite sure that no good girl could ever be happy with a
convicted felon, with a man with such a record as his unfortunate
brother. He would deem her fancy for Felix a passing phase, and
would carry her off, working upon her gratitude, using the claims he
had upon her--and marry her to himself as soon as it could be done
with decency, in order the sooner to efface the image of Felix from
her heart.
And, after all, would not this be best? He looked longingly upon the
grave profile of the girl beside him. He noted the fastidious curve
of her mouth, the depth of expression in her eyes. Was it for him to
imprison such a creature in Siberia?
What a mistress she would make for Normansgrave!
No. There was no chance of Denzil's giving her back. Her life was
fixed. She was not his, she never had been, never would be. He had
only these few minutes in which to realize her, these few minutes of
agony and futile regret.
Was it not all absurd? Suddenly his heart rose up within him and
shouted, and his passion mocked his sense of right and justice. Why
bring her back to the man who would part them forever? She preferred
him--he knew it. Why not tell the driver to turn his horses' heads,
and dash away together into the unknown?
He felt the blood rush to his head, his heart began to beat with
great slow thumps.
How much money had he? Enough to keep them for some weeks. He could
communicate secretly with Vronsky, and tell him where they were, and
as soon as Denzil had departed bring her back to Savlinsky.
That was surely the true way to cut the knot. Let him have courage,
and take what was his own.
He breathed fast and with difficulty.
"Rona!" he said, in a whisper.
She started from her own sad, absorbed meditations. She turned her
eyes to him, with a dumb appeal in them for mercy. There was
something so sorrowful in the look that it acted like fire upon his
senses.
"I can't--I can't!" he said, under his breath. "It's too hard. I
can't let you go. I shall tell him to turn the horses, and we will
go away--together."
She looked at him, all the blood in her body rushing to her heart.
They were sitting side by side, but not close together. Now her body
seemed to lean towards him; her eyes were alight, her lips parted
slightly. But a look of mortal fear clouded the eagerness of her
sweet face. She raised her hands with a pitiful gesture of entreaty.
"Oh, hush, don't! No, Felix, no, I trust you. You can't----"
She broke off with a gulping sob, snatching her handkerchief to her
mouth lest the driver should hear, and turn his keen black eyes upon
her weakness and misery. But the driver was gazing along the road
ahead, his eyes shaded. Something had attracted his attention.
Felix was too absorbed to notice. He did not speak, but he leant
towards her, one clenched hand upon the seat between them, and
relentlessly held her eyes with his own. His teeth were set. He
knew she could not hold out for long if he set his will upon it.
"You said," she voiced, almost inaudibly--"you said--that I might
trust you."
"Yes," he answered, in the same tone. "Will you? Trust me
altogether? For always?"
The driver dropped his hand, and, making a violent motion along the
road, pointed, shouting something in an excited way.
The movement, the unexpected shout, snapped the hypnotizing
influence. Rona, startled, uttered a low cry. Felix gazed ahead as
the driver bade him, and saw a mounted man approaching.
Even at that distance he was able to recognize Vronsky's ungraceful
form. His moment was over. He let his head drop upon his breast,
defeated.
Vronsky came on, feeling very shy. Two English ladies were under
that hood, and he hardly knew how to meet them. He felt so severely
himself towards Denzil, towards his selfish cowardice in sending for
his womenkind to undertake so fatiguing a journey, that his attitude
was one of abject apology. Then, as he drew nearer, he saw a
handkerchief waved. The povosska drew up, and his own adored Felix
leaped lightly to earth and ran forward.
Vronsky leant down from his saddle, caught his boy about the neck,
and showered kisses upon the top of his head, quite unashamed of the
possible amusement of the spectators.
He had come, he explained, not to meet Felix, whose arrival he had
not certainly expected, but to greet the ladies, bear to them the
Governor's pressing invitation, and escort them to Nicolashof. It
was better luck than that coxcomb of a brother deserved. He had
telegraphed in a fit of panic. Had he been going to die he would
have been three times dead before they could reach him. He had
merely been ill. What would you? Men got well again. Was it a
journey for ladies? It was thanks to the saints that Felix had been
at hand to protect them. A mad scheme. He grumbled on.
"Miss Leigh has taken no harm," said Felix, dully, "so why make such
a song about it? All is well."
"Is all well?" said Vronsky, sulkily. "This girl who has come so
far, who has preferred him to you--she is to find out something if
she has eyes. Does she love him? Is her happiness bound up in him?
For, if so, she is to be made very miserable."
Felix turned crimson. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. But why did you not have two carriages? I
suppose you sent back the other at the last posting-house?"
"No, little father, we have come in one. Miss Rawson has not come at
all. She lies ill at St. Petersburg. Miss Leigh has come alone. I
don't know what would have happened to her, had I not chanced upon
her at Gretz."
Vronsky stared. "Is it possible?"
Felix, with a thousand questions fighting to be uttered, choked and
was silent. "Come and see her," he said, after a minute or two.
He went up to the carriage, said a word, and Rona rose, gave him her
hand, and alighted to greet Vronsky. There was a hint of something
tragic in her beauty which made an instant appeal to the emotional
heart of the Russian. Ah, here indeed was the woman for his Felix!
Yet she had preferred the ignoble little neat-mannered man up at
Nicolashof--the man who was flirting deeply, dangerously, with Nadia,
while he awaited the coming of this courageous girl.
"Madam, I greet you. You are a brave lady," he said, gravely, in
English; and the girl's eyes filled with tears as she grasped his
hand.
"I hope--I trust--that Mr. Vanston is quite recovered?" she faltered.
"I mean, that he is much better? I have been in deep anxiety."
"He is as well as ever he was in his life," said Vronsky, "and as
well amused. That is the truth. The Governor and his daughter have
truly Russian notions of hospitality. They bade me bring you to
them, mademoiselle. Will you go?"
"No," said Rona. "Unless you say that I must, I will not go. I
would rather stay with you, please, if you are so kind as to make
room for me. Mr. Vanston can come and see me at your house. I have
no claim upon the kindness of these strangers."
"Our house will be more dear to us ever after if its roof has
sheltered your beautiful head, mademoiselle," said Vronsky, with deep
conviction.
Rona acknowledged this with a shy smile. "Let Felix ride your horse
awhile, and come and sit with me in the carriage and let us make
friends."
The suggestion completed the conquest of the big, affectionate
fellow. And in this order they made the rest of the journey.
* * * * * * *
Denzil had opened his eyes that morning to the awful conviction that
every dream must have an awakening, and that his awakening was come.
Until dawn he had not slept. He had lain awake staring at the
ceiling, asking himself helplessly whether it could be true that he,
the blameless, the well-conducted, the young man whose sober pulses
knew not what it was to quicken, could really be false, could really
be shamelessly in love, pushed out of his usual decorum and
moderation, carried along upon the swift current of his senses,
caring for nothing but this wondrous girl, hoping for nothing but
some catastrophe which should keep him forever away from England, and
happy at her side.
Wild thoughts of offering Normansgrave to Felix, if only he would
take Rona away and leave him happy with Nadia, coursed through his
mind. Absurd he knew such thoughts to be. But he had cast to the
winds all sense, all propriety. He was as much out of himself as a
man hopelessly drunk for the first time in his life.
Why had he hitherto led so jog-trot, so narrow a life? How could a
man, ignorant of the possibilities of existence, judge of what was
necessary for his own happiness? Had he only gone forth earlier to
see the world, instead of staying at home, reflecting upon his own
virtues, he would not have been tempted into that sickly and tepid
course of sentiment with a half-grown girl like Rona.
And who was Rona? The curtain of romance that had veiled her had
been in part drawn back by the Reverend Mother, and her mysterious
uncle was now an established fact. Miss Rawson reported him to be
woefully second-rate, apart from his moral defects. "Remember," that
wise aunt had said, "Felix took her from a lodging in Deptford."
And he might have had this creature of fire and magic, this Russian
aristocrat, with the blood of Royal Princes in her veins! He was
Vanston of Normansgrave, proud of his old, clean name. How could he
have indulged so unworthy a dream these last two foolish years?
He thought of Nadia, standing in the hall at home, walking in the
gardens, learning the ways and customs of an English lady of
position. How he would love to show her all the superiorities of his
own beloved country! To see her the admired of all the countryside!
Mr. Vanston's beautiful wife would have been the talk of the
neighborhood. Poor Denzil!
He kept away from Nadia all that day, wandering alone, in moody
meditation. His thoughts never dwelt for a moment upon the idea of
the girl who was coming to him, so long a journey, at so great a
fatigue. She was to him merely a disagreeable duty, which would have
to be faced. He did not realize this. Had he really known what he
felt, he would have hid his face in shuddering shame. As it was, he
was conscious only of the pain he was suffering. Towards evening,
Nadia, wandering alone, found him, seated in the shadow of a huge
tree, his face hidden in his hands.
She seated herself beside him, her impulsive heart moved to keen
pity. All day long she had been feeling hurt and angry. It had been
charming to wield undivided sway over this curious, self-contained
man for these last delightful days. She had no idea of the true
state of affairs--no idea that the English girl now on her way to
Savlinsky was, as an actual fact, the betrothed of Denzil Vanston.
But she felt that the new arrivals would put an end to a
companionship which had been strangely delightful.
She reflected with cold wonder that she had once thought herself in
love with Felix--Felix, whose color had never changed, whose breath
had never quickened at her coming--whose manner to her was as his
manner to Miss Forester, civil, pleasant, neutral. She could not
look at Denzil without becoming aware of his intense consciousness of
her look. He was her slave. He reddened and paled, smiled or
frowned, as she willed. Nadia was a young woman who loved her own
way. Her intelligence had always warned her that with Felix she
would not have had it. She had the same instinctive knowledge that
she would be able to twist Denzil round her finger.
Now, she knew not why he suffered, but she could well see that he was
suffering. A new feeling, of tender pity, a mother-feeling, took
possession of her heart. She was at bottom a very simple-minded,
domestic young woman, impulsive, and a little spoilt, but wholly
feminine.
"Something is wrong with you," she said. "And I am grieved if you
grieve."
He took her hand, and, hardly knowing what he was about, held it to
his lips. The girl smilingly allowed it. The misery of thwarted
passion rushing through his veins filled the touch of his lips with
fire. As he held and kissed her small, soft hand, the contented
smile faded from her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes grew deep and
troubled. She trembled, and made an effort to draw back her hand.
He let it go at once, and in a kind of despair, resting his elbows on
his knees, dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh," said Nadia, breathlessly, "what is it? Tell me, tell me, you
make me so unhappy."
"To-day is the last," he brought out, thickly. "I am counting each
second of it. My friends will arrive in an hour or two. We shall
leave for England in a day or two, and you--you will forget me, the
poor wretch who all his life will never be able to forget you."
She gave a little delicious sigh. "Ah," she said, "then you will
feel it too. I thought you would be so glad to have your own
countrywomen with you--to turn your back upon this desert place."
He lifted his head, showing her his eyes suffused with tears.
"Desert!" he said. "This is the garden, and the King's daughter. I
am the unfortunate stranger whom your bounty has succored. Now he
must be driven forth again into the wilderness."
She laughed, with an assumption of lightness. "Wilderness! That is
very unlike Miss Forester's description of England! She says it is
the fairest place on earth. I have always"--her sweet, emotional
voice dropped to its lowest notes--"I have always wished that I could
go there. It is a land of peace, of safety, as well as beauty."
It was as if the voice, the words, touched a spring. He turned to
her. "Come," he articulated, almost inaudibly; and his craving
sounded in his broken voice. "Come to England--with me--Nadia."
He felt that he simply could not help it. It had to be said. It was
bald, bare, it needed softening, it needed much explaining. But
something in Nadia's heart apparently bridged all the gaps. In a
moment he had her in his arms. And as he held her, there leaped upon
him, out of the past, a memory of the moment in which he had so held
Rona, in the Abbey ruins at Newark.
The thought went nigh to poison his ecstatic hour. Rona had not
yielded herself to him. She had not exactly rejected, but she had by
no means responded to his mood. But Nadia responded with a rush of
feeling which astounded her lover. It almost frightened him. For
the moment it carried him away completely. He had a dim feeling that
all the careful maxims of centuries were borne away and swept down by
the current upon which he was carried. Through it all was a sense
that Nemesis must overtake him--that this could not last. Something
was coming upon him--what was it? Remorse for treachery? Stuff!
How could one be a traitor to a thing one had never felt? Yet,
surely the avenging moment was at hand! Surely there was a hand
outstretched to dash away this heady cup from his lips?
Yes--and close by.
As at last he lifted his burning face, and loosened the clasp of his
arms from about Nadia's form, he saw, standing there before him, in
bodily shape, his brother Felix. There stood the scapegrace, and
there before him sat the virtuous elder brother, caught in the
treacherous act. Felix had indeed changed since their last meeting.
Tall, handsome, and altogether at his ease, he fixed a glance of
ironic amusement upon the situation for a brief half-moment, and
then, turning silently and swiftly, walked off among the trees of the
garden, unseen by Nadia, whose face was hidden against her lover;
leaving Denzil writhing in the pangs of a shame far more acute than
the most scathing criticism in words of his conduct would have
produced in him.