CHAPTER XII

RONA'S KNIGHT

"Lady," he said, "your lands lie burnt And waste: to meet your foe All fear: this have I seen and learnt. Say that it shall be so, And I will go."

* * * *

And there the sunset skies unseal'd Like lands he never knew, Beyond to-morrow's battlefield Lay open out of view To ride into. --D. G. ROSSETTI.

This was something new--something for which Felix, unused to women, to society, to youth and charm, was oddly unprepared. Was that Rona? That young immortal, with faintly blooming cheeks, elastic tread, and all those burnished locks? As frequently happens to girls of her age, she had grown considerably taller during the weeks of her illness.

The young man gazing at her felt his heart shaken by a pain which was worse than anything he had suffered yet. He was a skulking fugitive, a disgraced man, one who had taken dark oaths against society and authority, and was seeking to flee from the men who would have held him to them. What link was there between him and Veronica Leigh?

He bitterly recalled the proverb, "Necessity makes strange bed-fellows." Necessity had obliged the maiden, in the throes of her desperate struggle for liberty, to trust herself to him for a few short hours. Those hours had changed the face of the world for him. For her they were no doubt already half-forgotten. She had, as it were, set her foot upon his neck to climb out of the pit. Here she was once more, seated at her ease among the elect, safe, cherished, and no more in need of her slum companion. He thought of the kindly, peremptory, half-patronizing letter he had written to her, and grew hot all over to think that he had dared.

The figures of the three were disappearing down the drive together. He crept into the summer-house, where there were not so many pea-sticks as usual, sat down upon the dusty bench, and let his head drop into his hands. There was a swelling at his throat as if he must choke. The air was full of the tossing chimes, which, as he sat there, changed to the monotonous stroke of the five minutes bell. It was a knell, ringing for him, he thought--the knell of Felix Vanston, now forever dead and lost.

Ask _her_ to run away and marry him, upon a pound a week!

Only in that bitter moment did he realize that he had meant to beg and pray her to do so.

One sometimes has no measure by which to gauge height, except the violence of one's fall.

* * * * * * *

A sound, slight but distinct--the rattle of gravel beneath a light foot, the rustle--indescribable--of a woman's apparel--and he lifted his dim eyes to see Rona standing in the doorway. With no word spoken she slipped inside the hut, round behind the bunches of sticks, to where he sat. "David--here I am," she said, timidly.

He made her no reply, but let his craving eyes rest upon her. She flushed, and began to tremble. His evident misery pained her. Also, the surprise was not only upon his side. This young man was not the ragged, famished outcast who had grappled with her in his weakness and extremity, dragging her back to safety as she overhung the abyss. She, too, was smitten with the feeling that they were strangers.

Into his soul were thronging all kinds of desires and consciousnesses, for the first time. He wished he were shaved. He wished he had a better suit; he wished he were handsome; he longed to be rich.

True, the disfiguring blue glasses were hidden in his pocket; but even so, what kind of a champion was he, dusty pilgrim that he was, for this princess?

He stood up awkwardly, and his face was dyed crimson, with a shame the more awful because it was wholly inarticulate. His first words left his lips before he had time to consider them.

"Forgive me. I ought not to have come."

She gazed at him pitifully, her trouble growing. "Ought not to have come? Oh, David, why? I--I thought you were--my brother."

She was overswept with a sudden consciousness--much like that which had just overtaken the young man. After all, what was the link that bound them? A few hours of common danger, of frantic flight? She felt curiously friendless, and as though she had lived these past weeks under a comforting delusion. "Why ought you not to have come?"

He said, brokenly, "I have no right." Then, with passion, "I have no right, have I? You are happy, and among kind people of your own class. You have no need of a ruffian like me."

He turned away his face, lest she should see the working of his features, which he could not control. But Rona, with woman's swiftness of apprehension, had now the key to his unexpected mood. "David," she said, reproachfully, "are you jealous? Did you think I had forgotten you? How silly of you! You--you can't have a very high opinion of me."

She took his hand, in a steadfast, trustful grasp. She sat down upon the bench, and with a gentle pull drew him to sit by her. "Have I deserved it? Am I ungrateful?" she asked, wistfully.

He held on to the hand as if he had been drowning. Its warm contact sent comfort thrilling along his veins.

"Why should you have anything to do with me? Nobody else ever wanted me, or cared what became of me," he stammered, incoherently.

She lifted to his her shadowy eyes, full of understanding. "Perhaps you have not saved other people's lives at the risk of your own," she sweetly said.

"Then you do feel--you do consider that there is a kind of link between us," he faltered. "You don't wish me to resign you entirely? Oh--let us have no doubt about it! I haven't much heart for life, but if I thought you would not forget me it would make such a difference--such a difference----"

She broke in, "Forget you? Are you going away, then?"

He held his breath, for there was dismay in her clear tones. All the emotions that in his wild youth had never been called forth till now, woke to life and filled him with an ecstasy which made his heart pound, and his breath pant, and the currents of his being flow together till his head swam. "You care?" he gasped. "It matters to you whether I go or stay?"

"Matters? Oh, David! how can you?"

She turned to him impulsively. His arms went round her; and in a moment--exalted, unlooked for, sweet with a sweetness unbelievable--her head, with all its tumbled curls, was on his shoulder, and he was holding her close, close, as though again she was striving to hurl herself into eternity.

"Rona," he said at last. "Rona, I ought not to let you. I am not a fit man for you to love!"

"You are the man that saved me," said Rona, clinging to him. "How strange it seems. I never thought of you as a young man, somehow, until I saw you sitting here with such a sad, grave face."

"And I," said Felix, with a depth of wonder that was almost stupefaction--"I actually never knew that you were beautiful until this evening. But now I know. I see everything with a new clearness. I am a man, and you are going to be a woman in a year or two. And I want you for my wife."

She was silent, hushed with a new awe. "For your wife? Oh, David!"

"Will you?" he urged, beseeching her with eyes and hands and voice. "Will you promise that, if I can make a home for you, you will come and live in it? Will you give me something to work for, something to keep me from despair? Oh, Rona, I ought not to ask it! How can I be mad enough to ask it?"

"But of course I shall promise, if you wish it," said the girl, in her youth and immaturity eager to promise she knew not what, eager to give joy to the being who, apparently, depended upon her for all his hopes in life.

Even at the moment, even holding her against his heart, and feasting his famished nature with the sweetness of her womanhood and the brilliancy of his new hopes, her dutiful words, emphatic though they were, sent a chill through him. In spite of his inexperience, there is an insight which love gives; and he knew that Rona did not love him, but was merely willing that he should love her. She was not grown up, he told himself. When she came to be completely a woman she would love, as he now loved, with that surrender which to him was so new, so unexampled a sensation. It was long before he could calm down the turbulence of his emotions to anything like a consideration of the situation. But their time was short, and after ten minutes of more or less incoherent bliss and shy caresses, he began to explain to Rona some of his thoughts and plans. Now that they understood each other, these were far more easily explained than he had thought possible.

It appeared that the girl had not been informed of the extent of the benevolent intentions of the Squire and Miss Rawson on her behalf.

But she was quite sensible enough to understand that, as she and David were not really brother and sister, but desired another sort of relationship, it would not be fitting for them to travel about together, until the time came when they could be husband and wife.

Felix explained to her, fully and with care, the good prospect opened out to him by the patronage of Vronsky. He was also able to make her see clearly that it was dangerous for him to stay in England, seeing that the police supposed him to be dead.

He ascertained, by guarded and careful questioning, that neither Denzil nor his aunt had said a word to Rona concerning the black sheep of the family, nor his disappearance. As far as Normansgrave was concerned, it appeared that he was as though he had never been.

The main difficulty which Felix had foreseen in this interview, was that of convincing Rona that they must not make a clean breast of their circumstances, without giving her the true reason for his silence.

But on this point he found her unexpectedly amenable.

He began, with much diffidence.

"You know, Rona, you asked me in your letter, whether you might not tell Miss Rawson everything?"

"Yes," said the girl impulsively, "but I am sorry for that. As soon as I had written, I was sorry. Because, of course, I see that we can't do that."

He was puzzled. "You do see that we can't?"

"Certainly we can't. Because, if we did, they would have to know that you had been in--prison--and that they shall never know through me."

He gazed at her with ever-increasing admiration. "You see that?"

"Yes. I am growing up, you see. I think and hope I grow more sensible every day. I am learning, learning, every minute. Oh, David, you can't think how ignorant and foolish I am, or was. Inside those convent walls there was no world, only the circle of our everyday life, and the question of lessons and punishments, and being good, and being naughty, and fasts and festivals and penances and so on. But I believe that really I have plenty of brains, and I have a strong will too----"

--"That you have, or you never would have escaped, the determined way you did----"

--"And I know that, if these people, who are as kind as the people in a fairy-tale, do give me a chance to learn more, I shall take full advantage of it. Oh, David, by the time you come back, I shall be so changed! Twice as sensible and better instructed, and able to help you--to earn my own living, or help you earn yours."

"You are happy here?" he wistfully asked.

"Happy? I should think so. It is such a nice place, and they are so good. I don't mean only kind to me, but good to everyone. They do their duty all day long, and the priest and the doctor seem to come to them for everything they want."

"And you like the Squire?"

"Oh, very much. Not as much as I like Miss Rawson, of course. Miss Rawson is more--more--I don't think I can describe it. She has more mischief in her, somehow. He is fussy over little unimportant things, and he is rather prosy sometimes. But he is very kind, and he takes such an interest in me."

He sat gazing upon her as she spoke out her innocent thought. The idea of her being there, in his own home, until he came to summon her forth into the world with him, was so surpassingly sweet that it was with the utmost difficulty that he refrained from telling her how he had first seen the light within the walls that now sheltered her.

"It--it would disappoint you very much if they should decide not to keep you?"

She looked earnestly at him. "What would that mean? Would it mean that you would take me away at once?"

"Yes. They demand that I should make a clean breast of things to them. I can't do that. I will tell them all I can. But not everything. If they say, 'Very well, we can't keep her'--then I should have to fetch you, and we should have to fare into the wide world together. And I swear that I would take the same care of you that your own brother might."

He leaned forward, fervently, gazing deep into her eyes; and her lips curved into an adorable smile. "I don't think I should be so very much disappointed," she slowly said. "I believe you would let me learn as much as we could afford--wouldn't you?"

"I'd worship you--you should be to me like a saint--like a thing apart from the world," he whispered.

And she smiled happily.

After a few moments' thought, he asked her:

"You never heard of any other relative of yours, with the exception of this one uncle?"

"No, never."

"What did the Reverend Mother tell you?"

"That both my parents were dead. That was all she knew."

"You have no sort of clew to their family? Have you nothing that belonged to your mother?"

"I had one or two things--a pearl ring, a gold watch and chain, and a few other things, such as a cashmere shawl and some lace. But my uncle took them all away. There were no letters or papers of any kind: nothing that one could find out anything from."

"Then it appears that nobody but this brute has any claim upon you?"

"As far as I know, nobody at all."

"They would not run much risk in keeping you," said Felix, his brows knit in thought.

"I expect that was what Mr. Vanston was thinking of when he asked if I had ever been abroad," remarked Rona. "Suppose they should let me go abroad to be educated?"

"You would like that?"

She assented. "I want to see the world," she announced, very simply.

Felix smiled at the thought of Denzil's benevolence. He knew of old his pleasure in a certain tepid, but always well-meant philanthropy. The resentment and hatred of his half-brother, which for years back had filled his heart, seemed to him a thing to be ashamed of, now that, in love's light, he saw his own career with new eyes. He pitied Denzil, in an impersonal kind of way, for having such an unsatisfactory brother. No wonder they never spoke of him--the scapegrace for whom the old honorable family must blush when his name was mentioned.

And then came an idea which caused him to smile to himself. What would Denzil say, did he know that he was befriending that same scapegrace brother's future wife? He had no scruple in the feeling that money was being expended for such a purpose. But it reminded him of another matter.

"Listen, Rona," he said. "I shall send you money whenever I can. At first it will not be much. But as soon as I am in regular work, I should like to send you enough to buy your own clothes, and so on--so that you should not be beholden to these good people for absolutely everything. I have brought you half a sovereign to-day, just for pocket-money, and I shall send more at the first opportunity. That will make me feel as if you were real--as if, one day, you really would belong to me."

As he spoke, the church clock chimed a quarter to eight. In ten minutes, folks would be coming out of church. Their enchanted interview was almost over.

He looked at her with a kind of despair. "Rona, I must go! I never thought that it could be as terrible as this to say good-by!"

She looked at him helplessly, her eyes swimming in tears.

--"And I have nothing to give you--nothing to offer but my wretched self----"

He dived into his pocket, brought out a sixpence, and with a pair of pocket-pliers, divided it neatly in two pieces. Then, with a piercer in his pocket-knife, he drilled a tiny hole in each half, and made her promise that she would suspend the charm about her own neck, as he would about his--as the only tangible sign of their plighted vows.

There was but a moment, after this ceremony, to be spent in leave-taking. Felix, to his own utter astonishment, broke down completely.

"You'll be true to me, Rona--you won't fail me?" he gasped, half-blinded by the choking tears; and Rona, with those tears wet upon her cheek, promised, knowing no more than a kitten what she was promising, nor why.

For one instant their lips were together, the young man trembling, ashamed of his weakness, his hot heart filled with a surge of emotion so unexpected as to be to him alarming; and then he was running from her, not daring to look back, stumbling away in the evening dusk with a heart more joyful, but with pangs more dire than he had imagined possible.

And now the future lay before him, like the battle-field upon which to-morrow's conflict should take place. To the old Felix he had bidden farewell. He had now no mind to regenerate society, only to make one woman happy. Rona, who knew the worst of him--Rona, who had come to him at the moment when he touched bottom--Rona loved him.

Then to conquer the world was a mere detail. It could be done, and he, Felix, was the man to do it.

* * * * * * *

In the course of the ensuing day, Miss Rawson received the following letter.

It was typewritten, and dated from a London hotel.

"Miss Rawson (Private).

"DEAR MADAM,--I must begin this letter with some attempt to express my deep sense of the great kindness you have shown to my young sister. I scarcely know how to write. Words mean so little. But as I have nothing else, I must, all the same, make use of them to tell you of my undying gratitude to you and Mr. Vanston for a help so prompt and so effectual as that you have already bestowed. But, madam, not only am I your debtor for all these favors--you actually speak of interesting yourself further in my sister's case--upon conditions.

"I cannot tell you how much it would mean to me to know that she was safe, and in trustworthy hands, during the next year or two. I have thrown up my old work, and, for reasons I shall explain, I cannot return to it. I have now the offer of work which will, I trust, turn out well for me, but of such a character--involving residence abroad and much movement from place to place--as would make it very difficult at first to have my sister with me.

"But now, madam, we come to the crucial point. You most naturally stipulate that the kind offer you make is contingent upon my frankness. Before we go further, let me avow, without disguise, that I dare not be perfectly frank with you. The reason for this is that we are fugitives. We have an uncle, who was in charge of my sister, and from whose wicked hands she was escaping when she met with her accident. Should he find out where she now is, he would no doubt try to repossess himself of her.

"We are orphans; and in justice to your kindness, and relying on your secrecy, I will own to you that our name is not Smith in reality, but Leigh. My uncle made an unjustifiable attempt to compel my sister to adopt as her profession the music-hall stage--to which she was strongly averse. He paid a premium for her complete training to a man who was neither more nor less than an unprincipled scoundrel. On my sister's declining to submit to his treatment, he tried to starve her into submission by locking her up and leaving her without food. In rescuing her from this terrible position--only just in time--I was so unfortunate as to allow her to fall from a considerable height, with the result that, as you know, she was seriously hurt.

"We made our escape, penniless and without resources, in the canal barge.

"You will see that I am being frank with you as regards the circumstances. I refrain only from the mention of names and places. I am fully aware that, by so doing, I put it out of your power to verify any part of my story. But what can I do? My uncle is furious at having paid down a large sum for my sister's training, only to lose her. He will leave no stone unturned to recapture her. He has set detectives upon our track, though he has not allowed the newspapers to make our flight known. I cannot even give you the address of the school at which my sister was educated, as this is the first place in which my uncle would make inquiries; and the lady-principal might think it her duty to answer them, should you let her know where we are.

"My uncle is my sister's legal guardian until she comes of age. Any court of law would, on his application, restore her to his care, unless we could adduce satisfactory proof of his brutality, which would be very difficult.

"I hope you will see that there are strong reasons for my reticence. Nevertheless, on reading this over, I feel that it is very likely that you may, even if you believe what I say, wish to disembarrass yourself of a charge who might quite possibly prove a difficulty should her guardian discover her place of refuge.

"But I am perfectly determined that, whatever happens, she shall not go back to a life she justly loathes--a life in which she would be ruined, body and soul. Should you decide not to keep her, I will fetch her away, take her abroad with me, and manage as best I can for her.

"I will add no more to a letter already long enough to need apology. Accept, then, madam, my profound thanks, and my assurance that, however you decide, I consider myself deeply your debtor. If you feel that you do not care to accept further responsibility in the matter, please let me know at once, as I must then make arrangements to fetch my sister.--I am, madam, your grateful and obliged servant,

"DAVID SMITH.

"P.S.--With the exception of the uncle in question, we have no relations."