CHAPTER XIV

"YOU NEVER WERE MINE"

--You have taken from me The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan; The Future too, with all her glorious promise; But do not leave me utterly alone! Spare me the Past. --ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

For Denzil Vanston the days which ensued upon his homecoming were days of charm and wonder. Life for him took on new colors, the presence of Rona in the house gave an unwonted zest even to the most trivial things.

Miss Rawson watched, well pleased, the intercourse between the two.

They played tennis and golf, they rowed and punted together. Rona's physical health was perfect, and she was apparently never tired.

But when a fortnight of such dalliance had gone by, the vigilant aunt began to think that, if anything were to come of it, she had better take some steps to force the pace.

Denzil had never been a hot-blooded young man, and he was no longer in his first youth. He seemed quite satisfied with what his aunt impatiently characterized to herself as "philandering" with the beautiful girl with whom his generosity had enabled him to be on terms of intimacy. He did not make love to Veronica. He complacently played a semi-paternal part, treating her indulgently, as a beloved child; and he was, to all appearance, abundantly content with the situation as it was.

But the looker-on knew that this apparently stable and well-balanced position must of necessity be of a most temporary and elusive character. Veronica had not been a week in the house, when the young men of the neighborhood took to coming to call in a persistent and unusual manner; and invitations to dinner arrived, pointedly including "the young friend who is staying with you."

It should be remarked that Mr. Vanston possessed in a marked degree one valuable quality--the virtue of discretion. He had held his tongue about the waif girl whom his aunt had rescued from the canal barge. One or two of the old servants at Normansgrave--Chant, the butler, for example--knew of the circumstances of Rona's first appearance. So also did Dr. Causton. The nurse who had then been employed at the Cottage Hospital had since married and left the neighborhood; and as Rona had not been seen for two years, and nobody had spoken of her, she was not, upon her reappearance, associated in people's minds with the circumstances of her first arrival. This had taken place just at the time when poor Felix's suicide, or disappearance, had been in the foreground of everybody's thoughts concerning the Vanstons. Everybody who called upon Miss Rawson during the sad period had been so eager to be informed upon the subject, that the topic of the girl from the barge had not been necessary in order to maintain conversation.

And now that Rona had come to stay at Normansgrave for an indefinite term, Denzil decided that she should use her own name, of Leigh, and not be called Smith any longer, as for safety's sake, and in case anybody should be making inquiries for her, she had been called during her two years abroad. Nobody was likely to associate the tall, graceful, well-dressed Miss Leigh, now visiting her friends, with the pale, half-grown creature who had been the first patient at the now popular Cottage Hospital.

Denzil had taken an opportunity of telling Dr. Causton that he wished no mention of the barge episode to be made. He said that there was a reason for silence. Dr. Causton, who possessed both brains and eyes, had naturally perceived that Rona was not among her accustomed surroundings when he first found her upon the _Sarah Dawkes_. He concluded that the secret had been confided to the Vanstons, who had so generously befriended her, and kept his counsel accordingly.

To inquiring friends Miss Rawson simply said that Denzil was acting as guardian to Miss Leigh for her brother, who was in Siberia; a statement which, as far as she knew, was perfectly true.

If Miss Rawson had found Rona interesting in her youth and helplessness, she was now amazed at the character and ability developed by the foundling. She knew that this was a most unusual girl: she believed that she was the very woman for Denzil, could she but be induced to think so. And at this point in her career--before she had discovered her power--and while the glow of her gratitude to Denzil, and the fact of her having known no other young men, conspired to make him acceptable in her eyes--it seemed this might be compassed.

To Aunt Bee's acute intelligence, the fact of the girl's nameless, homeless condition was by no means altogether a drawback. She had been most carefully trained from early childhood; she seemed to have no undesirable relatives, with the one exception of the Wicked Uncle; and having no mother or sisters of her own to interfere, she would be more dependent upon Miss Rawson. And this dear lady would hardly have been human had she not felt that she would like a certain amount of influence with Denzil's wife.

But, if it were to be done, it must be done at once. She felt this keenly. Rona was already longing to stretch her wings. Her second story had been bought by the editor who took her first. She had, apparently, a play of fancy of that graceful, iridescent kind which suits the pages of the modern magazine. And here was a source of income, likely to become considerable. And no doubt Rona had imbibed, with her modern education, modern ideas of womanly independence, though at present these were tempered by the conventual upbringing.

The uncle who had designed the girl for the stage had been a man of penetration. She was not only beautiful, she was beautiful in a dramatic style. Soon--very soon--somebody would tell her so. Soon she would awake to the consciousness of Power. And then good-by to Denzil's chances!

Miss Rawson had no wish to entrap the girl before she was old enough to judge for herself. She sincerely thought that, if it could be brought about, she would be happy with Denzil, that the career of being mistress of a house, and a personage in the county, would occupy her talents in a safe and satisfactory manner. She would kindle her husband's ambitions, she would be the mother of splendid children. In her the traditions of the family would blossom once more.

Such was the earnest ambition of Aunt Bee. She knew the good in Denzil. He was capable of being an excellent husband and father. But he must secure Rona before passion awoke in her.

To this end she plotted. She invited a house-party to stay at Normansgrave. Among them was that same Miss Myrtle Bentley whom Denzil had once thought that he could like well enough to bestow upon her the priceless treasure of his heart. There is little doubt that she would have accepted it, most gratefully; for she was twenty-eight, and the slight primness which endeared her to Denzil was not an attraction in the eyes of other men.

She came; and Denzil marveled that he could ever have been drawn towards her. Others came too. Several young men. Aunt Bee asked none whom she thought likely to be dangerous to Rona; but several to whom she thought Rona would inevitably be dangerous.

As a few days fleeted by, she congratulated herself upon the success of her maneuver. The young men surrounded Rona as flies hover about honey. Denzil was no longer able to monopolize her. He felt the change acutely. His aunt had strong hopes that, before long, his calm must give way, and he be driven over the verge of a declaration.

It was to her unaccountable that he should be so slow to move. But she had to admit that Veronica gave him no help. Veronica was not the least bit in love. She was reveling, with all her intense physical capacity, in the pleasure which life gave her. Surrounded by summer weather, pleasant people, and beautiful country, she gave herself up to holiday happiness--picnics by river, picnics by motor, garden-parties, golf, and dancing--each thing in turn was new, was absorbing, was delightful.

She seemed fast slipping into that daughterly attitude towards Denzil which Aunt Bee dreaded and strove to avert.

The girl was living in the golden present moment. There was a dark background to her thought. Now and then, even in the midst of her mirth, the shadow of her secret betrothal flapped its black wings in the sunshine. But she turned her mind and her heart away from it. She was gloriously amused, she was glowing with the pride of life and youth. She was not going to think upon any disagreeable subject.

And then, one morning, there lay upon her plate a letter. A letter with the usual Russian stamps and the usual typewritten address. For Felix never dared risk his handwriting, for fear of recognition.

Veronica gazed upon that envelope as a man may look upon the Black Hand which is the secret summons of some nefarious society, and calls upon him to prepare for death. A gust of loathing memory swept over her. Again she saw the dun half-daylight of a London winter; again the endless lines of railway far below. She smelt the odor of hay and tarpaulin, and saw the dizzy lights upon the black, slow river.

She resented being reminded of the terrible moment of her despair, her escape, her accident, her privations. She looked down the breakfast-table at the well-looking, prosperous people who were feeding there. What had she and they in common with anarchy and jail, and all the other awful things that lie out of sight, in the darker corners of life?

Whatever happened, she could not open and read her letter then. She slipped it into her pocket unnoticed. She intended to read it as soon as she should be alone. But immediately after breakfast all was bustle and movement, since they were going to scull up the Wey to the ruins of Newark Abbey for a picnic. There was no leisure to break the fatal seal.

One person had noted the arrival of the letter. This was Miss Rawson. She welcomed it. This might bring matters to a climax, where she had failed to do so. If Rona's brother was coming to fetch her away, then surely Denzil would find out the nature of his own complaint, and take steps to prevent her departure.

She watched Veronica with some keenness, as she went to and fro, playing assistant hostess very prettily under Aunt Bee's directions, and seeing that everybody was comfortably seated in the various motors and traps, with rugs, cushions, and so on. Miss Rawson had slightly sprained her knee, and was in consequence unable to go that day's expedition. She stood in the hall superintending the departure.

Denzil was driving his own dogcart, and by a little gentle maneuvering, Myrtle Bentley had secured the seat beside him. This made him rather cross, though he knew quite well that Rona and he, in consideration of their guests, could not well drive down together. His face was moody as he sought for a missing whip among the contents of a stand in the hall.

His aunt's eyes twinkled. "I suppose," she very softly remarked, in a pensive way, "that it is, after all, a good thing that Rona will so soon be leaving us."

Denzil looked up with great suddenness. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Well, I conclude her brother will be coming for her very shortly. I saw she heard from him this morning, and he seems to be doing very well. I am glad she will have a home, for she could not well stay here after you are married, could she?" with a mischievous inclination of her head towards the open door, where, in the sunshine, sat the decorous Myrtle, in a somewhat starchy white washing frock.

"What do you mean?" repeated Denzil, vacantly, a second time, standing as if rooted to the spot.

Aunt Bee shrugged her expressive shoulders. "I have to consider the future, you know, dear boy. And if Rona decides upon a literary career in London, I think I shall go and share her one room. Good-by, and good luck!"

She laughed, in the teasing way that poor Denzil never understood.

He was as nearly rude to Miss Bentley on the drive down as he ever permitted himself to be to a lady. She described him to herself, with some ladylike resentment, as grumpy. He did not seem to think the day fine, nor the drive pleasant, nor to admire the lovely view of the river, which moved her to unusual warmth of expression.

Down at the canal side, just where once the _Sarah Dawkes_ had been moored, with a delirious, broken girl aboard her, stood Rona, upright as a dart, her punt-pole in her hand. She wore a pale silvery green washing silk. The masses of her hair were glorious under the shade of her sweeping hat.

"You are never going to punt to-day, Rona?" cried the Squire, quite sharply. "Do you realize that we have to get up to Newark?"

She raised her glorious eyes, full of astonishment at his unwonted petulance--an astonishment which made him hot all over.

"Of course not. I am only steadying the boats," she said, with a chill in that voice that was, to him, the barometer of his happiness. "I had arranged to scull this boat with you."

His heart leaped.

"Oh, Miss Leigh, I don't think that is fair," broke in Captain Legge, a young man who admired Rona considerably. "You and Vanston are such swells, you must not pull together. I will go in your boat, and he had better come here."

"Yes," cried the lady in this boat, "and here is room for Miss Bentley in the stern."

Legge swiftly stepped into Rona's boat, and it would have been hard to dislodge him without more commotion being made than the Squire approved. He had to go with the other party, and to start for the day with the remembrance that he had spoken sharply to his adored, and had no chance to apologize. Myrtle could not scull; well and good. But she thought she could steer, and was deceived in her opinion. This was very bad indeed. All the way up, the temper of the young man was continually chafed, and he had to go on smiling at her well-meant apologies, as she bumped the boat under every one of the tiny bridges which span the stream thereabouts, and must be shot, sculls shipped, by an experienced "cox."

It was nearly a quarter to two when they at last piloted their tiny fleet up the deep dykes, once cut by the monks for the due supply of their Abbey, placed with rare felicity among the windings of many streams. Little as survives of the fabric, the situation of Newark renders it a particularly pathetic ruin. On this day the sun poured down upon the meadow-sweet, drawing up its fragrance in gusts of perfume; the track of each rill was marked by a fringe of purple loose-strife; and among the forget-me-nots darted dragon-flies, like moving gems, over the surface of the quiet waters.

It took long to discuss the excellent fare provided by Miss Rawson; and then, in the golden afternoon, people grew drowsy, smoked, talked, told stories, or teased and joked among themselves. In the midst of it all the thought of her letter darted into Rona's mind. Her conscience smote her. She told herself that she was a selfish, unfaithful friend, a girl whom, were she to read about her in a book, she would unhesitatingly condemn. With the excuse of hunting for flowers, she slipped away, and seeking shelter from the burning sun, wandered into the inclosure where the ruins stand, and sat herself down by a wall, among the grass. She thought of David as she had last seen him. For the past two years she had hardly thought of him at all. Now it seemed as if his very voice spoke--"You will be true to me? You won't fail me--will you?"

The hot blood dyed her face. She was not conscious of unfaithfulness, in the sense of having preferred anyone else to David. But she was conscious of a complete change of mind with regard to him. She wished he had not written. But the letter must be opened. She drew it from her pocket with reluctant fingers, and broke the seal.

"Savlinsky Copper Mines, "Barralinsk, "Siberia, via Moscow.

"MY DEAR RONA,--I have not written to you for many, many weeks, and this for two reasons. The first of these is that, since you told me of your change of feeling towards me, I have found it very difficult to know what to say to you. The other concerns my own personal safety.

"I do not know whether it will interest you. Since your letter I have several times thought that my best course would be to disappear and let you hear no more of me. But the desire in me for a kind word from you is too strong for that.

"If you are not interested, simply do not read this.

"As I have told you, for a period of nearly two years I was let alone by the Brotherhood so completely that I began to think that I had shaken them off. Most of the men who had had to do with me were killed during the Russian Revolution. But one man, a Pole called Cravatz, bore me a special grudge. He has tracked me in all my movements, and at last, when he found me in Siberia, settled in a position of responsibility and trusted everywhere, he found means to communicate with me. The Governor of this Province of Barralinsk is obnoxious to the Brotherhood. He was in command of a regiment in St. Petersburg during the rising, and it was believed that he had urged the severe treatment of rebels. Knowing him as I do, I think this most unlikely; but however, he is on the proscribed list. Cravatz brought me the official command from the Brotherhood, that I was to be the instrument of their vengeance upon this man. That means that I am under orders to commit a murder. If it is not done by the last day of August my own life will not be safe for an instant.

"This was a crushing blow to me for more reasons than one. To begin with, the Governor is my personal friend. From him I have always received the utmost kindness, as well as from his daughter.

"But in addition to this, I have got on so well, and my prospects are so good, that I am in a position to gratify the only wish I have in the world, were the woman I love only brave enough to face a life in this lonely place. But I could not, of course, think of asking you to encounter the risk of my being murdered, perhaps before your eyes.

"However, Vronsky, my well-loved Vronsky, who is a second father to me, thinks he sees a way out. Cravatz is a thorough-paced scoundrel, and he has put himself within reach of the law out here.

"If we can get him arrested all will be well; there is no other member of the Brotherhood to follow the thing up.

"And now comes the question. If I can arrange this matter--will you come to me? I would travel to England, for I can get three months' leave--and marry you and bring you out here. It is a desolate village, but lovely in summer-time. You would have a comfortable house and good servants.

"But what is the use of writing this? Even as I do it, I laugh at myself. Is it likely that such a thing as this should happen to me?

"You are not mine, and never will be. You never were mine. It was your sweet child-sympathy that made you think for a few minutes--a few minutes of pity and regret--that you could love me. You repented almost at once--did you not?

"Don't think that I am going to reproach you. The thing was inevitable. I had no right to suggest to you what I did.

"You must not reproach yourself. I am older, harder, stronger now. I shall not take laudanum, even though I have to live without hope.

"I have delayed the sending of this letter for three awful months of consuming impatience, in order to be pretty certain that we had a reasonable chance of laying hold of Cravatz. That assurance Vronsky now gives me. I therefore write. My feeling for you has never changed. I am, as always, your lover, and would-be husband.

"But should you send to me the words I dare not think of as possible--should your answer be 'Yes, I will come to you'--then there are things about myself that I must tell you.

"Don't keep me waiting, will you? Decide quickly, write, put me out of my pain. Life here is long, days pass slowly, and I am starving for a word. Remember that, and be merciful.--I am your devoted DAVID SMITH."

Rona sat, with this letter in her hands, staring across at the pine-covered hill which fronts the Abbey; and it seemed as if her world were turning upside down. It had come. The thing which had loomed in the dim future, the thing that during the past months she had almost forgotten, was now upon her. She had received from David a definite offer of marriage, and it must be answered, one way or another.

And, in the passionate revolt of her whole nature, she felt that she could not do it. Her home was here--here at Normansgrave, where first she had known happiness in all her lonely, unfriended life.

Meanwhile, she had given her promise. She had given it fully, freely, without hesitation, to the young man who was as friendless, as forlorn as she. But in the time which had passed since then she had found home and friends, life was opening before her--while he was lonely still. Lonely and wanting her. What was she to do?

With a passion of terror and repulsion she contemplated the idea of going off with this stranger, whom she had known only for three wild days--of leaving for his sake, England, and all that England means. Oh--she could not do it; as he said in his letter, he ought not to demand it!

In the agony of her feelings she bowed her head upon her hands; and it seemed as if some inner barrier broke so that the tears came. She was a girl who seldom wept, and having once given way, she grieved with an abandonment which frightened her. To her horror she found that she could not control herself. She was obliged to bend before the storm which shook her. It was half shame. By all the rules, she should be ready to die for this man who had saved her; and she, on the contrary, recoiled with shuddering from the mere thought of him.

It was upon this desolation of grief that Denzil, wandering in search of her, came, with a thrill of horror unspeakable. With a leap into life of something within him, he flung himself down upon the grass beside her. He lifted her up, he held her in his arms, he found himself kissing away her tears before he knew what he was about--and the only words that came into his head as he clasped her close were:

"My darling, my own darling, what has made you cry?"