CHAPTER XXI

DENZIL DOES HIS DUTY

But did she love him?--what and if she did? ... Love has no spell can scorching winds forbid, Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, Or spread a cloud for curtaining fading eyes That gaze up dying into alien skies. --JEAN INGELOW.

A fortnight passed at Normansgrave, in doubt and discomfort. It was fortunate that the house was full of visitors, for their entertainment served to take off the thoughts of the master of the house from his own interrupted and absorbing romance.

Upon the day following his proposal to Veronica in the Abbey ruins he wrote to Felix, a letter which seemed to him of a dignified and most fraternal character. He said, in effect--"All is known, but at the same time all is forgiven. Come home and let us settle things up. I wish to treat you quite fairly, though I do not think that you have so treated me."

His next care was to go to London, and, with the utmost secrecy and precaution, set on foot a private inquiry for the man Rankin Leigh. He likewise spent some time in Somerset House, searching the register for the entry of Rona's birth. She knew the exact year, month, and day, but, for safety's sake, he also investigated the corresponding month in the years following and preceding. There was no entry of any Veronica Leigh during the three years studied by him.

He found himself continually lost in speculation as to who the girl was. He wrote to the Mother Superior of the Convent, and her reply disturbed him greatly. She asked him, if he could possibly arrange it, to come and visit her personally. She had very little to tell him, but should be most grateful to hear good news of the girl, over whose fate she had grieved many times since she left the Convent.

Glad of any pretext to be upon the move, Denzil did as she asked him. He pleaded sudden and very important business connected with his ward, Miss Leigh, and left his visitors for a couple of days to the care of Aunt Bee and Rona.

But he wished afterwards that he had not gone, since all that the Reverend Mother could tell him went to confirm the suspicion which had lain at the bottom of his mind ever since he first saw the girl--namely, that Rona had no legal father.

A firm of solicitors, said the good lady, had written to her, asking her to receive a girl child, of the age of six months. It was said that she was doubly an orphan, and that it was believed that she had been duly baptized, but, as her mother was suddenly dead, nobody knew by what name. A sum for her maintenance was guaranteed. When the baby arrived at the Convent, the good nuns thought it best to be upon the safe side, and re-baptized her, under the name of Veronica; the record of this provisional baptism was shown to him in the register of their private chapel. They were told that the child's parents both belonged to the Roman Catholic faith. The sum promised them was duly paid, every quarter, through the same firm, until Rona was sixteen. The lawyers then wrote to the Convent, saying that their client, who had paid the money, was dead. He had left no instructions in his will as to the continuance of the payments, and they found no member of his family willing to sanction such a course. Nobody knew who the child was, and, so far as was known, she had no claim upon the man who had hitherto supported her. As she had attained the age of sixteen, the legatees thought she should now support herself. In these circumstances, the firm had communicated with Mr. Rankin Leigh, who was, they were informed, uncle to the child, upon her mother's side; and he had replied to the effect that he would travel down to the school and see his niece, with a view to making some provision for her future.

This Mr. Leigh had, after some weeks, presented himself. He was a seedy-looking individual. He declared, in conversation with the Reverend Mother, that he was wholly unable to support Veronica, who must earn her own living, but that, if she were a well-grown, nice-looking girl, he thought he might put her into a very good situation. Having seen his niece, he was evidently much struck by her beauty. "She is beautiful, do you not think?" asked the Mother, eagerly, of Denzil. "We all thought she promised to be lovely; though at that time, she was in the awkward stage. I have often wondered whether she has grown up as beautiful as we thought she would."

Denzil was able to produce a good photo of Veronica, taken within the last few weeks, and was touched at seeing the joy of the kind woman at her grace, and her happy look.

Denzil then, as well as he could, confided to her the terrible experience through which Rona had passed. He told of her rescue, and of their taking her into the Cottage Hospital. "Of course," he said, "we could see at once that she was no common girl."

The Mother agreed. She expatiated on the subject of Veronica. She had been an exquisitely pretty baby, and the joy of the nuns' hearts. Her clothes had been good and carefully made. She had evidently been the child of someone who cherished her tenderly.

But there was the significant fact that she seemed to be called by her mother's surname. It all contributed to the idea that Rona was nobody's child. And, deeply in love though Denzil was, he did not like the notion at all.

Rankin Leigh, it appeared, was an elderly man, and he had owned to the Mother that he was not the child's own uncle, but her great-uncle--her mother had been his niece. He had pumped hard to find out whether anything was known of the child's father, but, of course, had ascertained nothing.

Denzil asked if there was any reason to suppose that Rankin Leigh was the girl's legal guardian. Nothing was known on this head; but, as he was apparently the only living relative, and as there was no more money to support the child, they had felt bound to let her go.

"I really did not know what to do with her," said the good woman. "I thought her much too handsome to be in business, and much too refined for service, and, of course, she was too young to teach."

The Squire returned to Normansgrave with much food for thought. He had obtained from the Mother one thing which he thought of great importance, and that was the name and address of the firm of solicitors who had arranged for the child's reception at the Orphanage.

To them he wrote, at the earliest possible moment. His letter came back to him through the dead-letter office, marked "Gone away." And no search of Postal Guides revealed any address for a firm of that name. He began to wonder whether the simple-seeming nun had played him false after all. Yet, what motive could she have had for doing so?

The visit brought him home, restless and dissatisfied. He determined to say nothing to Rona of where he had been. On his way home in the train he had serious doubts as to whether he should not disentangle himself altogether from this intricate affair of his brother and the Girl from Nowhere. It was completely out of his line to be thus mixed up in questionable matters.

But the moment he saw her again--the moment, when, standing on the terrace, he beheld her drifting across the lawns with an armful of flowers, walking without a hat, the boisterous wind ruffling her hair back from her flawless forehead--there awoke in him the long ignored natural desires. His heart beat, his eyes filled, his being grew big with the craving to take her, to make her his at any price he might afterwards be called upon to pay.

Rona, when she saw him standing there, stopped short. She blushed as she met his gaze. She could not now encounter him without confusion. She felt certain that she did not love Felix. But she was anything but certain that she did love his brother.

Since his declaration at Newark there had been something in the quality of his affection which she disliked. His eyes were always seeking hers, he tried to take her hand when occasion offered. If they were alone he would seat himself beside her, closer than she liked. She was growing very shy of him. The virginal instinct to fly from pursuit was strong in her.

He began to wonder how much longer he should be able to bear the present situation. It was anomalous. They could not expect a letter from Felix for another ten days or more. And it might not be a letter which came. It might be Felix himself.

As he hastened down from the terrace, and relieved her of the tall delphiniums and golden rod and dahlias which she carried, it was in his heart to catch her and hold her close, and cry to her that she was his, and that Felix should not come between them. Instead, he merely smiled upon her, and asked affectionately, but somewhat tritely, if she had missed him. She replied, with lowered eye-lids and a charming dignity, that she had.

He meant to say something to the effect that he chafed against the restraints imposed upon him by their waiting, by their scrupulous regard for the absent man. Instead of that, he burst forth without reflection--

"Come and let us sit on the stone seat and talk! It is about a hundred years since I left you."

Veronica did not look at all delighted, but she obediently turned with him, and they went slowly across the lawn to a distant part of the garden, where there was an Alpine rockery. They sat down together upon a small bench, let into the rocks which bordered the path. They had sat there often, during the few golden weeks since her return. But this afternoon Rona felt a restless insecurity, a desire to rise up and go and leave Denzil to himself. What could they say to each other? There was nothing to be said. Her heart was empty of any feeling for him, beyond the grateful affection which by no means craves stolen interviews.

As for Denzil, for the first time in his life his impulses were galloping off with his reason. The very aloofness and gentle coolness of the maiden spurred him on.

"Rona," he said feverishly, "I feel as if all my life I had been waiting to know that you are free."

She smiled ambiguously. "Don't let us talk of that."

"Of what, then? I don't feel at this moment as if I care a pin for anything else in the world."

She regarded him with curiosity. "Do you really feel that?"

"Indeed I do. Don't you?"

She was gazing straight before her, and she shook her head. "Not a bit. I must tell the truth, you know. I feel the world is big, and very--frightfully--interesting. And there are many things I want to know about, and talk about."

He sat very silent. "Then--then--you don't--er--return my feeling? You are not in love with me, as I am with you, Rona?" he wistfully demanded, at length.

After a pause, "I don't know," she replied.

He felt dashed and piqued, both at the same moment.

"I wonder if you have any idea of how cruel it is of you to say that?" he asked, half pleading, half annoyed.

"Oh, I don't want to be cruel," she hastily answered. "I want to be very kind to you, Mr. Vanston."

"Say Denzil--give me my name, Rona."

"Oh!" said Rona, quite as if the suggestion shocked her. He leaned forward, staring at her, taking in the beauties of her with thirsty eyes--the quality of her skin, the modeling of the corners of her lips, the bend of her lashes, the heaving of her throat under her embroidered muslin bodice.

"Why not?" he asked, in a low, hoarse voice. The voice warned Rona, for it was unnatural. She stood up. "It is chilly in the wind," she said, standing there, her face and, hair gilded by a long sun ray which struck upon her through the trees.

He sprang to his feet, and his eyes glittered. "Oh!" he said, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" He caught both her hands in his hot grasp. "You must tell me," he panted, "do you hear? You must tell me what you feel? Did you mean what you said, that you don't care for me? Oh, you couldn't mean that--Rona!"

He was close to her--so close that he could feel the contact of her slim form. Some instinct warned her that to move suddenly would provoke further demonstration. She grew white, and took his hand in her own. "Have I not asked you," she said, in a very still voice, "not to talk of this--yet?"

It was the woman's device to gain time. But it did not seem to have succeeded. "Not yet?" he cried, on a high note. "Is that what you mean, really? That we ought not to speak freely yet? I can wait--or I thought I could, half an hour ago! But give me a word, just a word, Rona."

He followed her up, his arm ready to go round her waist. She but just eluded him. "The word is--wait," she said: and in her fear she began to lose the control which had subdued him. "You must wait, if I say wait," she cried imperiously. And her next words sounded curiously irrelevant. "After all, I am only nineteen," she urged, indignantly.

He felt like a man pushing against a closed door--felt a deep desire to batter it down with force. Yet he could not risk her displeasure.

"Oh, Rona," he said, "it is too bad of you to torture me."

She retorted quickly, "It is you who are torturing me"--and broke off upon the word, for there was the sound of a voice raised, calling Mr. Vanston.

Impatiently Denzil went to the flight of steps which led down into the little garden where they sat. "Who is there? What do you want?" he cried testily.

"Oh, there you are, sir," cried Chant, the butler. "I knew you had come in, but couldn't find you. A cablegram, sir. Is there any answer?"

Rona's heart seemed to stop. She stood where she was, still as a statue, while Denzil opened the envelope. He seemed to grope, to fumble, to take incredibly long over the simple process.

A cablegram! Doubtless to announce that Felix was on his way. That flimsy bit of paper showed how terribly near, how accessible he was and always had been, though he had seemed so far away as not to count in one's scheme of life. And now he was coming! When? How much respite yet before she must look upon his strong, reproachful face?

Denzil glanced up, white as ashes, from the paper he held. "There is no answer," he said to Chant; and the man went away.

The Squire came up to Rona and held the paper to her. She took it and gazed for a moment with blurred eyes. Then her vision cleared and she saw:--

"Felix missing. Fear foul play. Vronsky."

She stared upon the message, her heart contracting till the pain was physical. Was this to be the way out for her? Was the man who had rescued her, and trusted her, and loved her to die at last a violent death at the hand of inhuman wretches who called themselves brothers to humanity? The oppression of her spirits threatened to choke her. She cried out, in a tone she hardly knew to be her own.

"Denzil! Denzil? Tell me it isn't true!"

He ran to her, his arms held out, his sympathy ready to be poured forth upon her.

"Oh, don't! oh, don't!" she pleaded, not choosing her words. "Don't behave so, when we have this to consider! What are we doing here in England safe and happy, when perhaps they are torturing him to death!"

Denzil drew out a handkerchief, passed it across his face, and collected himself. "I beg your pardon. This--this is terrible. But he has brought it upon himself--as a man soweth----"

"Oh!" cried Rona, unable to repress a strong shudder of disgust.

He stood silent a moment, surprised and confused. The news, following upon his moments of unrestraint, had unstrung him somewhat.

"What," he asked vacantly, "what ought we to do?"

"Do?" cried the girl. "There is only one thing to be done! You must go there, and move heaven and earth! You must appeal to the Government, you must spare no money, no effort, to find him; if he is dead, to avenge him, and if he is alive to deliver him from the hand of these brutes."

Denzil stood sullenly brooding. For the second time Felix had disappeared, and left him in doubt as to whether he was alive or dead. In a flash it came to him! Rona was right!--This time there should be no doubt. If he was, now free of his disreputable younger brother, the fact should be known, ascertained beyond dispute!

And for many reasons he had better go. This afternoon's experience had shown him to himself in a new light. He feared that he could not trust himself much with Rona until the knotty situation was unraveled. And if he left her she would become aware of the state of her own affections. He was a firm believer in the adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Never in his life had Denzil Vanston made up his mind so quickly. Never perhaps had he been called upon to decide so important a matter. He saw the whole thing with a clearness born of his own vital interest in the case. His going out would obviate the necessity for Felix to come home at all. And it was obviously far better that Felix and Rona should not meet.

Short as was his musing, it was too long for Rona's impatience.

"You must go, you must go," she reiterated, "or we shall have it on our consciences till we die! You must send cables to the Russian police, you must let them see that he has powerful friends, that he cannot be spirited away with impunity! Oh," she burst out, in anguish, "never in all his life has anybody helped him! And now I, the one creature that he thought was his own, the one object for which he lived--I have failed him! But if you will go, Mr. Vanston, you may be in time! By God's help you may not be too late to let him know that he is not all alone in the world."

Her lover raised his eyes and looked firmly upon her. He also folded his arms. "Rona," he said solemnly, "I have made up my mind. To go is my duty; and it shall be at once."

She gave a gasp of relief. "Do not try to hinder me," continued Denzil, with unnecessary heroism.

"To hinder you? I should think not," cried Rona. "As you say, to go is your duty, and at once. I will not try to prevent you. Every minute is precious." She moved, as if to leave the spot.

Denzil gazed at her with wistful reproach. "You agree--you think," he faltered, "that I should set out literally at once?"

"Of course I do! There can be no doubt! Come, let us go to the house and tell Aunt Bee, and arrange about the guests and so on. Each moment that we stand talking here may increase your difficulties when you get out there."

He tried once more. "Rona! Will you really send me away like this?"

She stopped short, looking blank. "I thought you had decided that it is your duty."

His voice was broken by emotion. "But I thought--I thought--that you would have been sorry to let me go."

"Forgive me," said Rona, "but I don't seem able to think about that. I feel so guilty, my own heart has been such a traitor, I can't bear to think of him out there, alone, unwanted ... when I think that I have wished so earnestly to be free from him I could--Oh, I tell you I could kill myself!"

She turned away, hiding her face in her hands. And Denzil, after a moment's hesitation, chose the wiser part, and turning, went away and left her to wrestle with her remorse.