CHAPTER XXII

FOREBODINGS

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay, She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day. _The Lay of the Brown Rosary._

Miss Rawson had frequently before been left, while Denzil was away, in sole charge at Normansgrave. She was a woman of courage, and it had never occurred to her before to be nervous in the absence of the master of the house. But now she was nervous, and for a reason which she could not define.

She told herself that she was no longer young, and that she had been unduly shaken by the surprising turn of events. The knowledge that Felix still lived, the tidings of his danger, the sudden departure of her nephew, the break-up of the house-party, and the waiting for news in the forsaken house, broke her rest and gave her bad dreams.

The sight of Rona's white face and dilated eyes affected her uncomfortably. Rona was in a very highly-strung condition, and would start at the least sound. She had seemed feverishly anxious to let Denzil go--had displayed a curious reserve on bidding him farewell; but her manifest depression since he went could be attributed, thought Miss Rawson, to but one cause.

Rona was so restless that it was painful to see her. She wandered from garden to park, and back into the house, aimlessly. Her usual occupations, reading, writing, gardening, cycling, golfing, were all laid aside. Nothing interested her, far less contented her. And she either would not or could not confide in the elder woman who had been so good to her. Her wide, unseeing eyes, her tightly folded lips, kept Miss Rawson at a distance. She could see that the girl was desperately unhappy--she would have said more unhappy than even the circumstances satisfactorily accounted for--but she could do nothing for her but leave her free to indulge her melancholy.

On Sunday, after breakfast, she asked whether she thought of going to church. Rona said "No" hastily, rose from the table abruptly, and seemed as if she would go out of the open French window upon the lawn. Miss Rawson felt that she ought to remonstrate.

"Rona," she said, "I think you should go. Denzil would wish it; I am sure we stand in need of help at this moment."

The girl stood in the window, her eyes fixed, her attitude tense.

"I feel afraid to go," she said, after a minute's pause.

"Isn't that rather a foolish thing to say?" asked Miss Rawson, gently.

"Something dreadful is going to happen--don't you feel it?" said Rona, in a whisper. "I feel as if it might happen in church."

Miss Rawson stared. She knew that she, too, was under the influence of that strange idea that something was about to happen. She looked upon it as a thing that should be fought against. "Surely," she said, kindly, "church is the safest place."

Rona looked at her wistfully, and heaved a sigh. "Very well, dearest," said she, affectionately, "if you think so." So saying, she crossed the room and went upstairs to get ready.

It was a lovely morning, and the pretty little church was very full. But it seemed that Rona could not fix her mind upon what she was doing. She sat all the time like one in a dream, furtively glancing behind her, over her shoulder, as though she expected to see something alarming.

During the sermon it was painful to watch her difficulty in remaining quiet. She was usually full of repose, but to-day she changed her position, fidgeted, looked up, looked down, looked around; until the irritation of Miss Rawson's nerves grew almost unbearable.

At last the service was over. They rose from their places, and moved slowly down the central space, between the chairs. Three parts of the way down, an elderly man, coarse and stout, but dressed like a gentleman, stood hat in hand, his eyes fixed upon them both, something that was not quite a smile, nor quite a sneer, lurking in his eyes and unpleasant mouth.

As they passed him, he spoke quietly, but quite audibly.

"Well, Veronica," he said, smoothly, "have you nothing to say to your Uncle Rankin?"

In that awful moment Miss Rawson was the more agitated of the two. It seemed that, now the blow had fallen, the strange tension and restlessness of the girl had passed away, and her spirit leaped up to wrestle with this realization of her vague forebodings. She gravely shook hands with her uncle, and said, in an undertone, "Let us wait to talk until we are outside."

They moved with the thinning stream of people to the porch, and out into the oppressive heat of a gray day that threatened thunder.

There Rona turned to Miss Rawson, and said, still very quietly, "This is my mother's uncle, Rankin Leigh."

Aunt Bee had had a moment in which to collect herself. She bowed to the disagreeable looking man who stood truculently there in the road, his hat slightly pushed back upon his head, his eyes full of an odious triumph, as thinking he had the whip hand of the situation.

"Pleased to meet any friend of my niece's, ma'am," said he, familiarly. "And who may you be, if I may take the liberty to inquire?"

"My name is Rawson," said Aunt Bee, with a valiant attempt not to display the distaste she felt. "Are you--are you--staying near here?"

The man grinned unpleasantly. "Oh, yes, quite near," he said--"most convenient indeed."

"It is convenient," said Miss Rawson, whose mind, working with velocity under the stress of the moment, had determined that, as the man was there, he must be more or less propitiated and made use of. How thankful she felt that Denzil had so lately heard all of the affair that Rona and the Mother Superior could tell them! "I have been wishing to meet you, as your niece begins to feel that it is time she knew her own history."

The man looked at Rona. He looked at her from head to foot. It was a look that made Miss Rawson burn with disgust--such a look as the owner of a beautiful slave might cast over her points when bringing her to the slave market. The girl was charming. From head to heel she was worth looking at. Her form, her head, her wrists and ankles, her hands, and even such details as finger-nails and eye-lashes, were all exceptionally good. He gazed with the eye of the expert, appraising everything.

"She looks very well," he said, evidently trying to speak civilly.

"I think she is very well. She never ails anything," said Miss Rawson.

"May I ask how long she has lived with you, ma'am?" asked Mr. Leigh.

"For more than two years," replied the lady. She had by now decided what to say. "I came across her case in a hospital, and was much interested in her. She had been very badly hurt."

The man, still peering at Rona, licked his lips. "And you have taken upon yourself the burden of her ever since?" he said, with evident surprise. "I assure you, madam, you should have been relieved of your charge before this, had I known where to find my niece. She ran away from me. Perhaps she did not tell you that?"

"Oh, yes, she did," replied Miss Rawson, steadily. "She is a very good girl, and I have no wish to be relieved of the care of her."

"That is very kind of you, ma'am. But unfortunately, the young woman has her living to earn," he said.

"I know," replied Miss Rawson, "and she has been so educated that I hope she can do so without difficulty. Her plans are made. Come, Mr. Leigh," she went on, briskly, "we must have some further talk on this matter, and, I think, not in the middle of the road. When can you come to see me?"

He was evidently surprised and pleased at her tone. "Any time, practically, would do for me," he replied, more politely than he had yet spoken.

Miss Rawson reflected. "Well," she said, "I should like you to dine with me, if you will be so kind. But to-day and to-morrow we are, unfortunately, particularly engaged. Will you come to dinner with us on Tuesday, at seven-thirty?"

As she spoke, the victoria, which had been waiting at the side of the road, drove up quickly at a slight signal from herself. The man was evidently taken aback by her manner, and flattered--perhaps a little fluttered--by her invitation.

"I am obliged to you," he said. "Dinner on Tuesday at seven-thirty."

He was not used to dealing with women of her class, and though he was ready to bully or bluster, he found nothing in her self-possessed, impersonal manner which he could take hold of. Besides, he reflected, it was far better not to frighten her. If he did, she might produce lawyers, or such other undesired persons, to take part in the proceedings. He knew, far better than she, the flimsiness of his own claims. He was not the girl's legal guardian, and never had been. A moral claim was all that he could urge, joined to a cunning by means of which he hoped to attain his end, for he was convinced that it would be well worth his while to get hold of Rona. She had grown into just such a woman as he had foreseen. He did not feel any doubt of being able, with little difficulty, to reconcile her to the way of life he had in view for her, when once she realized her own power, and what a splendid time she could have if she were but sensible. But he knew well that the tactics he had formerly adopted were woefully mistaken. Of all things now, he must not scare her. As his mind flew rapidly over his intended course, he felt that he could not do better than accept this dinner invitation. He helped the two ladies into the carriage, little dreaming how the heart of the haughty-looking Miss Rawson was knocking against her side.

"If you would kindly give me the address," he said.

Miss Rawson was seated in the victoria. She opened her card-case. "Home," said she to the coachman, in the act of handing the card to Mr. Leigh, with a bow and a condescending smile. The man touched his hat, and started. They glided away, leaving Mr. Leigh staring fixedly at the card, with a face suddenly crimson.

"Normansgrave!" he repeated over and over to himself. "Why, that's the Vanstons' place! His brother's place! Well, of all the fools, that detective of mine, Burnett, was the worst! And yet, of all the places that I should have thought he would not have taken her to, his brother's place was certainly the one." He was so thoroughly disconcerted that he actually grinned. "I thought they had slipped through his fingers somewhere," he reflected. "He said he was certain that he sent her across from Plymouth--such stuff! I told him. I said, 'He left her somewhere between London and Basingstoke, or my name's not Rankin Leigh.' But they always think they know best, these blooming detectives! Well, it's a queer thing! Young Vanston must have brought her here, yet I'll swear that he never went near the place himself, and, what's more, I can swear that his brother didn't know where he was, unless Denzil Vanston, Esq., is the most finished liar on the face of the earth. Why, at that very time, he was paying the police a pretty penny to find the ticket-of-leaver--or his corpse! Humph! Well, I thought I had only a woman to deal with, but if the two Vanstons are in it the difficulties will be greater than I had foreseen. What did become of the other one, after all? Well, there may be some information to be got up at the hotel yonder, that's one thing."

He hurried back to the second-rate inn where he had put up, and, in the course of an hour or two, had found out something of some importance. The Squire had just gone abroad--very unexpectedly. It was even known at the post-office that he had had a cable from Siberia. This was good news. Leigh determined upon his plan of action. He would ask humbly, but with firmness, so as to imply that he could enforce obedience if he chose--he would ask that his niece be allowed to come and stay with him in his flat in London, to show that all was right between them. He would speculate; he would hire a furnished flat in a good position for a month, no matter at what cost. And he would take the girl about--give her clothes and a few jewels; take her to the theater and to race-meetings--he believed that the men to whom he could introduce her would do the rest.

For all the latter part of his life, the man had been a hanger-on at stage doors, a theatrical agent, a go-between of the profession. He believed all women to be like those with whom he was in daily contact--greedy, grasping, pleasure-loving, non-moral. To him, the life he found Rona living--going to church with a maiden lady--was a life from which any handsome young girl would escape, if she could.

If she once found that her beauty would bring to her--and incidentally to him--diamonds, motors, life on the champagne standard, he literally could not conceive that she could hesitate. What was the good of having a girl like that in your power if you could not make her keep you? He was determined to have an old age of comfort, as a result of the earnings of Rona. He knew all the ropes. He knew all there was to know about the "Profession." He knew that, given material of the quality of that girl, success, with the right steps taken, the right course adopted, was quite certain.

He sat smoking, and thinking it over, with his whisky on the table beside him. He considered what, or how much, he could or should tell Rona of what he suspected of her parentage. He was himself the son of a solicitor, and had received a good education. But there was a bad strain in the blood. Both he and his brother had gone to the bad, and his brother had died young, leaving an orphan girl, whose early associations were those of a life of discreditable shifts, but who had developed the backbone lacking in her father and uncle, had insisted upon qualifying to teach, and when her education was complete, had obtained a post as governess in the family of Mauleverer, a well-known old house of the Roman faith in the North of England. But it seemed as if this girl, too, were infected by the obliquity of the family morals, for, after a time, she disappeared from her uncle's view, his letters being returned to him marked "Gone away. Address unknown." One day he received a letter with a London postmark, written at her dictation. It said that she was married, that she had just become a mother, that she was dying. The letter, which bore no address, was only to be posted in case of her actual death, and then not until after a month had elapsed. She did not reveal the name of her husband, but said that her tiny daughter was to be brought up in a certain convent--the address of which she gave him--under the name of Leigh. She begged him to inquire from time to time of the child's health.

Her uncle and she had never been in sympathy. Evidently she had nobody else at all to whom she could appeal for her baby's sake to take some interest in her. She had always been a good and very quiet, steady girl, yet her uncle found it a little hard to believe in the story of her marriage.

There was a young man at Vane Abbey--John Mauleverer, the eldest son. But he was a shy, retiring, delicate youth, by no means the kind of man whom one suspects of making love to the governess. Rankin Leigh had made a few inquiries at the time, but had learnt nothing to confirm such a suspicion.

Other young men had come and gone, visitors at the Abbey; and as all these were Roman Catholics, the fact of the baby's being sent to a convent was not of much significance. Young Mauleverer married, a wife of his own rank, not long after the death of Veronica's mother. If he were the man, this gave some color to the dead girl's solemn assertion that she had been actually married. The fact that the supplies for Veronica's maintenance stopped upon John Mauleverer's death made Rankin Leigh morally certain that he was, after all, the father. He left a family of several children. Had Veronica been a boy, it would have been worth her uncle's while to incur the expense and trouble of hunting up evidence, and establishing her claims on the property. But since she was a girl, and her father had sons, he did not care to follow up the clew. And when, summoned to the convent by a letter from the solicitors explaining that the supplies had ceased, he saw his niece, he felt that she would be a more lucrative and less risky source of income than the levying of blackmail.

But what he had not cared to set on foot, he had little doubt that the Vanstons might be willing to undertake, if he told them the truth. Should he? He was still meditating on the subject, when the waiter looked in.

"Mr. Leigh! Gentleman of the name of Burnett to see you, sir."

"Burnett! Well, that's a coincidence! Burnett, by all that's wonderful! The very man!"

Burnett, the detective, came in with a twinkle. He sat down, and when he had refreshed himself at his host's invitation, he produced a letter from his pocket. "You're wanted, Leigh, seemin'ly," he remarked, with humor.

"I'm wanted, am I?" said Rankin, with a stare. "And who wants me?"

"No less a person than Squire Vanston, of Normansgrave, has written to me to trace you out."

"Well, I'm----" remarked Leigh, in amazement.

"Here's the letter, if you don't believe me. Got it yesterday. So I've come to ask--do you want to be traced or don't you?"

"No need, my dear friend," said Leigh, in an off-hand way. "I introduced myself this morning to Mr. Vanston's aunt, and to my own niece, who has lived with them ever since I had the pleasure of putting you on her track. If ever there was a confounded fool, it is you, Burnett, if you'll give me leave to pass the remark. I'm dining there Tuesday," he added, with nonchalance.