CHAPTER XXVII

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

All alone, thou and I, in the desert, In the land all forgotten of God. --HENRY KINGSLEY.

Aunt Bee had insisted upon supplying Veronica, when she started upon her perilous enterprise in the wilderness, with all kinds of medicaments; and she was able to assure Felix that she had _Pommade Divine_ to apply to her bruises. He made her bed up for her with an ingenious arrangement of cushions, and, when he had hung a lamp up inside, under the tilt, and lowered a curtain between them, she had a little private chamber to herself, where she could safely investigate the extent of her hurt.

There was a bruise and some swelling, and no doubt the pain had been sharper on account of the mischief done two years ago in her far more perilous fall. But as far as she could tell, it was merely external; and when she was snugly curled up among her pillows it gave her little discomfort. Her ensuing wakefulness was not due to pain, but to a disturbance of feeling which took long to subside to a point which would allow of her sleeping.

The fine air, however, came to her help, and now that she was used to it, the motion of the carriage also lulled her. She slept, and soundly, until past seven o'clock next morning.

On this day the weather, which had been fine from the first, became absolutely perfect. From sunrise to sunset no cloud appeared upon the face of the blue heavens; yet it was not too sultry. A tiny zephyr blew with seductive sweetness, and the late heavy rain prevented there being too much dust.

It was a day charged with oppressive silence between the traveling pair. Until last night Felix had been the one to hold off--Rona had been wistfully anxious to be friends. But now her coldness redoubled his own. She was as reluctant to speak as he, and what she said was more frozen. In truth, her own thoughts, her own emotions, were a greater puzzle to herself than they could be to anyone else.

She hardly dared look at Felix, except when she felt sure that his back was turned. But once, while they were eating their breakfast, she surprised his eyes upon her, and with an intentness which made her positively faint. She shuddered, with a kind of agony which was half bliss. Had she known it, her beauty that radiant day was enough to make a strong man weak.

The warm color of her hair, the rose stain upon her cheeks, and the new, strange light within her eyes, made her perilously attractive. They were young together, in so fair a world! Ah, if the barrier might but be swept away, so that they could talk heart to heart!

His questions as to her health, and whether her injury had prevented her sleeping, were miserably constrained, and her replies but just escaped the charge of rudeness.

They ate, almost in silence, and as soon as they started again, he lay down to sleep, upon the couch where she had rested all night, and which was still fragrant with a memory of her, in some hardly perceptible perfume.

Again it was long, very long, before the young man's eyes closed; and then he fell so soundly asleep, that he exceeded his usual six hours, and it was past four o'clock when at last he awoke.

That evening they came to a forest. It is the only one upon the route; and it makes a grateful change from the endless waste of treeless steppe.

Felix had been awake for the past hour, seated with his chin propped upon his hands, gazing before him with white face and glittering eyes.

It was now within two hours of sunset, and the rose-colored rays from the west burnt in among the foliage of the graceful birches, till they seemed like trees of silver and gold, seen in vision. One of the horses of their troika had been going badly for some time; and when they were in among the trees the driver turned to Felix and said something to him.

Felix turned to Rona, who, since he awoke, had been deeply immersed in her book, and said, in a manner which suggested an apology for addressing her, "The man thinks that unless we rest the horse a bit, it will not make the next stage. Do you mind stopping for an hour in this wood? We could eat our supper while we wait."

"Of course not. It is lovely," she said.

He gave an order, they stopped, and he helped her down--with great care to avoid shaking her. Then he turned to the driver, and gave his help in unspanning and rubbing down the ailing horse. Rona stood a while watching, then, turning, roamed away a little distance into the fairy wood.

It was indeed like an enchanted land. The Siberian stag-horn moss curled and furled itself about the roots of delicate fern, and the slanting sun-rays gilded it with effulgence indescribable. She sat down upon the warm, fragrant couch it made. The passion of sadness which too much beauty brings mixed with the feelings in her distracted heart. She had played both brothers false. She had said she loved Denzil--and she did not. She had said she did not love Felix--and she did!--Ah, she did!

She could not stop to ask why. She knew that it was so. She had not loved him, but now she did--now she knew what love was.

She felt herself near to breaking down, and, remembering the way in which she had given way and wept on the day of the picnic at Newark Abbey ruins, she fought to keep herself from tears.

But the long strain of the journey, the shock of her accident the evening before, and the strange influence of the desert place, all combined to overcome her control. She was obliged to weep, the tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, and for a while there was nothing for it but to give way.

Her surrender was short--a few minutes only; but her little handkerchief was soaked through and through. The knowledge that she must very soon go back and face Felix with a composed aspect, availed to call her to order speedily.

Just as her sobs began to die down, she heard his distant voice calling her through the wood.

It sounded very far away; she must have strayed farther from the path than she had been aware of. She must reply, or Felix would continue to advance, and find her with those tell-tale stains upon her face. She rose to her feet and cried back an answer--"Coming!"

Then she looked round in distress. Close to where she had lain a tiny brook rippled through the wood. She knelt down by it, held her handkerchief in it, and bathed her hot eyes repeatedly in its comforting coolness. Then she washed her hands also, passed her pocket comb through her locks, and slowly took her way back to the road she had left.

There was the povosska, and the driver munching at a plateful of supper. There was the cloth spread beneath a huge oak tree--but no Felix. However, as she appeared, he dashed out from a thicket, disturbance plainly written on his face. "Oh, there you are! I was afraid you had been too far," he said.

She shook her head, smiling, and they sat down to eat.

She tried valiantly to swallow the food he had so carefully laid out, but her throat seemed half closed, with a great lump which prevented appetite. He watched her. He saw the heavy lids, hardly able to lift themselves above the tear-dimmed eyes. He knew that she must have been weeping in solitude, unconsoled. He was pierced with the thought of his own selfishness. Here she was, all alone. The man she loved--the man to whom she journeyed through such difficulties--was ill. Her heart was full of anxiety; he had filled it, too, with self-reproach. He loathed himself. What had she done that he could fairly resent? Was it the action of anyone but a mad boy to ask a girl of sixteen, who had only seen him two or three times, to remain faithful to his memory? And if there was one thing more certain than another, it was that Denzil was blameless. He had never known the girl to be pledged in any way. He had not known who Felix was; he had believed him her brother. He, Felix, was responsible for the false position in which these two had been placed; he had invented the brother and sister fiction, and for his own selfish reasons. Yet, in his pride and revengeful anger, he was making her suffer desperately--he knew it. But he would beg her to forgive him.

As soon as they had finished supper--but she hardly ate anything--he said, "Let us stroll in among these trees. It is a relief to move one's limbs after the confinement of that old povosska."

Rona wavered. It were better for her not to walk with this man, not to be on terms with him. But something in her drove her on--made it impossible to refuse. She assented mutely. They passed together in among the silver trunks. The sun was dropping low. The clear call of a flight of herons came to them--and they saw the birds wheeling in the faint blue air above them. They reached a pool, starred with water strawberry, and, with a common impulse, they stood still upon its verge.

"Rona!" said the young man, hoarsely.

It was the first time he had uttered her name. The sound of his voice was low and strained. It raised feelings inexplicable in the girl's confused mind and newly-awakened heart.

She had an impulse that to listen would be dangerous; that she ought to avoid anything like a confidence from him. Yet a power much stronger than she held her there mute and waiting--waiting for the words from his lips. She did not speak; her eyes were raised for a moment to his, full of such unhappiness as he could hardly bear to see. But he knew that the look conveyed permission to continue. "I want," he said, under his breath, "to tell you I am ashamed of myself. I have been behaving like an unforgiving brute. I know I have made you unhappy; and you have enough to bear without that. Forgive me, will you? I'm--I'm beastly sorry."

She made no reply; she was wholly unable to speak.

"Of course," he began again, "I can see that you have been crying. And I can't stand it. So let us have it out, shall we? I know I was wrong, that time, when I clutched at your love, like a starving man at a loaf of bread. I had no right. It was unjustifiable. But like all men, I only thought of myself. I did want you so."

There was silence, except for the chirp of a sedge-warbler.

"And now," said Rona, half choking--"and now--you don't?"

He turned towards her in sharp surprise. "What do you mean?" he said. "You are engaged to Denzil." He stood there looking at her, until she thought his eyes would burn her. "How can I have any claim, when you have decided in his favor?"

She turned away, for her face was quivering. "I could not bear it," she faltered lamely, "unless I felt sure you would be--happy."

"Thank you," said Felix, ironically. "If I am not I can always go back, you know, to the point from whence you and I started."

In the pang which darted through her at this allusion she turned from him, and, in fear of a breakdown, leant against a birch tree trunk to hide her face. "Oh! Felix!" she sobbed, "Felix--don't!"

He was very white. It tore his heart to see her grief. The faint perfume of her handkerchief or her clothes came to him on the evening air, as to-day it had bewildered his senses when he lay in the povosska. She was saying something--something incredible--among her sobs. "You should not have written; you should have come to me. How could I tell until I had seen you? I did not know."

He caught his breath. "What are you saying?" he asked, huskily.

Something in his voice warned her. She checked her tears with a great effort. "Help me!" she craved. "Help me to be true to one of you! I have been false to you; but Denzil is different! He has loved me so long--he has done so much for me. Oh, I know what you did--everything! But, after all, we barely knew each other.... While I feel as if I belong to him and Aunt Bee! They have been home, love, everything ... you see, I could not betray him after all he has been through!"

He felt the blood rush to his forehead. "Are you asking me to stand on one side, and owning in the same breath that you love me best?" he said, through his teeth.

She held her breath. This was putting the thing plainly. Yet it was the truth. It made her angry to hear it. It goaded her on to fight yet.

"You only thought you loved me," she brought out, vehemently. "You had not seen me, you did not know me ... and there is a Russian girl--Nadia Stepanovna...."

He took her by the shoulders, gently, but with firmness, turning her round so as to face him; still she held her handkerchief to her eyes. "Rona, do you really believe that?"

She took away the handkerchief, and lifted her wet lashes; and she felt as though her soul were drowning in the mysterious compulsion of his look. For a space all strength left her. She was drained of power. This young man was her master; his claim could not be denied....

Still holding her with one hand, he slipped the other down inside his collar, and drew out a chain, with his half sixpence strung upon it. "Look here," he said. "Since I first saw you there has been no other thought in me."

"Oh!" the words seemed forced from her. "Oh, if I had been great enough to be loyal too!"

"No, no," he said, hastily, "that was my part. I to be loyal, the queen to reward or not, as she would. But if she will"--he held both her hands--"if she will, then nobody on earth--not Denzil, nor any other man..."

He was drawing her nearer, and how sweet, as well as how easy, to yield to that pressure, to feel the clasp of his arms about her, to rest in the knowledge that love had come to her indeed! But that must not be; and she collected all her strength to tell him so.

"David!" Somehow that name came to her lips when she would appeal to him. "Have pity, wait--Oh, I must say something to you...."

He saw, by the prayer in her eyes, by the urgency of her voice, that she was in earnest, and he held himself in check with an effort.

"Help me," she faltered, "to be faithful to my word. I did promise--just before he started for Siberia, I did tell him I would be--his wife. You saved me once ... save me again! This time from myself. I am so tossed about, I can hardly see what I ought to do. But I am not free--you see that, don't you? I am bound; I--we--we ought not to do this. Have pity on me, be good to me, be my brother till we reach our journey's end!"

He drew a long breath, and passed a shaking hand over his knocking temples. But she had, in her desperate fear, touched the right note with him. She was in his power. For two more days they must fare together; and she appealed to him for forbearance. To that appeal he could not turn deaf ears.

"It's a puzzle," he said, heavily; "and I don't see the rights of it. But don't be afraid of me, Rona. I--I am to be trusted. I would give my life for you. Make yourself easy; I promise not to distress you."

And as she lifted to him her quivering face, her suffused eyes, and her mouth just touched by a smile of complete trust, he knew that he was taking the very course that would make her love him more than ever.

"I must just say this," he muttered. "You ought not to marry him until he--knows."

She winced; but she stood firm.

"I shall tell him--as soon as I can," she replied, tremulously.