CHAPTER XXIX
A DOUBLE DILEMMA
--Blame or praise What was the use then? Time would tell, And the end declare what man for you, What woman for me was the choice of God. --ROBERT BROWNING.
In the bright sunshine the povosska sped on towards Savlinsky.
They sat together, the man and the girl, staring out upon a formless future.
They no longer read. But neither did they talk. What could be said between them?
Minute after minute, mile after mile. The road stretched before and behind, mocking them with a false suggestion of being endless. If but it were! If but it were! If this could go on forever--this closeness of undisturbed companionship!
Rona felt a kind of resentment against that cruelty of fate which seems to blind a young girl to her own feelings until it is too late. She recalled her sober fondness for Denzil, her eager clutching at any arrangement which would secure to her the continuance of her happy life. And the shock of repulsion which had seized her when some new feeling leaped to life in her at the touch of the man's lips in leave-taking, and she knew that she not only did not share his feeling, but that it excited in her the most complete distaste.
While, for this other, whom she had denied, whom she had forgotten, whom she had feared ... the intoxication of joy which she experienced in the mere fact of being there, side by side with him, would break in upon all her rueful thoughts, and shake her with a great emotion that had no resemblance to anything she had previously known. Scorning herself, she remembered that she had actually flinched from the idea of going out to Siberia, to banishment, to live with him. She gazed around, at the boundless, free, rolling country, that seemed but just wide enough to contain her love, her joy in his company. Banishment! Life here with him would be the garden of Eden!
Yet she had bound herself hand and foot. She had appealed to Denzil to save her from Felix. It was done, and to this she must stand, if he wished it. There must be no drawing back. Her very soul sickened at the thought of the pain she must inflict, did she confess to him that she did not love him, and never could love him, but that she could and did love another.
No, she could not, must not, do it. What, after all, was love? A mere emotion. She would go back with Denzil to England, and never see Felix again. The profound trouble which she now experienced would grow to be only a memory. Surely there lay the path of her duty. Perhaps, after all, it had been better had her leap for freedom landed her lifeless upon the railway lines at Deptford.
The reflections of Felix were even more somber. He knew Denzil. He knew him well, in and out. He felt sure that he would not release Rona.
The reasons for his refusal would be of the highest character. He would be quite sure that no good girl could ever be happy with a convicted felon, with a man with such a record as his unfortunate brother. He would deem her fancy for Felix a passing phase, and would carry her off, working upon her gratitude, using the claims he had upon her--and marry her to himself as soon as it could be done with decency, in order the sooner to efface the image of Felix from her heart.
And, after all, would not this be best? He looked longingly upon the grave profile of the girl beside him. He noted the fastidious curve of her mouth, the depth of expression in her eyes. Was it for him to imprison such a creature in Siberia?
What a mistress she would make for Normansgrave!
No. There was no chance of Denzil's giving her back. Her life was fixed. She was not his, she never had been, never would be. He had only these few minutes in which to realize her, these few minutes of agony and futile regret.
Was it not all absurd? Suddenly his heart rose up within him and shouted, and his passion mocked his sense of right and justice. Why bring her back to the man who would part them forever? She preferred him--he knew it. Why not tell the driver to turn his horses' heads, and dash away together into the unknown?
He felt the blood rush to his head, his heart began to beat with great slow thumps.
How much money had he? Enough to keep them for some weeks. He could communicate secretly with Vronsky, and tell him where they were, and as soon as Denzil had departed bring her back to Savlinsky.
That was surely the true way to cut the knot. Let him have courage, and take what was his own.
He breathed fast and with difficulty.
"Rona!" he said, in a whisper.
She started from her own sad, absorbed meditations. She turned her eyes to him, with a dumb appeal in them for mercy. There was something so sorrowful in the look that it acted like fire upon his senses.
"I can't--I can't!" he said, under his breath. "It's too hard. I can't let you go. I shall tell him to turn the horses, and we will go away--together."
She looked at him, all the blood in her body rushing to her heart. They were sitting side by side, but not close together. Now her body seemed to lean towards him; her eyes were alight, her lips parted slightly. But a look of mortal fear clouded the eagerness of her sweet face. She raised her hands with a pitiful gesture of entreaty.
"Oh, hush, don't! No, Felix, no, I trust you. You can't----"
She broke off with a gulping sob, snatching her handkerchief to her mouth lest the driver should hear, and turn his keen black eyes upon her weakness and misery. But the driver was gazing along the road ahead, his eyes shaded. Something had attracted his attention. Felix was too absorbed to notice. He did not speak, but he leant towards her, one clenched hand upon the seat between them, and relentlessly held her eyes with his own. His teeth were set. He knew she could not hold out for long if he set his will upon it.
"You said," she voiced, almost inaudibly--"you said--that I might trust you."
"Yes," he answered, in the same tone. "Will you? Trust me altogether? For always?"
The driver dropped his hand, and, making a violent motion along the road, pointed, shouting something in an excited way.
The movement, the unexpected shout, snapped the hypnotizing influence. Rona, startled, uttered a low cry. Felix gazed ahead as the driver bade him, and saw a mounted man approaching.
Even at that distance he was able to recognize Vronsky's ungraceful form. His moment was over. He let his head drop upon his breast, defeated.
Vronsky came on, feeling very shy. Two English ladies were under that hood, and he hardly knew how to meet them. He felt so severely himself towards Denzil, towards his selfish cowardice in sending for his womenkind to undertake so fatiguing a journey, that his attitude was one of abject apology. Then, as he drew nearer, he saw a handkerchief waved. The povosska drew up, and his own adored Felix leaped lightly to earth and ran forward.
Vronsky leant down from his saddle, caught his boy about the neck, and showered kisses upon the top of his head, quite unashamed of the possible amusement of the spectators.
He had come, he explained, not to meet Felix, whose arrival he had not certainly expected, but to greet the ladies, bear to them the Governor's pressing invitation, and escort them to Nicolashof. It was better luck than that coxcomb of a brother deserved. He had telegraphed in a fit of panic. Had he been going to die he would have been three times dead before they could reach him. He had merely been ill. What would you? Men got well again. Was it a journey for ladies? It was thanks to the saints that Felix had been at hand to protect them. A mad scheme. He grumbled on.
"Miss Leigh has taken no harm," said Felix, dully, "so why make such a song about it? All is well."
"Is all well?" said Vronsky, sulkily. "This girl who has come so far, who has preferred him to you--she is to find out something if she has eyes. Does she love him? Is her happiness bound up in him? For, if so, she is to be made very miserable."
Felix turned crimson. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. But why did you not have two carriages? I suppose you sent back the other at the last posting-house?"
"No, little father, we have come in one. Miss Rawson has not come at all. She lies ill at St. Petersburg. Miss Leigh has come alone. I don't know what would have happened to her, had I not chanced upon her at Gretz."
Vronsky stared. "Is it possible?"
Felix, with a thousand questions fighting to be uttered, choked and was silent. "Come and see her," he said, after a minute or two.
He went up to the carriage, said a word, and Rona rose, gave him her hand, and alighted to greet Vronsky. There was a hint of something tragic in her beauty which made an instant appeal to the emotional heart of the Russian. Ah, here indeed was the woman for his Felix! Yet she had preferred the ignoble little neat-mannered man up at Nicolashof--the man who was flirting deeply, dangerously, with Nadia, while he awaited the coming of this courageous girl.
"Madam, I greet you. You are a brave lady," he said, gravely, in English; and the girl's eyes filled with tears as she grasped his hand.
"I hope--I trust--that Mr. Vanston is quite recovered?" she faltered. "I mean, that he is much better? I have been in deep anxiety."
"He is as well as ever he was in his life," said Vronsky, "and as well amused. That is the truth. The Governor and his daughter have truly Russian notions of hospitality. They bade me bring you to them, mademoiselle. Will you go?"
"No," said Rona. "Unless you say that I must, I will not go. I would rather stay with you, please, if you are so kind as to make room for me. Mr. Vanston can come and see me at your house. I have no claim upon the kindness of these strangers."
"Our house will be more dear to us ever after if its roof has sheltered your beautiful head, mademoiselle," said Vronsky, with deep conviction.
Rona acknowledged this with a shy smile. "Let Felix ride your horse awhile, and come and sit with me in the carriage and let us make friends."
The suggestion completed the conquest of the big, affectionate fellow. And in this order they made the rest of the journey.
* * * * * * *
Denzil had opened his eyes that morning to the awful conviction that every dream must have an awakening, and that his awakening was come.
Until dawn he had not slept. He had lain awake staring at the ceiling, asking himself helplessly whether it could be true that he, the blameless, the well-conducted, the young man whose sober pulses knew not what it was to quicken, could really be false, could really be shamelessly in love, pushed out of his usual decorum and moderation, carried along upon the swift current of his senses, caring for nothing but this wondrous girl, hoping for nothing but some catastrophe which should keep him forever away from England, and happy at her side.
Wild thoughts of offering Normansgrave to Felix, if only he would take Rona away and leave him happy with Nadia, coursed through his mind. Absurd he knew such thoughts to be. But he had cast to the winds all sense, all propriety. He was as much out of himself as a man hopelessly drunk for the first time in his life.
Why had he hitherto led so jog-trot, so narrow a life? How could a man, ignorant of the possibilities of existence, judge of what was necessary for his own happiness? Had he only gone forth earlier to see the world, instead of staying at home, reflecting upon his own virtues, he would not have been tempted into that sickly and tepid course of sentiment with a half-grown girl like Rona.
And who was Rona? The curtain of romance that had veiled her had been in part drawn back by the Reverend Mother, and her mysterious uncle was now an established fact. Miss Rawson reported him to be woefully second-rate, apart from his moral defects. "Remember," that wise aunt had said, "Felix took her from a lodging in Deptford."
And he might have had this creature of fire and magic, this Russian aristocrat, with the blood of Royal Princes in her veins! He was Vanston of Normansgrave, proud of his old, clean name. How could he have indulged so unworthy a dream these last two foolish years?
He thought of Nadia, standing in the hall at home, walking in the gardens, learning the ways and customs of an English lady of position. How he would love to show her all the superiorities of his own beloved country! To see her the admired of all the countryside! Mr. Vanston's beautiful wife would have been the talk of the neighborhood. Poor Denzil!
He kept away from Nadia all that day, wandering alone, in moody meditation. His thoughts never dwelt for a moment upon the idea of the girl who was coming to him, so long a journey, at so great a fatigue. She was to him merely a disagreeable duty, which would have to be faced. He did not realize this. Had he really known what he felt, he would have hid his face in shuddering shame. As it was, he was conscious only of the pain he was suffering. Towards evening, Nadia, wandering alone, found him, seated in the shadow of a huge tree, his face hidden in his hands.
She seated herself beside him, her impulsive heart moved to keen pity. All day long she had been feeling hurt and angry. It had been charming to wield undivided sway over this curious, self-contained man for these last delightful days. She had no idea of the true state of affairs--no idea that the English girl now on her way to Savlinsky was, as an actual fact, the betrothed of Denzil Vanston. But she felt that the new arrivals would put an end to a companionship which had been strangely delightful.
She reflected with cold wonder that she had once thought herself in love with Felix--Felix, whose color had never changed, whose breath had never quickened at her coming--whose manner to her was as his manner to Miss Forester, civil, pleasant, neutral. She could not look at Denzil without becoming aware of his intense consciousness of her look. He was her slave. He reddened and paled, smiled or frowned, as she willed. Nadia was a young woman who loved her own way. Her intelligence had always warned her that with Felix she would not have had it. She had the same instinctive knowledge that she would be able to twist Denzil round her finger.
Now, she knew not why he suffered, but she could well see that he was suffering. A new feeling, of tender pity, a mother-feeling, took possession of her heart. She was at bottom a very simple-minded, domestic young woman, impulsive, and a little spoilt, but wholly feminine.
"Something is wrong with you," she said. "And I am grieved if you grieve."
He took her hand, and, hardly knowing what he was about, held it to his lips. The girl smilingly allowed it. The misery of thwarted passion rushing through his veins filled the touch of his lips with fire. As he held and kissed her small, soft hand, the contented smile faded from her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes grew deep and troubled. She trembled, and made an effort to draw back her hand. He let it go at once, and in a kind of despair, resting his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh," said Nadia, breathlessly, "what is it? Tell me, tell me, you make me so unhappy."
"To-day is the last," he brought out, thickly. "I am counting each second of it. My friends will arrive in an hour or two. We shall leave for England in a day or two, and you--you will forget me, the poor wretch who all his life will never be able to forget you."
She gave a little delicious sigh. "Ah," she said, "then you will feel it too. I thought you would be so glad to have your own countrywomen with you--to turn your back upon this desert place."
He lifted his head, showing her his eyes suffused with tears. "Desert!" he said. "This is the garden, and the King's daughter. I am the unfortunate stranger whom your bounty has succored. Now he must be driven forth again into the wilderness."
She laughed, with an assumption of lightness. "Wilderness! That is very unlike Miss Forester's description of England! She says it is the fairest place on earth. I have always"--her sweet, emotional voice dropped to its lowest notes--"I have always wished that I could go there. It is a land of peace, of safety, as well as beauty."
It was as if the voice, the words, touched a spring. He turned to her. "Come," he articulated, almost inaudibly; and his craving sounded in his broken voice. "Come to England--with me--Nadia."
He felt that he simply could not help it. It had to be said. It was bald, bare, it needed softening, it needed much explaining. But something in Nadia's heart apparently bridged all the gaps. In a moment he had her in his arms. And as he held her, there leaped upon him, out of the past, a memory of the moment in which he had so held Rona, in the Abbey ruins at Newark.
The thought went nigh to poison his ecstatic hour. Rona had not yielded herself to him. She had not exactly rejected, but she had by no means responded to his mood. But Nadia responded with a rush of feeling which astounded her lover. It almost frightened him. For the moment it carried him away completely. He had a dim feeling that all the careful maxims of centuries were borne away and swept down by the current upon which he was carried. Through it all was a sense that Nemesis must overtake him--that this could not last. Something was coming upon him--what was it? Remorse for treachery? Stuff! How could one be a traitor to a thing one had never felt? Yet, surely the avenging moment was at hand! Surely there was a hand outstretched to dash away this heady cup from his lips?
Yes--and close by.
As at last he lifted his burning face, and loosened the clasp of his arms from about Nadia's form, he saw, standing there before him, in bodily shape, his brother Felix. There stood the scapegrace, and there before him sat the virtuous elder brother, caught in the treacherous act. Felix had indeed changed since their last meeting. Tall, handsome, and altogether at his ease, he fixed a glance of ironic amusement upon the situation for a brief half-moment, and then, turning silently and swiftly, walked off among the trees of the garden, unseen by Nadia, whose face was hidden against her lover; leaving Denzil writhing in the pangs of a shame far more acute than the most scathing criticism in words of his conduct would have produced in him.