There was silence. Denzil took in and digested this new view of the girl at his side. He had thought her every idea and tendency known to him. He had believed that he himself had formed her tastes and decided her bent. And now he was faced by the awful thought that in her tender girlhood another man had kissed her—held her in his arms.... He remembered the conditions under which she had been found—on board a canal barge—with this wild youth who was not her brother! A horrible despondency assailed him, darkening the face of the fair landscape. All that he said was: "I could not have believed it of you, Rona."
She winced, but maintained her composure. For long had she dreaded this moment. It was almost with relief that she found herself living through it. In all her forecastings of the scene, she had pictured herself as making her avowal to Miss Rawson also.
Denzil alone was unquestionably easier to deal with.
She continued her confession.
"I have had a letter from him—to-day!"
"Indeed!" Denzil's voice sounded as though dashed with ice.
Its coldness was ominous, and stung her.
"Listen!" she urged. "If you turn from me, what is to become of me? You are the only person in all the world who cares—except him! You are the only person who could advise me, who could help—who could—could—save me from him."
There was a moment's tense silence; then he said, in a softer tone, "So you do not—love this—er—this young man to whom you are plighted?"
She shook her head. "I was a child, you know," she faltered. "And I—I hardly knew him. But, you see, he had saved my life. He had saved me from—worse than death, I think. I was very grateful to him." She mused for a moment, and then timidly asked, "Will you read his letter?"