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.