That same day came a letter from Denzil. He said he was very glad to hear that they had come out, though he could hardly have advised so extreme a course had he known it to be in contemplation. As they were there, he hoped they were fairly comfortable, and would not mind staying on until he had some idea as to what was best to be done. He said that the place where he was was far from civilization, and though the Russian, Vronsky, did all he could for his comfort, he found himself very unwell, as a result, he supposed, of his long journey, or the difference in climate, or way of living, or anxiety. There was no news of Felix. He related the circumstances of his disappearance, and of the pursuit of Cravatz. He said that Vronsky was far from hopeless, for the Governor suggested that Felix was perhaps keeping out of harm's way until he heard that the Nihilist was laid by the heels. He himself could not but think that had Felix intended to go into hiding, he would have informed Vronsky, and not left him to fret and distress himself. Vronsky's devotion to his brother was touching. He meant to leave him everything of which he died possessed. He was in a large way of business. He had confided to Denzil that he believed Nadia Stepanovna, the Governor's daughter, was interested in Felix——
("Dear me, what a good way out of our difficulty that would be!" sighed Aunt Bee.)
They had every hope of hearing of the arrest of Cravatz in a few days. The police had been put on his track by a wandering Kirgiz. ("What on earth is a Kirgiz?" said Aunt Bee.) When his arrest was a known fact, they might hope to ascertain where Felix was, unless he had been the victim of foul play. But an exhaustive search all along the route between Nicolashof and the mines had resulted in no discovery; and his attached servant, Max, was missing also. He concluded by remarking how fortunate it was that, owing to the proximity of the Governor's summer residence, they had a line of telegraph in so remote a spot. He recounted his own journey there, and added that he would write more, but that he felt increasingly unwell, and was afraid he should have to go and lie down.
It was a disquieting letter. They did not like to think of Denzil being ill, so far from them, or from a doctor, or from any friends. He could not speak a word of Russian; and though Vronsky had improved in his English under the tuition of Felix, he had had of late little use for that tongue, and it had grown rusty.
Aunt Bee almost forgot her pain in discussing the hard case in which Denzil must find himself. They talked of little else all day.
Next morning, when poor Miss Rawson awoke from the only nap she had been able to snatch during a night of agony, it was to hear that another telegram had arrived.
"Vanston very ill, wishes you to come.—Vronsky."
Miss Rawson buried her face in the pillow and sobbed. What was to be done? It was an impossibility for her to think of traveling. Yet the idea of Denzil alone and ill in that awful place was torment to her. Rona made up her mind.
If she could not offer to the man who loved her the devotion which he craved, she could at least offer service. She remembered his extreme kindness when she, the frightened, penniless little fugitive, had lain ill at the Cottage Hospital.
The least she could do would be to hasten to him, ill as he was, and lonely among aliens.