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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.