The walls of the room where Veronica lay were tinted like a hedge-sparrow's egg. The coverlet of her narrow bed was scarlet, and she wore a bed-jacket the collar of which was embroidered with briar roses. Sister Agnes was so proud of her lovely hair that she had brushed it all out and left it unfilleted, showering over the pillow. In spite of an air of great fragility, there was a delicate bloom on the oval face, and the eyes were preternaturally large and clear.
She was lying very still, as she mostly did, neither reading nor speaking. Her eyes turned wistfully to the door every time it was opened. The sight of Miss Rawson was a pleasure, evidently. Her face lit up. But when she saw that a young man followed, there flew into her thin cheeks a flag of pure rich color; she raised herself in the bed, though with difficulty. Her lips parted in a smile of eager welcome, she stretched out her hand.... Then it all died away. She realized, with a stab of disappointment, that this was a stranger who came. But how curious—she could have declared!
Now, why? This man was of a different height, complexion, and manner. He did not even resemble the man whom she expected, whom she wished to see. Why was it, how could it have happened, that when he first appeared she actually mistook him for the other?
Her agitation and bewilderment made her prettier and shyer than Miss Rawson had ever seen her.
Denzil, as he approached and looked down upon her, felt such an access of emotion as never in all his staid existence had visited him before. This was no barge girl, but a dainty lady, for whose high birth he would have gladly vouched—no young servant injured in cleaning windows, but a princess out of a fairy tale!
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST LETTER
"I consecrated my life to you from the moment when I first saw you, and I feel a certain pleasure in sacrificing it to you."—Letters of a Portuguese Nun.
In all his well-conducted life Denzil Vanston had never stood at the bedside of a beautiful young girl. His staid imagination had not foreshadowed anything like this maiden, with her double halo of mystery and suffering. His brother Felix, younger, harder, and more callous, had felt compassion for the child's feminine helplessness, but no perception of her rare charm.
Denzil, who never thought about women as a rule, perceived it at once. He perceived also the flickering, wistful look, the varying color with which she marked his entrance. Misunderstanding it altogether—for how could he tell that she had been conscious of that elusive, subtle, indescribable thing which we call family likeness?—he sat down by the bedside with everything that was honest and natural about him thoroughly stirred. He took the invalid's hand and held it in his own, as he said they felt glad to know that she was making a good recovery. Even as he spoke he was conscious of some awkwardness. His aunt, he felt, had made a mistake. This was no charity case, to be visited by anybody who was humane enough to take the trouble—this was a young gentlewoman, whose privacy should be respected. He grew scarlet with the feeling that he ought not to be there.