To this end she plotted. She invited a house-party to stay at Normansgrave. Among them was that same Miss Myrtle Bentley whom Denzil had once thought that he could like well enough to bestow upon her the priceless treasure of his heart. There is little doubt that she would have accepted it, most gratefully; for she was twenty-eight, and the slight primness which endeared her to Denzil was not an attraction in the eyes of other men.
She came; and Denzil marveled that he could ever have been drawn towards her. Others came too. Several young men. Aunt Bee asked none whom she thought likely to be dangerous to Rona; but several to whom she thought Rona would inevitably be dangerous.
As a few days fleeted by, she congratulated herself upon the success of her maneuver. The young men surrounded Rona as flies hover about honey. Denzil was no longer able to monopolize her. He felt the change acutely. His aunt had strong hopes that, before long, his calm must give way, and he be driven over the verge of a declaration.
It was to her unaccountable that he should be so slow to move. But she had to admit that Veronica gave him no help. Veronica was not the least bit in love. She was reveling, with all her intense physical capacity, in the pleasure which life gave her. Surrounded by summer weather, pleasant people, and beautiful country, she gave herself up to holiday happiness—picnics by river, picnics by motor, garden-parties, golf, and dancing—each thing in turn was new, was absorbing, was delightful.
She seemed fast slipping into that daughterly attitude towards Denzil which Aunt Bee dreaded and strove to avert.
The girl was living in the golden present moment. There was a dark background to her thought. Now and then, even in the midst of her mirth, the shadow of her secret betrothal flapped its black wings in the sunshine. But she turned her mind and her heart away from it. She was gloriously amused, she was glowing with the pride of life and youth. She was not going to think upon any disagreeable subject.
And then, one morning, there lay upon her plate a letter. A letter with the usual Russian stamps and the usual typewritten address. For Felix never dared risk his handwriting, for fear of recognition.
Veronica gazed upon that envelope as a man may look upon the Black Hand which is the secret summons of some nefarious society, and calls upon him to prepare for death. A gust of loathing memory swept over her. Again she saw the dun half-daylight of a London winter; again the endless lines of railway far below. She smelt the odor of hay and tarpaulin, and saw the dizzy lights upon the black, slow river.
She resented being reminded of the terrible moment of her despair, her escape, her accident, her privations. She looked down the breakfast-table at the well-looking, prosperous people who were feeding there. What had she and they in common with anarchy and jail, and all the other awful things that lie out of sight, in the darker corners of life?
Whatever happened, she could not open and read her letter then. She slipped it into her pocket unnoticed. She intended to read it as soon as she should be alone. But immediately after breakfast all was bustle and movement, since they were going to scull up the Wey to the ruins of Newark Abbey for a picnic. There was no leisure to break the fatal seal.