Meanwhile, she had given her promise. She had given it fully, freely, without hesitation, to the young man who was as friendless, as forlorn as she. But in the time which had passed since then she had found home and friends, life was opening before her—while he was lonely still. Lonely and wanting her. What was she to do?
With a passion of terror and repulsion she contemplated the idea of going off with this stranger, whom she had known only for three wild days—of leaving for his sake, England, and all that England means. Oh—she could not do it; as he said in his letter, he ought not to demand it!
In the agony of her feelings she bowed her head upon her hands; and it seemed as if some inner barrier broke so that the tears came. She was a girl who seldom wept, and having once given way, she grieved with an abandonment which frightened her. To her horror she found that she could not control herself. She was obliged to bend before the storm which shook her. It was half shame. By all the rules, she should be ready to die for this man who had saved her; and she, on the contrary, recoiled with shuddering from the mere thought of him.
It was upon this desolation of grief that Denzil, wandering in search of her, came, with a thrill of horror unspeakable. With a leap into life of something within him, he flung himself down upon the grass beside her. He lifted her up, he held her in his arms, he found himself kissing away her tears before he knew what he was about—and the only words that came into his head as he clasped her close were:
"My darling, my own darling, what has made you cry?"
CHAPTER XV
A DIFFICULT SITUATION
Does every man who names love in our lives
Become a power, for that? Is love's true thing
So much best to us, that what personates love
Is next best? ...
My soul is not a pauper; I can live
At least my soul's life, without alms from men.
—E. BARRETT BROWNING.
The distress which had overmastered Rona was so extreme that for a few moments it seemed to her a natural thing that Denzil should be consoling her. Her need of just that—just the comfort that mere petting brings in overwhelming trouble—was so intense, that there was fitness in the thought that he, the generous man who had done so much for her, should be the one to offer comfort in her perplexity.
But to the Squire, after the impetuous outrush of sympathy which had carried him, as it were, off his feet for a moment, there came an acute attack of self-consciousness which could not fail to communicate itself to the girl whom he still held in his arms.