Jean Goring sat in her boudoir, awaiting the return of her friend and
guest, Sunblinds were drawn over the windows, the chairs and sofas were
covered with linen, the cushions with dainty muslins; the carpet was a
stretch of dull, moss-like green; the only bright notes of colour in the
room were to be found in the masses of freshly cut roses which adorned
the various tables, and in that most radiant flower of all, Jean
Goring's face.
The laces of the white peignoir, the muslin of the frilled cushion
showed out in almost startling beauty the dark mist of hair; the
exquisitely flushed cheeks, dark brows, and curling lashes gave a
deepened shade to the violet blue of the eyes. The rich brunette
colouring had a somewhat un-English aspect, yet there was not a drop of
foreign blood in the girl's veins--she was Irish "all through, except my
mother, who was Scotch," as she herself was accustomed to describe her
lineage. The contour of her face was oval, the profile showed the
delicate fineness of a cameo. Happy Jean! her beauty was no light gift
to pass away with her loss of youth; beautiful she was now, beautiful
she must always remain. Age, sorrow, suffering might do their worst;
those who looked on would ever find her the perfection of her type. If
she lived to be eighty she would be as essentially an artist's model as
she was now at twenty-two.
The clock struck four. Jean put down her book and raised her head from
the cushion to listen to the sound of an approaching footstep. The door
opened, and she beheld Vanna Strangeways' white, strained face. The
horrid doctor had given a depressing verdict. So much was evident at a
glance; but Jean had too much tact to allow her knowledge to betray
itself at this moment.
"Well, my dearie, back again! I was longing for you. Sit down in that
nice low chair, and let me be lady's-maid. The streets must be a grill
this afternoon, but you'll soon cool down up here. There; you'll feel
better without that hat. Your hair looks charming--don't worry. It
couldn't look untidy if it tried. Now your gloves. I shall peel them
right off. It will be occupation for an idle hour to turn out the
fingers. If I were a queen I'd never, never wear gloves a second time.
Now those dusty little shoes. Your slippers are here all ready. Sit
still. I'm _going_ to undo them. I love to do it."
Her white, ringed fingers untied the laces, and pulled off one shoe
after another so deftly and daintily that they hardly seemed to touch
the surface. Then, bending still lower, she gave a deft little pull to
the tip of each stocking, thereby altering its position, and giving a
wonderful sense of comfort to the tired feet, Vanna Strangeways had sat
silent and unresponsive till that moment, but something in the simple
thoughtfulness of that last action melted the ice. She laid her hands
on her friend's shoulders and spoke in a quivering voice:
"Jean, I've had a blow."
"Yes, dear," said Jean softly. She knelt by Vanna's side, caressing her
face with her lovely eyes. "I saw. Would you rather tell me now, or
wait till later on? You are tired, you know, and after a rest, and some
tea. Later on--"
"Jean, it's not what you expected--what I expected myself. I'm not
going to die; I'm going to live. He thinks there is a good chance that
I shall escape the curse. He wants me to lead a full, active life--the
fuller the better. But--there is one thing forbidden. I may never
marry!"
Jean's lips quivered, but she said never a word. It seemed to her there
was nothing to say. Few girls of the early seventies knew any desire
for independent careers; and to Jean to love and to be loved seemed the
stun and substance of life. She would marry, and her dear Vanna would
marry also. Of course! They would be loved and won, whispering happy
confidences into the other's ear; they would bring up their children
side by side, with motherly comparisons, consultations, planning for the
future; they would grow old, and boast concerning their grandchildren.
To be told that one could never marry seemed to Jean the crash of all
things. She had no consolation to offer.
Vanna laughed feebly; a dreary-sounding little laugh.
"I don't understand why I feel so quelled," she said musingly.
"Marriage has never entered definitely into my calculations. I have
been content with the present, and have felt no need of it; but I
suppose it lay all the time in the background of my mind, firmly
settled, as a thing that was to be. I took for granted that I should
enjoy my youth; fly about here and there as the mood took me, enjoying
my liberty to the full, and then, when I'd had my fling, about
twenty-six or seven, perhaps, marry some dear man and settle down to
real, serious living. Now I can't, and something has gone out of me and
left a big gap. I feel like a surgeon who has lost his right arm. It's
my profession that has gone--my work in life. I shall have to begin
again."
Jean trembled, and drew nearer, leaning caressingly against her friend's
knee.
"Is he _sure_, dear? Why is he sure? Is there no chance?"
"No! He was not thinking of children. For my own sake it would be
dangerous. I should have a worse chance. He said it would be a sin to
put such a dread into a man's life. That finishes it, you see, Jean!
The more one loved the less it would be possible."
"Yes," breathed Jean softly. Her woman's heart realised at once the
finality of that argument; she saw the shutters descend over her
friend's life, and knew too deep a sorrow for words. The pressure of
her hands, the quiver of her lips, were the most eloquent signs of
fellow feeling. Vanna went on speaking in quiet, level tones:
"I was in the house only half an hour, but when I came out the whole
world seemed changed... The people who passed me in the streets, the
ordinary little groups that one sees every day, all launched a dart as
they passed. A husband and wife strolling along together--not young and
romantic at all, just prosaic and middle-aged, and--_content_. They
were not any happier than I, perhaps, but they had had their time--they
had lived. They had not that restless, craving expression which one
sees on so many faces. They were content... It hurt to see them, and a
big schoolboy, too, walking with his mother. I'm not fond of boys, and
Etons are the ugliest of clothes. He was a lanky, freckled, graceless
thing; but--I wanted him! I wanted to be able to say, `_my son_'...
One always loves the tots in the Park--little white bundles with curly
heads; but to-day I envied the nursemaids. I wanted to be tired,
wheeling my bundle. I tried not to look at the people. I stared into
the shop windows instead; but they hurt too. You know my craze for
furniture? I've whiled away many hours mentally furnishing my home of
the future. I had decided the colour for each room, and the scheme of
decoration. When anything worried me in another house, I consoled
myself that it would be different in mine; when I admired a thing, I
made a mental note. Jean, I shall have _no_ home! A boarding-house, an
apartment, perhaps a solitary cottage in the wilds, never, never a real
warm home with some one to love, and to love me back... How should you
feel if it were you; if any one had put a blank wall before _your_
life?"
"As you do, dear--dazed and broken; worse, perhaps, for I should not
take it so calmly. I should storm and rage."
"Yes! You are _revoltee_. It doesn't help, Jean, or I would shriek
with the best. There is only one thing which rouses my wrath--I ought
to have known before. Aunt Mary thought it was kind to bring me up in
ignorance. When I asked questions about my relations she put me off
with generalities. I thought it was strange that so many of them had
been invalids... I never could understand why I had not seen father for
years before his death. When I was a child I took for granted that he
had been abroad; later, I scented a mystery and was afraid to ask. I
suffered tortures, Jean, puzzling over it at nights, trying to piece
together scattered bits of information. I had terrible thoughts--the
blackest thoughts. I had visions of him as a forger, shut up in a cell.
When the bell rang late at night I used to tremble, wondering if it
were he escaped from prison, coming to us for shelter... Then at the
end, as so often happens, it came out just by chance. Some people were
sitting behind a screen at a reception, and they spoke of me--just a few
words, and before I could move I had heard the great secret.
`Interesting-looking girl! It is to be hoped she won't go mad, too. So
many of that family--' It was like a flashlight over the past. I looked
back, and understood. All the bits fitted, and the mystery was solved.
I was not the daughter of a criminal--only of a maniac, who had been
shut up for five years before his death. That was my grandmother's
mysterious illness, and Aunt Bertha's too--pretty Aunt Bertha, who
disappeared for a year at a time, for a `cure,' and came back looking so
worn and sad. That was the explanation of my boy cousin's violent
temper, and of the misery of his father and mother after each explosion.
And I, arrogant young schoolgirl, used to criticise their weakness, and
expatiate on the firmness with which I should bring up my own children,
and Aunt Mary would look at me so wistfully over the top of her
spectacles. Heigho! Well, then I _knew_, and after that I could not
rest. I grew nervous about myself; I got into the habit of watching
myself, as it were--waiting for danger-signals, for symptoms. I had
sense enough left to know that that was the best way to develop all that
I dreaded, and this last year I have been waiting for a chance to
consult a specialist and thrash out the question, I could not leave Aunt
Mary while she was so ill; after her death there was so much to be
arranged; now at last I've had my interview, and this is the result,
Jean, is it strange? I never once thought of this verdict. It seemed
the right and the wise thing to take skilled advice, but what I expected
was to be soothed and reassured. Aunt Mary always laid such emphasis on
the fact that I was my mother's child. It delighted her so, poor soul,
to see my quiet, level-headed ways. Whenever I had been particularly
controlled and sensible, she would repeat, `Yes, yes! You are a
thorough Neale; there is not one scrap of Strangeways in you.' I
expected Dr Greatman to realise as much, and assure me that I had
nothing to fear; that I was not the type; that some fortunate members of
the family always escaped. I thought he would perhaps lay down certain
rules, restrictions, cautions against over-excitement. Never, never for
one moment did I expect this."
Jean was silent. She had feared. Ever since receiving her friend's
confidence, her thoughts had hovered round this one absorbing question.
Would Vanna be justified in marrying? Now the greatest living authority
had answered strongly in the negative, and there was no escaping his
decree. She looked ahead, seeing her friend throughout the years, a
charming girl, a more charming woman; later on losing her freshness and
grace, and becoming faded and tired; later again, becoming old and
infirm, the senses failing--and always alone, for ever alone. The slow
tears welled to her eyes, a drop brimmed over and fell on her friend's
hand.
Vanna brushed it away with impatient fingers, straightened her back, and
flung back her head.
"Oh, don't cry--don't cry over me, Jean. We are poor things, we women,
if we can't face the prospect of making our own lives. Put a man into
my place. Would he pine? You know very well he would do nothing of the
kind. A man never wants to marry until he meets the right woman, and
even then he struggles before he succumbs. When he once loves it is
different--he is all fire and impatience, but until that hour arrives he
enjoys his liberty, pities the poor fellows who are handicapped with a
wife and family, and privately determines to keep clear. Here am I--
twenty-three, comfortably off, strong, intelligent, fancy-free. Why
can't I take a leaf out of his book and be content and happy? Why need
I consider myself a martyr because I must live alone, rather than as the
wife of some man unknown, who perhaps in even the ordinary course of
events might have persistently evaded my path, or had the bad taste to
prefer another woman when he _was_ found? It is not as if I were
already in love."
Jean drew her brows together in wistful inquiry. The doubt in her mind
was so transparently expressed that Vanna referred to it as to a spoken
question.
"I know what you are thinking. Edward Verney! You think my regrets
hover round him. It's not true, Jean, it's not true. I had forgotten
his very existence until I saw your face. If I had cared, surely my
thoughts would have flown to him first of all. He is only a
`might-have-been.' I had reached the length of noticing the way his
hair grows on his forehead, and his nice, close ears--that was a
danger-signal, I suppose; and I acknowledge that I have dressed with an
eye to his taste, but it has gone no deeper. I shall be sorry, but it
won't _hurt_ to end our friendship."
"Then why need you--"
"Oh!" Vanna laughed lightly. "I think he admires my--ears also! If we
saw more of each other we should grow nearer; I realise that, therefore
we must separate with all speed. As things are, he won't suffer any
more than I. He is just a dear, simple, unimaginative Englishman, who
needs to have things pushed very conspicuously before his eyes before he
can see them. He knows that I have gone away for a long change after
the strain of Aunt Mary's illness. It will be some months before it
dawns upon him that my holiday is exceeding its limit; and by that time
my image will have lost its freshness. He will be sorry, but he won't
attempt to follow. He'll say to his friends, `pity Miss Strangeways has
left the place. She was a jolly girl.' But if all had been well, I
might have been his wife--"
There was silence for several minutes. Each girl was thinking deeply of
the future; pondering over the difficulty of mapping out a life which
seemed to have no settled direction, Vanna had many gifts, but no one
outstanding talent. Until this moment she had never dreamt of taking up
any work outside the domestic circle; but it would be impossible to
fritter away life in the care of self alone. What could she do? She
herself had announced her decision of leaving her native town. Where
could she live? After puzzling the problem in a circle for several
minutes, Jean ventured another timid question.
"Have you thought, dear; have you any idea what you will do?"
"I have thought. Yes! I know I must leave Coverley, but that is as far
as I can get. I must wait until I have calmed down and can think it out
quietly. But I should like to be near you, Jean. You are the person I
care for most on earth, and failing a personal romance I must take you
for my lifelong love. You won't want me always. When you are happy you
will be independent of my services; but you can't always be happy.
There must come times when you are ill, or anxious, or miserable, when I
shall have my chance. You will need a woman then. When the babies are
teething; when the boiler bursts on Christmas Eve, and the cook leaves
at an hour's notice; when you want to make jam, or re-cover the
furniture, or to leave everything behind, and go off honeymooning with
your husband, `send for Vanna' must be a household word. I shall be
your `Affliction Female,' always ready to be called in in an emergency.
Fancy _me_ an `Affliction Female.'"
"A Consolation Female!" corrected Jean softly, and Vanna looked at her
with a lightening eye.
"That's better. Thank you, Jean. Well, that will be one object in
life--to help you, when you need help. You will marry, of course. It
is impossible to think that any man could refuse to love you if you
wished it, and the time will come when you _will_ wish. It will be a
tremendous interest to know your home, and your husband, and children.
Dr Greatman told me that I was to compare my life as a spinster with
the life of married women... I'll compare it with yours. There will be
moments when I shall be gnawed with envy, but perhaps, who knows? there
may be times when you may envy me in return. At any rate, you'll be
sweet to me, dear--I know that; and you must let me help you to
entertain the dull bores, and keep the charming eligibles out of my way.
I don't want to be driven away by a second Edward Verney. It's a mercy
I am only `interesting,' and not a beauty, like you."
"Yes, it is," sighed Jean, in unthinking agreement.
Vanna's lips twitched, her eyes flashed a humorous glance at her own
reflection in the glass at the opposite end of the room.