Three days later the two girls were ensconced in their country quarters,
and Jean was beginning to suffer from the effects of reaction. Her
impressionable nature was capable of generous impulses, which found vent
in such actions of self-abnegation as the present flight from town, but
long-continued effort was too heavy a trial. Once settled down in the
quiet house by the sea, and past the excitement of the first arrival,
she began to droop and to fret, and to demand of herself and every one
with whom she came in contact why she had been so foolish as to abandon
her last weeks in town.
"To-night is the Listers' ball. I was going to wear the new white. At
this very moment I should have been preening before the glass. I feel a
horrid conviction that it would have suited me to distraction, that I
should have had the night of my life. I can't think what you were
dreaming about, Vanna, to let me rush off in that undignified way. I'm
impulsive; but a word from you would have kept me straight. And you
never spoke it. I don't think I can ever forgive you. If you hadn't
any consideration for me, you might have thought of Edith. For _her_
sake I should have stayed in town and been as nice as possible to Robert
Gloucester. If a man can't run the gauntlet of other women, he would
make a poor sort of husband. When I fall in love, I shall make a point
of introducing the man to the most charming women of my acquaintance,
and if he shows any sign of being attracted by a special one, I'll throw
them together. I will! You see if I don't! If he didn't like me
better than them all put together, I should be glad, thankful, delighted
to let him go. Any girl would, who had a spirit. I feel that I have
behaved very meanly and unkindly to poor dear Edith. Why don't you
speak? What's the good of sitting there like a mummy? Can't you hear?"
"Perfectly, thank you. I am listening with great interest and
attention. Being of a generous nature, I refrain from repeating the
remarks which you made when I _did_ venture to expostulate, but if you
will cast back your thoughts--"
"Oh, well," interrupted Jean naughtily, "I shall just flirt with Piers.
I deserve some distraction after being such a monument of virtue, and
I'll have it, or know the reason why. I wrote to tell him we were here,
so he'll come over this afternoon, and we'll go for a walk by the sad
sea waves. You might twist your ankle on the pebbles, a little innocent
twist, you know, just enough to make it wise to sit down and rest while
we have our _tete-a-tete_. Since you've brought me here against my
will, it's the least you can do. Piers shall have tea with us before we
start. Miggles adores Piers."
"Miggles," formally known as Miss Miggs, was a well-known character in
the Goring _menage_, having been in succession, governess to Jean,
housekeeper during the period of Mr Goring's widowerhood, and
afterwards governess to the two sons of the second marriage. After so
many years of faithful service it seemed impossible to dispense with
Miggles's services, and in truth no one wished to do so, for she was one
of the cheery souls who carry sunshine as an atmosphere. According to
ordinary ideas, Miggles might have grumbled with the best, and demanded
a universal toll of sympathy, for she was the most solitary of units--a
woman who could not claim relationship with a angle soul in her own
hemisphere. She had passed her sixtieth birthday, and despite rigid
economies, possessed only a few hundred pounds between herself and want;
her health, never strong, showed signs of growing more precarious, and
an affection of the eyes shut her off from her loved pastimes of reading
and needlework. Nevertheless, Miggles was so far from being depressed
by such circumstances, that it had not even occurred to her that she
deserved to be pitied. This blessed state of mind had been achieved by
no conflict and struggle of the soul--no noble effort of will; religion
itself had contributed little towards it. Miggles's disposition was a
birthright for which she was seemingly as little responsible as for the
colour of her hair. As a child, when circumstances had offered a choice
between smiles and tears, she had instinctively elected to smile; as a
girl, the mere facts of life and movement had seemed sufficient to
ensure complete happiness; while later on she had been so much occupied
with being thankful for silver linings that the clouds themselves
flitted by attracting but scanty attention. In cheery, non-consequent
fashion, _she_ would discourse of her blessings by the hour together.
"Now, would you believe it, my dear, not a soul belonging to me nearer
than Australia--my nephew Henry, dear boy, but rash--such a pity! always
was, from a child. Thomas now--the elder brother--he would always save.
My mother was so particular about bringing us up to save. `_Instil_
good principles from the beginning' she would say. But however--what
was I talking about? Ah, yes! not a soul nearer than Australia, and
_three_ letters by this morning's post. Isn't it wonderful? People are
so kind. Really, except Monday, when there was a fashion-book from a
shop--I do like seeing the fashions--there's been something on my plate
every morning. That's so cheering to begin the day. You know some one
has been thinking of you, and caring enough to sit down and write."
Jean cast a twinkling glance across the table at Vanna.
"What did they want this time, Miggles? I bet anything you like, that
every second letter was to beg for something that you have no business
to give, and that you were weak enough to say yes all round. Can you
deny it?"
"Why should I, dear child? Such a privilege. Most kind of them to have
given me the opportunity. Old clothes! I don't suppose you ever _have_
old clothes, Miss Vanna--they always look so fresh and new. I like to
see a girl in pretty clothes. When I was young, shallis were in
fashion. I don't suppose you ever saw shallis--very stiff, not nearly
so graceful as your delaines. A dear lady gave me a brown shalli,
trimmed with pipings. Brown was never my colour, but it wore for
years--so very kind. Nowadays I have to wear wool for my poor bones.
Wool always did irritate my skin. It took me weeks to get accustomed to
sleep in blankets. I used to lie awake at nights tossing from side to
side, and thinking of all the poor creatures who had no warm coverings--
and mine the very best Whitney, the ones from the spare room, Jean, with
the blue stripes. Mrs Goring said I was to have them. I'm sure if I'd
been the Queen--"
"Oh, it's wonderful to think of. Real Whitney blankets with blue
stripes, on which to toss about and groan! What luck you have, Miggles,
and how thankful you ought to be that you have bones to _ache_. If you
hadn't had that bad feverish attack, you might have been left stranded
with your own bedding. It is piteous to think of."
Miggles shook her large, ugly head with elephantine playfulness.
"Naughty child! naughty child! You are laughing at me, I can see. It
is very painful, especially during the night, and I used to be so proud
of my hands. I've had to give up wearing my turquoise ring, the
knuckles are so enlarged. That really was a trial; but when you think
what other people have to bear... There's that poor man at Oxford
Circus, who wheels about on a board. I always wonder if there are any
legs inside his trousers, they lie so very flat; but of course one
couldn't ask. How monotonous it would be, my dear, to sit on a board
from morning till night. When I thought of that, it seemed so foolish
to fret about a ring... Your dear mother gave it to me one Christmas,
because I had such a desire to possess a ring. It was the only one I
ever had."
"Dear Miggles," cried Jean fondly, "I wonder you didn't have a dozen. I
wonder that every man you met didn't press one upon you. They would
have done so, if they had known what was good for them. You would have
made the dearest wife!"
Miggles smiled appreciatively.
"Well, dear, I _should_, though I say it myself. I should have made him
very comfortable. I have such a sympathy with men, poor dears, working
all day long, and banks failing, and upsetting their plans, and all the
bills to pay. They do deserve a little comfort at home. My nephew's
wife--Henry's--I can't help feeling she's been a little to blame. Of
course there's no denying that Henry _is_ rash, but he could have been
_guided_, and Florence is hasty. A nice girl, too--very nice. I
wouldn't say a word against her, but you can't help thinking sometimes,
and I'm sorry for Henry. Yes! I've always regretted that I never had
an offer. I was never pretty, like you, my dears; but personable, quite
personable. A gentleman once passed the remark that if he had been
young he would have wished nothing better than that nice,
wholesome-looking girl; but he was quite old--a colonel, home from
India, with a liver. When they are like that they admire a fresh
complexion. And of course he had a wife already. It would have been
pleasant to look back and remember that some one had wished to make me
his wife." Miggles gazed at the coffeepot with an air of placid regret,
which quickly melted into smiles. "But, however--he mightn't have
turned out well. One never knows, and I read a sweet little poem in a
magazine which might have been written to meet my case. She said (a
lady wrote it; I should think she had had a disappointment), `If I never
have a child of my own, with its little hands, and pattering feet, still
all the children of the world are mine, to love and to mother.' Such a
beautiful thought, was it not?"
"Beautiful, indeed, and so original. She was a great poet, my Miggles.
Talking of suitors, Piers Rendall is coming to tea. We'll have it here,
please. Piers likes a nursery tea set out on the table, with plenty of
apricot jam, and thick sensible bread-and-butter; no shavings.
Plum-cake; not plain--he detests caraway seeds, and two lumps of sugar
in his tea."
"I know. I've poured out tea for him since he was so high," cried
Miggles, waving her hand indefinitely in the air. "He had it with me
here two days before you came. It's not many young men who would care
to walk three miles to see an old woman, but I can't say he looks well.
Thin--worried! A man ought to be full of life at that age."
"Fretting for me, dear! He'll be all right this afternoon. You'll
see," announced Miss Jean confidently. She would have said the same of
any other young man of her acquaintance, nevertheless Vanna waited with
some anxiety for the events of the afternoon. Strive as she might, she
could not divest her mind of a feeling of responsibility towards Robert
Gloucester; of the conviction that Jean was his by right, and that
separation could end only in disaster.
At three o'clock that afternoon Piers Rendall walked up the garden path,
and Jean rushed out to meet him. Vanna, from her seat in the hall,
could hear the merry exchange of greetings.
"Halloa, Princess!"
"Halloa, Slave! How are you feeling?"
"Hugging my chains! This is a piece of luck, your coming down so soon.
What brought you away from the gay capital before the end of the
season?"
"The train, sir! People who ask personal questions must expect to be
snubbed. I ran away, but not alone. I've a friend with me--Miss
Strangeways. Come and be introduced."
They had entered the hall while Jean was speaking, and Vanna caught the
quick frown of annoyance on the man's face. He had a strong, well-knit
figure, and a thin, nervous face. His hair was dark, his features were
sharply aquiline, the whole effect was handsome and distinguished, but
not altogether agreeable. The dark blue eyes had a somewhat irritable
expression, and the features were subject to an occasional nervous
twitching. They twitched at sight of Vanna seated in the deep cane
chair facing the door, and his lips straightened themselves eloquently.
Vanna knew that he was mentally wishing her at Jericho, and seeing his
hoped-for _tete-a-tete_ turned into a dull trio. But the revelation was
but momentary, and nothing could have been more courteous than his
greeting.
"How do you do, Miss Strangeways? I have heard so constantly about you
from Jean that it is a double pleasure to find you here."
Vanna murmured a conventional acknowledgment and felt mentally
antagonistic. To feel oneself _de trop_ is never an agreeable
experience, and unreasonable though it might be, she resented both Mr
Rendall's attitude and his courteous disguise of the same. During the
meal which followed she remained stiff and silent, while her three
companions chatted and laughed with the ease of old friendship. Jean
sparkled, her depression dispersed by the presence of a companion of the
opposite sex, Miggles beamed from behind the tea-tray, and indulged in
reminiscent anecdotes, to which the young man lent the most flattering
attention. His bright eyes softened in genuine kindliness as he looked
into her large, good-natured face, and he waited upon her with the
utmost solicitude. Evidently there was a real bond of affection between
the homely old woman and the handsome man. Towards Jean his attitude
was more complex. Vanna, watching with jealous, anxious eyes--jealous
on behalf of that other suitor whose claims she had denied--could not
decide how much or how little his feelings were involved. He admired
her, of course--what man would not admire Jean? They bandied words
together, joked, teased, protested, without a suspicion of
self-consciousness; at times they smiled at each other with undisguised
affection; at other times some light word uttered by the girl seemed to
strike a false note, and the irritable expression in the man's eyes
flamed into sudden anger.
"He has a passionate nature; he could feel very deeply. I think he is
not happy." Such was Vanna's diagnosis of Piers Rendall's character as
she drank her tea and ate her plum-cake in almost uninterrupted silence.
Her companions had endeavoured to draw her into the conversation. Jean
had grimaced eloquently across the table, but Vanna made only a feeble
response. It seemed as though Jean's depression had been suddenly
shifted on to her own shoulders; the peaceful content of the last few
days had disappeared; she felt solitary, wounded, jarred. When the meal
was over and the three young people started out on their walk, these
feelings deepened. Had she not already received her instructions--that
she was to feign an accident as an excuse for obliterating herself for
the others' benefit? Vanna set her lips with an obstinate little
resolve to do nothing of the kind. She would not obtrude her society
where it was not desired, but she would stoop to no pretence by way of
excuse. When they had walked about a mile along the sea-front, she
quietly announced her intention of sitting down.
"I don't think I shall go any farther. I've brought a book. I shall
sit here and rest, and you can pick me up as you come back."
"Oh, Vanna! Why? Are you tired, dear? Aren't you well?" demanded
naughty Jean.
"Perfectly well, thank you," replied Vanna coldly, and had the
satisfaction of seeing that Piers Rendall thought her exceedingly
disagreeable for her pains.
The two figures crossed the belt of pebbly stones, and walked over the
sunny sands to the water's side. Hitherto they had kept to the levelled
promenade, and to Vanna's irritated senses it appeared an added offence
that, once released from her presence, they should at once hasten into
solitude. She turned her eyes away and stared drearily into space.
Revolt surged in her heart. It was not fair. Jean had everything--
home, parents, beauty, strength, the right to be wooed and won. The
world was cruel--unjust. Why should such differences exist? Her own
lot was too hard. She had not deserved it. She had done her best.
Circumstances had not been too easy--always there had hung a shadow;
life in the little country hamlet with Aunt Mary, delicate and sad, had
been by no means ideal for a young girl. Without conceit she knew
herself to have been dutiful, affectionate, kind. She had put her own
wishes in the background, content to minister to an old woman's
declining years. Her own turn would come. Life lay ahead, crowded with
golden possibilities; when they came they would be all the sweeter for
the consciousness of duty well done. And now? Ah, well, in converse
with one's nearest friend one might affect to be brave and independent,
but in the solitude of one's own woman's heart it seemed as if those
possibilities had been wiped away, and left nothing behind.
In times of trouble and upheaval the sufferer is constantly exhorted by
sympathetic friends to turn resolutely away from the sad past, and look
ahead. Onward! they are told--press onward! Life lies not in the past,
but in the future. Despair comes of looking back, courage with
expectation. Poor Vanna recalled these axioms with a weary heart. That
was just what she dared not do. What could the future hold for her?
She sat very still, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes shut against
the glare. The sun seemed cruel to-day; the dance of golden light
across the sands, the sight of those two light-stepping figures in the
distance. She would help Jean, help others, who were in need. There
was no lack of work in the world for hands which were willing and free.
She could make other people happy; could live a noble, selfless life.
Even so, and at the thought, the lips of three-and-twenty quivered, and
the salt tears flowed. She wanted to be happy herself--longed to be
happy. The selfless life sounded barren and cold; it roused no flicker
of joy. "How shall I bear it?" asked Vanna of herself. "How can I
live, looking on, always looking on, having no part? Even to-day with
Jean--my darling Jean--and that strange man, I felt sore and angry
and--_bad_! He thought me a cross, ungracious girl. His opinion does
not matter, but other people will think so too if I behave in the same
way; and that would be terrible. I could not exist if people did not
care for me. In self-defence I must overcome. But how to do it?"
Vanna leant her head on her hands and sent up a wordless prayer. In her
own fashion she was deeply religious, but it was not the fashion of her
day. Her aunt had been shocked and distressed by her heterodox
sentiments, and had spent many hours in prayer for her niece's
conversion, while Vanna, in her turn, had been fully as shocked at the
old woman's conventional ideas.
Aunt Mary had been the most tender and forgiving of mortals. Her
memory, tenacious till death of the smallest kindness shown towards her,
was absolutely incapable of retaining an injury. If any one offended,
her own anxiety was to find for them a means of reform; to her charity
there seemed literally no end.
When a trusted servant repaid endless kindnesses by a flagrant theft,
Aunt Mary was bowed down with penitence for occasional carelessness on
her own part which might possibly have led the sinner into temptation.
"I remember distinctly one Sunday night when I left my purse in the
dining-room, and was too lazy to go downstairs to fetch it, and at other
times I have left change lying about. It was wrong of me--terribly
wrong. One never knows what need there may be--what _pressing_ need--
and to see the money lying there before her eyes!"
To the scandal of the neighbourhood, instead of giving the offender in
charge, or at least dismissing her in shame and ignominy, Aunt Mary
tearfully apologised for her own share in the crime, and proposed a
future partnership in which both should endeavour to amend their ways.
Jane was sullen and unresponsive, too much overcome by surprise perhaps
to be able to express any gratitude. That she felt it all the same was
testified by her dog-like devotion to her mistress. All went well until
another year had passed, when in a sudden burst of emotion the maid
confessed to a fresh peccadillo. Now, indeed, any sane person would
have realised the folly of keeping such a sinner in the house, and,
hurling reproaches on her head, would have promptly ejected her from the
threshold; but Aunt Mary was once more content to play the part of
comforter. "I have my own besetting sins, Jane," she said gently, "and
I fear I have given way to them many times during this past year. You
have kept straight until the last week, and you have confessed your
fault. Have courage! You have made a good start. I shall treat you
exactly as before, and trust you more fully!"
That was the end of Jane's offences. Henceforth to the day of her
mistress's death she remained the most faithful and loyal of handmaids.
Such was Aunt Mary, who devoutly worshipped a God whom she believed
capable of torturing for eternity a sinner who had transgressed during a
few short years of life, or a helpless infant who had chanced to die
unbaptised! She was likewise convinced that the whole non-Protestant
world was irrevocably damned, and harboured serious doubts with regard
to Dissenters and the High Church party. She accepted as final and
irrefutable every doctrine which she had been taught as a child, and
would have been as ready to believe that Jonah swallowed the whale as
the accepted version of the story, if it had been so inscribed in the
Bible. To think for oneself on matters religious she considered
profane; to expect fuller light with fuller knowledge--a blasphemy. To
her mind the whole duty of man was comprised in attending his parish
church, supporting his vicar, and subscribing to the creeds--Athanasian
included. Aunt and niece had had the nearest approach to a quarrel
which they had ever known one day when the girl's intolerance had broken
forth into words:
"Aunt Mary," she had cried, "your religion is _wicked_! You are good in
spite of it. You don't _really_ believe it. You only think you do.
You subscribe ten and sixpence a year to the South American mission, and
lie down in peace and sleep, believing the whole continent to be damned,
while if one poor dog were suffering outside your gate you could not
rest until you had rescued it. Can ten and sixpence buy peace, while a
continent perishes? Your creed is unworthy of you!"
"My dear, you forget yourself. You shock me deeply. Such words from a
young girl's lips are terrible to hear. Profane! Rebellious! The
poor, dear vicar! I must ask you never again to allow yourself to speak
in this way. If the wicked thoughts arise, at least let them not find
vent in words."
After this Vanna was careful to avoid religious discussions with her
aunt, but she noted with amusement that next year the good lady's South
American subscription had been increased by half a crown.
Now Aunt Mary had been moved up to a higher class, and the scales of
ignorance had fallen from her eyes. The puzzles of life were solved for
her, but her niece was still struggling with her tasks, and they were
hard to learn. She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, the sea
breeze blowing back the hair from the set, white face. Aunt Mary would
have said that this trouble was God's will--His direct dispensation; but
Vanna could not accept this explanation. It was surely _not_ God's will
that in past generations two people had put their own happiness before
duty. Aunt Mary would have said again that as regards herself this
punishment for the sins of others was "permitted," and intended to be.
Well!--one had only to look around the world, at everyday happenings, to
realise that the Almighty did _not_ interfere with natural laws. Thrust
an arm into the fire, and that arm burns; infect your child with
disease, and that child suffers, despite your prayers and entreaties.
It is inevitable; but the sufferings were surely of men's causing, "The
thing of all others which, according to my light, must most `grieve' the
Spirit of God is the way in which His own children misjudge Him," Vanna
told herself slowly. "Dear, sweet Aunt Mary, who believed Him capable
of things to which she herself would never condescend--all the good
people who look out upon a sky full of worlds, and believe that their
own particular tiny sect hold the monopoly of truth, and that every one
who differs from them must inevitably be lost. Perhaps--who knows? it
is misjudging Him just as cruelly to believe that the ghastly happenings
of our life are of His choice. He has given us free-will; we make
mistakes and suffer for them, and make others suffer too; but that's our
own doing, and--reverently speaking--outside His power. He is sorry for
us--infinitely sorry, waiting and longing to send help, when our eyes
are open to receive it. Perhaps I'm wrong, I can't tell; but it's the
belief that helps me most, and removes the sting. I have such a big
trouble for a woman to face--a lonely life; such a big effort to make--
to look at happiness through the eyes of others, and keep sweet, and
generous, and ungrudging. I need so much help..."
The minutes passed, while Vanna sat motionless, buried in thought.
Passers-by cast curious glances at the still figure seated upon the
pebbly beach above the fringed line of seaweed--her scarlet cloak
gathered round her shoulders, her dark hair blown back from her face.
It was not a beautiful nor even a pretty face in the usual acceptance of
the words: the features were neither good enough to be noticeable, nor
bad enough to jar. The only beauties were found in the dark, finely
arched eyebrows, the oval shape of the face, and the stag-like setting
of the small head, to which characteristics Vanna owed that air of
distinction which redeemed her from the commonplace. Piers Rendall had
paid little attention to the quiet girl who had sat beside him at the
tea-table, and afterwards made an unwelcome third in the walk along the
sea-front; but as he and Jean retraced their steps across the sands an
hour later, his eyes turning towards the waiting figure fastened on the
pale face, and lingered there.
We all own a mental picture-gallery which we carry about with us till
death. Some of the pictures are ours by deliberate choice, printed on
memory by loving intent; others, pain has stamped in undying lines; a
few have gained their place as it were by accident. We had no intention
of yielding them a place, no interest in the purchase; quietly and all
uninvited they ranged themselves against the walls, and refused to be
dislodged. Piers Rendall's glance had been turned in indifference,
almost dislike; but to the end of his life the picture of Vanna remained
with him, as she sat on the grey stones, above the belt of seaweed, with
the scarlet cloak round her shoulders, and the hair blown back from her
face. Jean's merry banter fell on deaf ears; he was not listening; had
for the moment forgotten her existence. Her eye followed his, divining
the explanation; she smiled expectantly, waiting until he should speak.
"What is the matter with that girl?"
"Tiredness, I should say. Bored! Sick of waiting so long. It was
_your_ fault. You would go on."
"Nonsense. It's more than that. What has happened to her?"
"Nothing; I told you so. She has serious bouts sometimes. She has one
now. So would you have, if you sat in this wind, getting chilled
through for an hour on end."
"I am sorry to hear that. If it has not already happened, it must be
still before her. It is written in her face."
"Piers, how tiresome! Leave my Vanna alone. _What_ is in her face?"
"Tragedy!" said Piers Rendall.