Jean Goring and Robert Gloucester were married in the early days of
October, after a bare three months' engagement. They themselves found
the period one of ideal happiness, but, as is usually the case, it was
somewhat trying to their relations and friends. Jean, in her gay young
beauty, had filled the centre of the stage for many friends, who were
bound to suffer when the light shone no more upon them, and Jean had
neither eyes, ears, nor heart for any one but her _fiance_. Mr Goring
gave his consent to the engagement with a readiness which was largely
based upon the affection which his prospective son-in-law had already
awakened.
"He's a splendid fellow--a man in a thousand. Thank Heaven you've
chosen a man who won't bore me to death hanging about the house. It's a
poor match in a worldly sense, but that's your affair. You had chances
of rich men before now, and wouldn't look at them. I believe in letting
people live their own lives, in their own way. I'll give you a good
trousseau, and allow you two hundred a year; but I can't do more.
There's the boys' education coming on."
"Oh, thank you, father. That's sweet of you. I never expected so much.
We shall be poor, of course, but I shan't mind. It will be rather fun
living in a small house and playing at housekeeping. I never cared much
for money."
Mr Goring grimaced expressively. Jean had not cared for money, simply
because she had never realised its value. Every want had been supplied,
and there had been a comfortable certainty of a lenient parent in the
background when her own generous allowance ran short. Graceless mortals
never realise the value of the blessings which are theirs in abundance.
Jean had enjoyed easy means and perfect health all her life, and took
them as much for granted as light and air.
"Hadn't you better take some cooking lessons, or something?" asked her
father uneasily. It crossed his mind at that moment that he had not
done his duty by the man whom Jean was about to marry, in allowing his
girl to grow up in absolute ignorance of her work in the world.
"Gloucester doesn't strike me as a man likely to make money, and you
ought to be trained. Talk to Miggles. Ask her. She has about as good
an idea of running a house as any woman I know. It's a good thing you
are going to live within reach of home. I'm thankful Gloucester thinks
of settling in town."
"Yes, oh, yes! Of course, if they gave him a really good offer for
India--I should rather like to live in India!"
Jean smiled into space, blissfully unconscious of the pain on her
father's face. He was not a demonstrative man, and no one but himself
knew how he had loved and cherished this child of his youth--the
daughter who had inherited the beauty and charm of the girl-wife with
whom he had spent the golden year of his life. To his own heart he
acknowledged that Jean was his dearest possession--dearer than wife,
dearer than sons, dearer than life itself, and Jean could leave him
without a pang--would "rather like" to put the width of the world
between them!
"India's a long way off, Jean. I should miss you if you went."
"But we'd come home, father. We'd have a long holiday every five
years."
Well! well! Mr Goring reminded himself that in his own youth he had
been equally callous. He recalled the day of his first marriage, and
saw again the twisted face of his mother as she bade him adieu at the
door. He had known a pang of regret at the sight, regret for _her_
suffering, her loss; not for his own. For himself, the moment had been
one of unalloyed triumph; he had heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage
bore him away and he was alone with his bride. It was natural that it
should be so--natural and right; but when one came to stand in the
parent's place, how it hurt! He set his teeth in endurance.
Mrs Goring regarded the engagement and prospective marriage primarily
as a disagreeable upset to domestic routine, and did not rest until she
had secured Vanna's consent to prolong her visit until the bride had
departed.
"There will be so much to arrange, endless letters to write, and people
to see. Jean will be worse than useless, and poor dear Miss Miggs is
not fit to rush about. If you _would_ stay and help, my dear, I should
be unutterably grateful. When you undertake a thing it is always well
done."
"I should like to stay," replied Vanna simply. The first days of Jean's
rapturous happiness had been hard for her friend. It was not in human
nature to avoid a feeling of loss, of loneliness, of hopeless longing
for such happiness for herself, but it was a comfort to know that she
could be of real practical help. Jean, of course, had declared in words
that nothing, no, nothing, could ever lessen the warmth of her
friendship, and Vanna had faith to believe that in the years to come the
love between them would increase rather than diminish. In the meantime,
however, she must needs stand aside, and be content to be neglected,
ignored, regarded at times as an unwelcome intruder--a difficult lesson
to learn.
At the very first meeting after the engagement the difference of
relationship had made itself felt, for Jean had shown a distinct
annoyance when Vanna referred to the prophecy of the rose.
"He had told you--you knew? He talked about it to you afterwards. You
knew how he felt--" Her face flushed with resentment; there was a cool
aloofness in her glance, as though a friend whom she had trusted had
been discovered prying into hidden treasures. "Please don't speak of it
again; don't let any one else know. Promise me never to mention it."
That was all, but her manner said as plainly as words, "It is our
secret--Robert's and mine. What right have you on our holy ground?"
Vanna was by nature just and reasonable, and she told herself that in
Jean's place she might have felt the same irritation, though perhaps she
would have been more chary about showing it. She held herself in check,
and was careful never again to refer to the forbidden topic.
On another occasion, when called to give her advice on a matter in
consultation between the lovers, Robert had addressed his _fiancee_ as
"Rose" when Vanna, looking up quickly, surprised a swift glance of
reproach on Jean's face.
"You have forgotten," said that look. "We are not alone. That name is
not for the ears of a stranger. It is for use only between you and me,
when we are alone in our own kingdom, with the world shut out."
The lonely ones of the world smart under many darts planted by these
wordless arrows.
And Piers Rendall? Vanna was perplexed and mystified by his reception
of the news. She had dreaded to see him amazed, broken down,
despairing, and when he arrived at the Cottage the day after the great
event, had felt her heart throb with a sympathy that was painful in its
intensity. They were seated in the hall drinking tea, a happy family
group, the lovers side by side on an old oak settle, when the gate
clicked, and Piers's tall figure was seen walking up the path. He
looked anxiously towards the open door, and Vanna felt convinced that he
had noticed the absence of the couple the afternoon before, and had a
premonition of the news which lay in store. She lowered her eyes, and
braced herself, as if it had been upon her own shoulders that the blow
were about to fall.
"Oh, it's Piers! I must tell Piers!" cried Jean gaily. Now that the
deed was done, her former reserve had given way to an abandon of
light-hearted joy. She told the great news to every one she met; it was
her great joy to tell it, her regret that there were so few to listen.
Now, at sight of her old friend, she sprang from her seat.
"Robert, come," she cried, stretching out a beckoning hand, and standing
proudly linked together, the lovers met the unconscious Piers on the
threshold.
"Piers! Piers! I'm so glad you came. I did so want to see you. Guess
what has happened! Guess--quick! We are so happy--so ridiculously
happy. Guess!"
Piers stood still, looking from one to the other with a swift,
questioning glance. Despite herself, despite her dread, Vanna felt it
impossible to restrain from one look at his face. She turned shrinking
eyes upon him, but what she saw was strangely, wonderfully different
from what she had expected.
Piers stood looking from one to the other of the triumphant lovers, and
for the first time since she had known him, Vanna saw his face illumined
with happiness and content. It seemed incredible, but it was true. The
dark eyes had lost their hard, irritable brilliance, and shone deep and
soft; the discontent of the mouth was turned into a happy smile.
"You mean--you mean--" he stammered incredulously. "By Jove! you are
engaged--you two! Is it really possible?"
"Yes! Yes!" Jean jumped on her feet, like a small excited child.
"You've guessed it; it's true. Congratulate us, Piers. We love to be
congratulated."
"By Jove!" ejaculated Piers once more. Jean's assumption of haughtiness
had evidently put him off the scent, for the news appeared to take him
completely by surprise. "By Jove, I _do_ congratulate you. You deserve
congratulations. Gloucester, you are the luckiest man on earth. Jean,
he is the only man I have ever met who is worthy of you. You're a wise
girl; you've done the right thing. I do congratulate you with all my
heart."
Jean jumped again, while Robert looked down at her, his soul in his
eyes.
"Oh, you nice Piers! How nicely you say it. I knew you would be
pleased. Come in, come in; we're having tea. Come and congratulate the
family."
Piers duly went the round, repeating his congratulations in more formal
manner to Mr and Mrs Goring; but it was not until tea was over and
they had adjourned into the garden that he and Vanna had any
conversation together. He was still overflowing with excitement and
pleasure, and eager to discuss the great news with Jean's chosen friend.
"I saw that he admired her, of course--every one does; but she was so
off-hand and casual that I never imagined that things were near a
_denouement_. I've seen her more encouraging to half a dozen other
fellows. But it's splendid; the best news I've heard for an age. Jean
and Gloucester--those two together--it's poetry, romance, the ideal! He
is a man in a thousand; she will be safe with him. Humanly speaking,
her future is assured. You feel that, don't you--the absolute goodness
and sincerity of the fellow?"
"Oh, yes! I told you so once before. It was of him that I spoke when
we were discussing temperaments, and I told you of a man I had just met
whose `aura' was so radiantly attractive--that afternoon in the glen."
"The Happy Land," he corrected, looking down at her with a smile. "So
that was Gloucester, and we agree in our estimate of his character.
That's good! Dear little Jean, I'm so glad of her happiness."
Vanna laughed, an inexplicable sense of relief sending her spirits
racing upwards.
"And I'm so glad that _you're_ glad. I was so afraid that this would
give you pain. I expected--I imagined--I thought you also were in love
with Jean."
His face sobered swiftly.
"And so did I; but it was only imagination. It gave me no pain to hear
this news, and if it had, I should deserve no pity. I've known her for
years; I had my chance, but I never took it; was never even sure that I
_wanted_ to take it; was contented to drift. Gloucester carried the
camp in fourteen days." The old shadow of discontent was clouding his
face once more; he was seeing in imagination Robert's face as he looked
at Jean, and telling himself drearily: "Love is a gift, as much as other
great powers. It is not in every nature to rise to a wonderful,
transforming passion. He can, that man. One can read it in his face.
He has not frittered away his gift; it was all there, unused, unsullied,
waiting for Jean, until she should appear. He has a genius for loving,
and like all geniuses he makes his power felt. Jean felt it. It is
that that has drawn her to him. To gain Jean in a fortnight, while I,
poor weakling, wavered for years, asking myself if I loved her! _Love_!
I don't understand the meaning of the word. I never shall. It's the
same there as in everything else: I only half-way--never to the end..."
Vanna was doubly relieved to be assured of Piers's well-being when the
family returned to town, and she saw Edith Morton's suffering behind her
gallant assumption of content. Can anything be more pitiful than the
position of a woman who loves, and finds herself passed over in favour
of a chosen friend? She cannot escape to distant scenes, as a man may
do in a similar strait; her pride forbids her to withdraw from
accustomed pursuits; day by day, night by night, she must smile while
her heart is torn, while her eyes smart with the tears she dare not
shed, while her soul cries out for the sympathy she may not ask.
Vanna's heart ached for Edith during those weeks, when every
conversation turned upon preparations for the forthcoming wedding, and
the lovers were blissfully engaged in the finding and furnishing of
their home; but Jean herself exhibited a curious _volte-face_.
"We were quite mistaken about Edith," she informed Vanna casually one
day. "Robert and she have been like brother and sister all their lives;
there was never any question of sentiment on either side. I can't think
why we imagined anything so foolish."
Vanna did not reply. She divined, what was indeed the truth, that
Jean's disbelief was the result, not of conviction, but of deliberate
intent. She simply did not choose to allow a painful thought to disturb
the unclouded sunshine of her day. She was selfish--frankly, openly,
designedly selfish, as young things are apt to be to whom love comes
before suffering has taught it lessons; to whom it appears a right, a
legitimate inheritance, rather than a gift to be received with awe, to
be held with trembling.
And so the weeks passed. Summer turned into autumn, and one October
morning Jean and Robert stood side by side before the altar of a dim old
church, and spoke the words which made them one for life, while Vanna
Strangeways and Edith Morton stood among the group of white-robed
bridesmaids, hiding the ache in their hearts behind smiling faces. To
one was given the best gift of life; from the others was taken away, by
the saddest of ironies, that which they had never possessed.
The church and the house were crowded with guests; the paraphernalia of
a "smart wedding" was duly and ceremoniously enacted. The newly married
pair stood backed against the drawing-room fireplace to receive their
guests, who passed by in a line, thence defiling into the library to
regard a glittering display of gifts; thence again to the dining-room to
partake of the formal, sit-down luncheon which was the fashion of the
day. The bride and bridegroom sat at the top of the horseshoe table
with the bridesmaids and their attendant groomsmen ranged on either
side, Vanna and Piers Rendall, as foremost couple, occupying the place
of honour. At the conclusion of the meal Jean stood up in her place,
her gauze-like veil floating behind her, and cut the great white cake,
while the spectators broke into cheers of applause. There were certain
points at which it was the custom to cheer at these wedding feasts--this
was one of them; another, perhaps the most popular, was when it came to
the turn of the stammering bridegroom to return thanks for the speech in
which his health had been proposed. It was at the point when the
inevitable reference was made to the newly made partner that the
laughter was timed to break out; but no one laughed when Robert
Gloucester pronounced for the first time those magic words "_My wife_!"
Down the length of the long tables more than one of the elder guests
hurriedly glanced aside, or bit at the end of a moustache, hearing in
that voice a magic note which wafted them back through the long years of
prose and difficulty to the day when they, too, stood upon the glad
threshold of life.
Later on Jean disappeared to died her bridal trappings, and came down
half an hour later in hat and coat, to run the blockade of the assembled
guests in the hall, _en route_ to the carriage at the door. Her cheeks
were pink, her eyes were shining; as each hand was stretched out she
pressed it warmly in her own; to each good wish she returned a gracious
acknowledgment; when a face was held forward expectantly she was ready
with a kiss and a caress. Every one praised her graciousness, her
affectionate remembrance of old friends. "She kissed me _so_ lovingly."
"She said goodbye to me _so_ sweetly." A buzz of appreciation followed
her as she went; but in reality Jean had walked in a dream, seeing an
indistinct blur of faces, hearing a meaningless babble of words,
conscious only of Robert's figure waiting for her at the door.
Mr Goring had escaped from the crowd and bustle to stand bare-headed on
the pavement, whence he could catch a last glimpse of his daughter as
she drove away from the house which had been her home. His face looked
pinched and worn in the keen autumn air; he smiled and joked with the
men by his side, but his eyes were restless, and kept turning back to
the door through which Jean would pass for the last time as a daughter
of the house. Another moment and she was there; the crowd surged after
her on to the pavement. He stood before her, and held out his hand.
She held up her cheek, smiled, and leapt lightly into the carriage, the
door of which Robert was holding open. He sprang to his seat, there was
a vision of two heads bent forward, of two radiant, illumined faces; the
coachman flicked up his horses--they had passed out of sight.
Mr Goring shivered, and turned back to the house.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The happiest moment of my wedding day?" answered Jean to a question put
to her some months later. "The happiest moment of all was when the
carriage drove off from the door, and left you all behind!"