While Jean was blissfully enjoying the first weeks of her married life,
the friend who had been to her as a second mother was lying dangerously
ill in her upper room. The bustle of the last few months, culminating
in the excitement of the wedding, had proved too much for Miggles's weak
heart; and having gallantly kept on her feet until the supreme need was
past, she had the less strength left with which to fight the enemy.
"Don't tell Jean. Promise not to tell Jean!" That was her first and
most insistent cry; and being satisfied on the point, she laid herself
down, and spoke no more for many weary days and nights.
Once again Vanna found herself bound to the household, and had the
consolation or feeling of help to the mistress and of comfort to the
invalid, who seemed to cling pathetically to Jean's friend in the
absence of her own dear nursling.
Hospital nurses were much rarer luxuries in the seventies than at the
present day, and in this case the duty of nursing the invalid was
undertaken by Mrs Goring, her maid, and Vanna, equally. The maid slept
in the sick-room, ready to pay any attention which was required during
the night; Mrs Goring was exact and punctilious in administering
medicines and food at the right intervals, and in seeing that the
sick-room was kept scrupulously in order; it devolved upon Vanna to ease
the invalid by the innumerable, gentle little offices which seem to come
by instinct to women of sympathetic natures, and later on as she grew
stronger, to amuse her by reading aloud, talking, and--what in this case
was even more welcome--lending an attentive ear while the other
discoursed.
The sudden breakdown had called attention to the state of Miggles's
heart, which had troubled her at times for some years back. The result
was serious, so serious that the doctor had warned her that her days of
active service were over. Henceforth she must be content to live an
idle life, in some quiet country spot, where she would be free from the
bustle and excitement of town life. Mr and Mrs Goring proposed that
she should live in the Cottage at Seacliff, where the capable woman who
acted as caretaker could wait upon her and do the work of the house, and
Miggles, as usual, was full of gratitude for the suggestion.
"A haven, my dear, opened out to me at the very moment I need it," she
said ardently to Vanna. "It's been like that with me all my life.
Goodness and mercy! I've always loved that dear little house by the
sea; there's no place on earth where I would rather end my days. The
doctor says I shall go off quite suddenly. He didn't want to tell me,
but I explained that I was not at all afraid. From battle, murder, and
_lingering_ death, that's the way I've always said it--not that I wish
to put myself above the Prayer Book, but one must be honest, and that's
how I felt in my heart. I've no claim upon any one, and a long,
expensive illness is a great drag. I'd be so ashamed! `Our times are
in His hand,' my dear; but if it's not presumptuous, I hope He'll take
me soon. Next summer, perhaps, before the boys want to come down for
the holidays. I should like to have the winter just to be quiet and
prepare. June, now! June would be a sweet month to pass away in.
Would it not, my dear?"
"Miggles!" cried Vanna, half laughing, half in tears. "Miggles, how can
you be so callous? I absolutely refuse to discuss the date of your
death. It's not a cheerful subject for us, whatever it may be for you;
and I hope you'll be spared for a long, long rest after your busy life.
How can you talk about dying in that matter-of-fact way, as if it were a
removal from one house to another? Have you no dread, not of the mere
act of death--that is often a real `falling asleep,' but of the leap in
the dark, the unknown change, the mystery behind?"
Miggles lay back against her pillow, a large, unwieldy figure, with thin
bands of hair brushed back beneath an old-fashioned night-cap, her hands
clasped peacefully on her knee.
"No, my dear," she said tranquilly; "the mystery doesn't trouble me.
I'm a poor, weak creature, and I was never clever at understanding. I
only know that it's going to be a change for the better, so of course
I'm ready to go. When I hear people talk of shrinking and trembling at
the thought of death, I think they can't really believe what they
profess, or why should they prefer to live on, lonely, and suffering,
and poor, rather than make a little journey to gain peace and rest?
It's not reason, my dear, it's not reason."
Miggles was silent, blinking her little eyes, and panting after the
exertion of talking. Gradually a pucker gathered on her forehead, and
an expression of anxiety spread over her face.
"There is only one thing that troubles me--only one thing; but it's very
serious. I can't"--she turned solemn, innocent eyes upon the girl's
face--"I can't feel myself a sinner! That's a great secret, my dear,
but you've been so kind to me this last week that I feel I can make the
confidence. Of course I should not wish it repeated. No! isn't it sad?
I've tried my best, but I can't do it. It seems to me that I have done
my best. I was a good daughter. My dear mother died blessing my name;
and with the dear Gorings I've done my duty--for love, I've done it, far
more than money. All through I've done my duty, and I have loved God
and the people round me. I've never felt ill-will towards a living
creature; and when I come to search for my sins, dear--really and
truly--I tell you in confidence, _I can't find them_," cried Miggles
sadly. She lowered her chin, glancing sideways at Vanna as a shamed
child might do discovered in the perpetration of an infantile
peccadillo, and Vanna smiled a tender, humorous response.
"Can't you, Miggles? Not if you try very hard? I can't help you, I'm
afraid. My bad memory refuses to remind me of your crimes. It's a
serious state of affairs."
"It is, dear," agreed Miggles gravely. "I've been taking myself to
task, lying here upon this bed, and examining into the state of my soul.
I fed very grateful, and full of faith, and quite tranquil and happy at
the thought of passing away. I could not fed that, you know, if I had a
`conviction of sin,' like all the good people in books. It has always
put me so terribly out of the way when I have failed to please any one,
and they have been cold and stand-off in their manner. It does happen
like that sometimes, even with the best intentions... If I believed I
had grieved my dear Heavenly Father, how wretched I should be! But I
don't, dear, I don't. I am quite happy, quite at peace. The question
is, _Am I justified_? It would be rather a comfort to be a Catholic
sometimes--would it not, dear?--and confess to a dear, saintly old
priest. Not, of course, that I could subscribe to their creed I can
tell you that I've been quite upset in church sometimes when they intone
the Litany, and call themselves miserable sinners in such very
despondent tones. I did not feel myself a miserable sinner, and it was
no use pretending that I did. That made me wretched in another way, for
I thought I must be a Pharisee, which would be worst of all!"
"Dear Miggles, the Litany was written at the time of the Plague of
London, and was meant to be a sort of national penitential psalm. The
plague was believed to have been sent as a punishment for the sins of
the nation, and the priests marched in procession through the streets
intoning this cry for mercy. It was never intended to be used as a
regular part of the Church service in times of peace and prosperity; and
I think a good many people feel like you, who would not have the courage
to put their thoughts into words. A service of praise would often seem
more dignified and inspiring. Dear, good, kind little soul, why trouble
yourself to find trouble? If you have peace, you have the greatest of
all blessings, and a blessing that is never enjoyed, dear Miggles, until
it has been won. I'm struggling for it now, but it's a long way off. I
have still many battles to fight."
The old woman looked at the young one with a long, questioning glance.
"Yes, dear child! I have seen it, and wondered. But you are so young
still, and your life is ahead. We shall see you happy like Jean,
starting your home with a fine young husband--"
"No!" Vanna held up a warning hand. "Miggles, you have confided in me.
I'll tell you something about myself, but you must never allude to it
again. It doesn't bear speaking of. There is a reason why I can never
marry. I can't tell you what it is, but it is fixed--irrevocable. I
shall never be happy like Jean."
Miggles stretched out her hand and laid it upon the dark head, smoothing
the hair with gentle touch. But she did not speak. In the course of
her sixty years she had heard many such assertions from the lips of
girls who had afterwards lived to become happy wives and mothers. She
told herself that dear Vanna had no doubt suffered a disappointment, and
was feeling cast-down and hopeless in consequence. Quite natural, poor
dear--quite; but in time youth would reassert itself; she would meet
some one else, such an attractive girl as she was, and would find that
the heart which she supposed dead was still capable of love and joy.
Oh, certainly she would marry and be happy; but for the moment one could
not tell her so. That would be cruel. Time! time! that was the best
medicine. She smoothed and stroked with tender, motherly touch, and
Vanna, blessing her for her silence, felt the sudden crystallising of an
idea which had been growing quietly in her mind during the past week.
"Miggles," she said quietly, turning her head sideways, so as to be able
to look the other in the face without disturbing that caressing hand.
"Miggles, how would you like it if I came down to live with you at
Seacliff? Carter can look after the house and make you comfortable, but
you would have no companion, and might feel lonely sometimes. Evenings
seem very long and dreary when one is alone. We are two solitary women,
alone in the world, without any ties; we might help each other. What do
you say?"
Miggles subsided into instant tears. "It's too good of you. Oh, my
dear, my dear, I couldn't--I couldn't let you. It's too good of you,
too sweet. I shall always remember and bless you for thinking of it,
but it would be too selfish--too grasping. I could not allow it."
"Miggles, listen! I've been puzzling what to do with myself this next
year; I have no home, now that my aunt is dead, and no tie to any
special place. That's a lonely feeling, Miggles, when you are only
twenty-three. It would be a solution of the problem if you could let me
come to you. I sounded Mr Goring and he was willing; more than
willing, delighted at the idea. And I have some money of my own, you
know, dear, and as Mr Goring would not hear of my paying anything
towards the household expenses, I am going to spend it on pleasures and
luxuries. I have a lovely plan--to buy a comfortable little pony
carriage in which to drive you along the lanes, and give you fresh air
without fatigue. Then, when you don't feel inclined to go out I'll use
the horse for riding. I love riding, and it will be good exercise to
scour the countryside. Perhaps sometimes there'll be a Meet. If there
were hunting I should feel quite gay. I _want_ to come, if you care to
have me."
"Care!" Miggles laughed, cried, gasped, ejaculated, panted, in such
extravagance of joy, such depths of humility, such paeans of gratitude,
that Vanna had to exercise her prerogative as nurse, administer a
soothing draught, and insist upon a rest forthwith.
"Not another word. If you are good and obedient, I'll come; if you are
not, I won't. I am not going to saddle myself with a rebellious
patient. So now you know. Kiss me, and shut your eyes--"
"But," protested Miggles, "but--but--"
Long after Vanna had left the room she lay awake, staring with wistful,
puzzled eyes at the opposite wall. A social creature, devoted to her
kind, no one but herself knew how heavily the prospect of loneliness had
weighed upon her. Vanna's proposition had been like a flash of sunshine
lighting up a grey country, but she could not rejoice with a full heart
until she was satisfied of the girl's happiness.
"A young thing like that shut up with an old, ailing woman--it's not
right, not fitting. I must not be selfish. I need quiet at the end of
my days, but at twenty-three! To take her to that lonely place, away
from all her friends: can it be right? I'd love her, and mother her,
but with all my will I can't do the thing she needs most of all--be
young with her again. She is sad, dear child, and it's only a friend of
her own age who can comfort and cheer--"
Suddenly Miggles jerked in her bed; the fixed eyes brightened; the heavy
cheeks broadened into a smile.
"Ah-h!" she murmured happily. "Ah-h! _That_ is well, _that's_ well.
That will bring it all right"; and nestling down in the pillows, she
composed herself happily to sleep.
Across the trouble of her mind there had flashed the remembrance of the
visits of Piers Rendall.