For the next two years Vanna lived quietly in the cottage on the cliff,
five miles from the nearest railway station, and as many more from
anything in the shape of a town. The hamlet in which she had lived with
her aunt had been quiet and uneventful, but in comparison with Seacliff
it was a whirl of gaiety. During the summer months there was indeed a
small influx of visitors, but Seacliff had not as yet sprung into
popularity, and accommodation was limited to a few scattered houses
along the sea-front and the big red hotel on the top of the cliff. The
hotel was closed in the winter months, and the first day that Vanna
looked across the bay and beheld the smoke rising from the chimneys, she
knew a thrill of joy in the realisation that the long grey winter was at
an end. Long and grey, yet not unhappy. Looking back over the
monotonous record of the months, and remembering her own tranquillity
and content, Vanna marvelled, as many of us have done in our time, at
the unlooked for manner in which our prayers have met their response.
She had asked for guidance; had pleaded, with a very passion of
earnestness, for some miracle of grace to fill her empty life, but no
miracle had happened, no flash of light had illumined the darkness; the
heavens had appeared as brass to her cry--and yet, yet, had not the
answer been vouchsafed? It would not have been her own choice to pass
the best years of her youth in seclusion, with no other companion than a
homely, unsophisticated old woman, over whom the shadow of death crept
nearer and nearer. She had dreamt of romance and adventure, and not of
a home bounded by two cliff walls; nevertheless, in this companionship
and in this seclusion she had found peace, and as the time passed by a
returning sense of joy and interest in life. She was loved, she was
needed, she was understood; and the human creature of whom so much can
be said is fortunate among his fellows. In addition to her sunny
temperament, Miggles possessed the great gift of tact, and when the
shadow of depression fell over the girl's spirits she asked no
questions, made no comment thereon, but ministered to her generously
with the meed of appreciation. "What should I do without you, child?"
"Ah, my dear, how I thank God for sending you to me these last years!"
Such words as these, uttered with the good-night kiss, dried many a tear
on the girl's cheeks, and sent her to bed revived and peaceful.
As the weeks passed by Vanna found friends out of doors also, and was
surprised to discover the importance of her presence to the community in
the little village.
"Well, now, I tell you, I can't think what we did without you all the
dull old winters," said Mrs Jones of the grocer's emporium one day, as
she scribbled down the weekly order with the much-battered stump of a
lead pencil. "You've been a regular godsend, cheering us up, and giving
us something to think of, instead of moping along from September to
June. I'm sure we've cause to be grateful for all you've done."
Vanna flushed, surprised and a trifle overwhelmed by so gushing a
compliment.
"Really, Mrs Jones, I don't feel that I deserve any thanks. I have
been so much occupied with Miss Miggs that I have had no time to spare.
I can't think of anything I have done to help you."
"Oh, miss!" protested Mrs Jones, in accents of strong reproach. "Oh,
miss; _and three new hats since autumn_!"
Blessed sense of humour! That reply was sufficient to brighten Vanna's
whole day. It did more, for it served to nip in the bud that lassitude
concerning the toilette, that feeling that "anything will do," which
creeps over those who dwell in lonely places. Henceforth Vanna realised
that to the natives of this little sea-bound village she stood as a type
of the great world of fashion, and that it was a real pleasure in their
quiet lives to behold her moving about in their midst in pretty,
tasteful attire. The knowledge proved beneficial to her appearance, and
to her spirits.
The pony carriage proved of less use than had been hoped, as the
invalid's nerves grew less and less able to face the precipitous road
leading up to the house; but some time every day Vanna found time for a
scamper on the back of her beloved Dinah, saddling her herself, rubbing
her down, and giving her a feed of oats on her return. Miggles did not
care for indoor pets, so that it was an extra pleasure to make friends
with Dinah, to rub her soft nose, and bequeath odd gifts of sugar.
Her informal riding-costume was composed of a dark green habit and a
felt hat of the same shade, which, being somewhat battered out of the
original shape, she had twisted into a Napoleonic tricorn, which proved
surprisingly becoming on her small, daintily poised head.
"I've never seen a riding-hat like that before. That's the very
_latest_ from Paris, I suppose, miss?" said Mrs Jones of the emporium;
and Vanna had not the heart to undeceive her.
Once or twice a week, instead of mounting to the downs, Vanna would turn
inland to pay a visit to Mrs Rendall. The old lady was not an
interesting personality, but she was lonely, which fact made perhaps the
strongest of all appeals to Vanna's sympathy at this period of her life.
It grew to be an accepted custom that these visits should be paid on
Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, and as she trotted up the long avenue
leading to the house Vanna never failed to see the white-capped figure
at the library window watching for her approach. The conversation was
almost identically the same on each of these visits. Mrs Rendall would
discuss the weather of the last three days, inquire into Miss Miggs's
symptoms, relate accurately the behaviour of her own cough and the
tiresome rheumatic pains in her left shoulder, chronicle the progress in
the garden, and the delinquencies of her servant maids. Vanna seemed to
herself to do little more than murmur a conventional yes and no from
time to time; nevertheless Mrs Rendall invariably pleaded with her to
prolong her visit, and never failed to add to her farewell the urgent
reminder: "You'll come on Wednesday? You won't forget." If the visitor
chanced to turn her head at the bend of the avenue, the white-capped
figure was again at the window, watching for the last, the very last
glimpse of her retreating figure.
At the sight of that watching figure a faint realisation came to Vanna
of one of life's tragedies--the pathetic dependence of the old upon the
young; the detachment and indifference of youth to age. To herself
these weekly visits were a duty and, frankly speaking, a bore. To the
old woman, alone in her luxurious home, they formed the brightness and
amusement of life, the epochs upon which she lived in hope and
recollection.
"Poor, dull old soul! I must go regularly. I must not shirk,"
determined Vanna conscientiously, but she loved her duty none the more.
It was towards the end of her third month's residence at Seacliff that,
on cantering up the drive of the Manor House, Vanna noticed a change in
the position of the white-capped figure. It was there, watching as
usual, but at the side, instead of the centre, of the library window,
and by her stood a tall, dark figure. Vanna's heart leapt within her;
the blood rushed through her veins; in one moment languid indifference
was changed to tingling vitality. She straightened herself on the
saddle, and as Piers's figure appeared in the porch, lifted her
gauntleted hand to her hat in merry salute.
The episode of Jean's marriage, with the association of chief bridesmaid
and groomsman, had brought the two friends of the bride into closer
intimacy, so that the greeting between them was frank and cordial.
"Salaam, Diana!"
"Salaam, oh, Knight of the--!"
Vanna paused, for it was no Knight of the Rueful Countenance who looked
into her face as she drew rein by the door. The dark eyes looking into
hers were alight with pleasure--with something more than pleasure.
Vanna recognised a gleam of surprised admiration and thrilled at the
sight even as it forced itself into words.
"By Jove, how well you are looking."
"Rusticating suits me, you see."
She leapt lightly to the ground, and, gathering up the graceful long
riding-skirt of that day, entered the house before him. As she passed
along the ugly, commonplace hall, Vanna was confronted by her own
reflection in the glass of the old-fashioned hat-stand, and started at
the sight. This was not the girl whom she was accustomed to see in that
same glass--the girl with the pale face, and listless eyes; this girl
walked with a quick, lightsome tread; her daintily poised head, crowned
by the picturesque green hat, assumed a new charm; the grey eyes were
sparkling beneath the arched brows; the cheeks were flushed to the
colour of a wild rose. This was the vision which Piers Rendall had
beheld, the vision at which his hard eyes had softened in admiration.
Vanna blushed at the sight of her own fairness, and felt the thrill of
pure, undiluted joy which every true daughter of Eve knows at such
moments. She tilted her head over her shoulder to answer Piers's
question, with a smile and a glance which would have done credit to Jean
herself. What he asked she hardly knew--some of the conventional,
unimportant questions which are tossed to and fro on such occasions.
What she answered mattered still less; the mere fact of his presence
eclipsed all. The bigness of him, the strongness, the firm, dark face,
the deep bass voice, the masculine presence after the long, monotonous
months, with no companionship save that of two old women. It was as if
a part of the girl's being which had been drugged to sleep awoke
suddenly and clamoured for existence.
At the door of the library Vanna knew a momentary pause. Conscious of
her own transformed face, she shrank with something like shame from
facing old Mrs Rendall. What would she say? What would she think?
Another moment proved the needlessness of her dread, for on this happy
day of reunion the mother had no eyes for any one but her son. In a
mechanical fashion she went through the ordinary list of questions, and
Vanna vouchsafed the ordinary replies; but the ordinary interest was
impossible while Piers stood with his back to the fire, puffing at his
cigarette, listening with a smile on his face.
That smell of smoke impregnating an atmosphere which was usually equally
reminiscent of furniture polish and paregoric--how intoxicating it smelt
in Vanna's nostrils! She kept her eyes riveted on the old lady's face
so long as conversation between them continued, but the moment that
mother and son were engrossed with each other, her eyes returned
greedily to the long, straight limbs, the close-cropped head, the
strong, sinewy hands. Youth called to youth. Sex called to sex.
At the end of ten minutes' general conversation Piers made the move for
which Vanna had anxiously been waiting.
"When will lunch be ready, mother? Miss Strangeways must stay to lunch
in honour of my return. We'll go a little turn round the grounds and be
back in half an hour. Then I'll ride over with her, and see Miggles
while you have your rest."
A shade of disappointment passed over Mrs Rendall's face. It was hard
to allow her son to pass out of her sight for even half an hour, but she
assented quietly, after the manner of mothers of grown-up sons, and the
two young people strolled out into the garden.
The geranium beds were bare and brown, but the lawn was still a velvety
green and the belt of evergreen trees presented a similitude of summer.
Piers led the way forward, and Vanna followed, a smile upon her lips.
"The Happy Land?"
"The Happy Land. Naturally! It is an appropriate walk for you to-day.
No need to ask how it goes. You look blooming--a different girl from
when you were here last. And you really like it--this buried-alive
existence? When I heard of the arrangement I could not believe it would
last beyond a few weeks. It seemed unnatural--unfair. But you have
stood it out. You have not been lonely?"
Vanna hesitated. They stood at the entrance to the glen, looking down
through a network of bare branches on the stream beneath. The ground
was covered with a carpet of leaves, the sweet, soft smell of earth rose
refreshingly in the wintry air.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I have been lonely, but--remember that I am
bound to look on the bright side of things in this place!--I have had
compensations. I am needed here. Miggles could not be left alone with
a servant, and there is a great satisfaction in feeling oneself
necessary. This new home was offered to me at a moment when I was
adrift in the world, and every one in it is kind and loving. I have
every comfort, and a dear luxury in the shape of Dinah. I am becoming
quite an experienced horsewoman, and it is impossible to feel depressed
after a gallop across the downs. And you know Miggles! It's rather
wonderful to live beside a person who is preparing for death as
cheerfully and happily as most people prepare for a holiday. We talk
about it every day, but never gloomily. In a peaceful kind of way she's
excited at the prospect. Quite suddenly she will exclaim, `Oh, I shall
see Emma. I haven't seen Emma since we were girls at school. I shall
have so _much_ to tell Emma.' And she is full of interest as to her new
work. It is to be helping her earth friends. That's quite decided.
`It's what I have been trained for, dear. It stands to reason I must go
on.' And she has quite definite ideas of what ought to be done--things
that, according to her judgment, have been overlooked, and concerning
which she can--very tactfully!--drop a gentle reminder. She has a
mission on hand for each one of us. You are to receive special
attention."
The young man smiled affectionately.
"Bless her old heart! That's well. I am thankful she is happy. It's a
great thing for her to have you; that's natural enough, but--"
He stopped short with that air of reservation which Vanna _found_ so
attractive. Never once had he descended to the banality of a compliment
in words; always it had been left to her to divine his approval from
eyes and voice--a gratification delightfully freed from embarrassment.
He bit his lip, frowned, and demanded suddenly, "How long do you mean to
stay?"
"I hope, as long as she lives. For my own sake as well as hers, for
I've grown to love her, and she is a delightful companion. Beyond her
simplicity and sweetness, she has such a pretty sense of humour. She
makes me laugh in my darkest mood, and--which is equally important--she
laughs at me. It would be too boring to live with a person who received
one's best sallies with silence or a strained smile; but Miggles is
nothing if not appreciative. I shall certainly not leave her by any act
of my own."
"And--afterwards?"
Vanna looked up at him: her eyes were brave, but her lips trembled.
From his tall stature he looked down upon the struggle on her face, the
trembling lips, the brave, gallant eyes.
"I don't know--I can't say. I don't want to think. It's a subject I
can't discuss--_here_. Talk of something else--something cheerful.
Tell me about Jean. Have you seen her lately? When did you see her?
How is she looking? Tell me everything you can about her."
Piers lifted his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"Jean is--Robert! Robert is--Jean! There you have the situation in a
word! Bound up in each other--blind, deaf, dumb to every other
interest. I've called once or twice. Their house is charming. She is
lovelier than ever; he is, if possible, still more radiantly content.
They seem unfeignedly pleased to see one--for ten minutes! After that
their attention begins to flag, and at the end of half an hour you feel
that you would be a perfect brute to stay another second. I have come
to the conclusion that it is kinder to leave them alone."
"I'm sure of it. I don't even trouble Jean with letters more than once
a month. I send constant bulletins of Miggles to Mrs Goring, so that
she knows how things go, and for the rest--I bide my time. When a year
or so has passed away, I hope they will still be as much in love; but
there will be more room for outsiders. It's just as well that I am away
from town. It is easier to be philosophical at a distance. If I were
in town and felt myself unwanted and out in the cold, I should probably
be huffy and jealous. As it is, I look forward, and tell myself she
will want me another day. One can afford to wait when there's a surety
at the end."
"Yes, that's easy. If one were ever sure--" His brow darkened, but
meeting her eyes, he smiled, throwing aside the dark thought, with an
effort to match her own. "Doubt is forbidden, I suppose, with other
repinings? Well! the Queen must be obeyed. Do you remember saying that
it was little use to possess a Happy Land so far away that you could
rarely see it? And behold the next move in the game is that you are
plumped down at its very gates! How many times have you visited your
domain since we were here together in summer?"
"Not once. When I have ridden over it has been to see your mother, and
I don't care to leave Miggles for long at a time. Besides, I think I
shirked it. It was winter, and the trees were bare, and I was alone,
and it is difficult to be very happy all by oneself, and sometimes I was
in a contrary mood, when I did not even want to _try_. But I am glad to
be here to-day. I am glad you brought me."
"I must bring you again. I must come down oftener. As you are giving
up your life to help Miggles, it is the duty of all her friends to make
things as easy as possible. I shall feel that Seacliff has a double
claim on me if I can help you as well as my mother. It will be good for
us both to come here and be compelled towards happiness."
Vanna's smile of acknowledgment was somewhat forced. It would have been
unmixed joy to look forward to the promised visits, but for those two
words which stood out in such jarring prominence that they seemed to
obscure her joy. "Duty," "Claim." When in the history of woman did she
appreciate a service thus offered by a member of the opposite sex?
"That is very kind of you," she answered formally. "After the
excitements of London, Seacliff must seem very dull at this time of
year. How long are you going to stay this time?"
"Until--" he hesitated for a moment--"until Monday."
That evening, when Vanna went up to her own room, she sat for an hour
beside her little window facing the bay, living over again the events of
the day.
Duty! Claim! For the hundredth time the words tolled in her ears. She
looked over the grey waste of waters and saw in them a type of her own
colourless life. Duty! Claim! But then the scene shifted. She was
back again in the library of the Manor House, listening to old Mrs
Rendall's words of lament. "He is no sooner here than he has gone. He
tells me he must positively leave on Friday." Why had Piers elected to
stay on? She was back again in the dining-room, feeling his gaze upon
her--a gaze so deep, so pregnant with meaning that it had forced the
question from her lips, "What is it? What are you thinking about?"
"You! Here! In this house. The difference it makes--the astounding
difference--"
_What_ difference was it which her presence made? His eyes told her
that it was a difference of gain.
A twinkling light shone out on the darkness, flashed and waned, flashed
again into brighter glow. The waste of waters was illumined with light.