Vanna begged a month's grace before the announcement of her engagement
was made public, and before half that time had passed, had said good-bye
to the seaside cottage in which she had known such peaceful, happy days,
and, in response to an urgent invitation, had gone to pay a long visit
to Jean.
"You said the time would come when I should need you," wrote Jean, in a
long pencilled scrawl, "and it has arrived! I need you badly, dear; I
crave for you. At this moment I feel I must either have a kind,
understanding woman near me, or die! I am so ill, Vanna, and so weak,
and so frightened! It has been such a long, long time, and I never knew
before what it was like to be ill. One does not grow used to it--it
grows harder and harder, and the days are so eternally long. I don't
apologise for asking you to exchange one invalid for another; another
person might think it hard, but not you, you dear angel--it will be an
inducement to you. And you'll stay until it is over, won't you, and
keep house, and look after Robert, when I'm upstairs? Oh, the joy, and
the ease, and the comfort it would be to see you walk in at this moment,
and to know that you'd come to stay! I want you more than I've ever
wanted you before; and if you say no, I'll collapse at once, and it will
be your fault, and you'll repent for ever after. Wire your reply."
Vanna smiled happily as she read the characteristic words. Yes, her
time had come. She had waited to a good purpose. Jean needed her, and
she needed Jean; she was longing eagerly for long, heart-to-heart talks
with her only woman friend. Except those few short days at Seacliff,
the two friends had not met since the day of the wedding, and there
would be so much to hear, so much to say. What would Jean have to say
to her great news? She recalled Jean's face of dismay as, kneeling on
the ground, she had listened to Dr Greatman's verdict; heard again the
tremble in her voice as she asked, "Is there no escape?" Surely Jean
would not blame her, because when happiness had been placed into her
hand she had not had strength to thrust it away? Surely out of the
riches of her own wealth she would rejoice that some crumbs had fallen
to her friend? What would Robert say? He was a man: he would judge
from a man's standpoint, with his head rather than with his heart.
Vanna shrank nervously from Robert's disapproval. He was one of the
simple, upright men who are apt to be hard judges. To them there are
but two courses in life--a right and a wrong. They have neither
sympathy nor understanding for those who pitifully essay to find byways
by which to escape the rigours of the path. Yet when love had seized
Robert in its grip he had made short work of obstacles--had laughed to
scorn Vanna's prudent advice. When she had condemned him, and refused
her help, he had replied that it was not needed. He required no help
from outside. Well! Vanna lifted her chin with proud resolve; she
herself could be equally independent. It would make the future more
difficult if Robert and Jean adopted a disapproving attitude, but for
the moment she need not trouble herself about such a contingency. She
would allow Jean time for the discussion of her own affairs before
seizing a quiet opportunity for telling her own great news.
The tall town house, with its narrow staircase, and high, box-like
rooms, felt close and stuffy after the wind-swept cottage, but it glowed
with the colour dear to the heart of its mistress, and was refreshingly
different from the ordinary houses of that most inartistic age. Jean
had copied her interior from pictures rather than from upholsterers'
catalogues, and her principal furniture had been made from her own
designs. Robert had placed no limit on her expenditure; he could not
afford a large house, but she was to have "everything she wanted" for
the small one which she had graciously consented to occupy. Such were
his instructions, and Jean had proceeded to carry them into effect with
a literal interpretation of the words. Being one of the happy people
who always know exactly what they want, no time was wasted in
discussion, the only difficulty being to procure fabrics as beautiful
and artistically tinted as those which were pictured in her fertile
brain. When the last treasure had been discovered, and fitted into its
niche, the completed whole was a triumph of good taste, beautiful and
restful; a home of which any man might be proud. Robert was proud of it
because it was Jean's doing, and spectators waxed enthusiastic in Jean's
praise. For himself, he would have been as well satisfied with a walnut
suite and moreen curtains, perhaps more so, for he felt uneasily that he
should never be able to smoke comfortably in such fine surroundings, nor
to cross a floor without pausing to rub his boots. Neither of the two
had a glimmering of an idea of what it cost to furnish a house; but when
the bills came in Robert had a disagreeable shock. The sum which he had
laid aside was ludicrously inadequate, and he was obliged to have
recourse to "selling a share or two," and so reduce his already slender
capital. But Jean was content. Jean was proud of her house; all other
considerations were second to that.
Vanna met her friend in the drawing-room, which, being situated at the
back of the house, with a depressing outlook, had the ordinary window
replaced by one of rich stained glass. Gas jets had been arranged
outside the window, which, being lit at dusk, served to show the glowing
colours of the design through the evening hours. On this summer
afternoon the mellowed light, and absence of prospect, combined to give
the room the aspect of a shrine, and Jean moving slowly forward was
certainly beautiful enough for a high-priestess. She wore a wonderful
flowing robe of a dull blue, softly falling silk, the long open sleeves
hanging almost to the ground, and showing her slim arms encased in some
thin metallic substance, in which gold shot into silver, and silver back
to gold. The folds at the neck were caught together with a metal clasp
and chains, and slippers of the same colour peeped out beneath the
sweeping skirts. The first glance at her face, however, brought with it
a thrill of fear, for suffering and weariness were written there with an
eloquence beyond the power of words. The eyes were haggard and
encircled with violet shadows, the cheeks had lost their curves, the
lips drooped, yet, as ever, Jean's beauty rose triumphant over all
drawbacks. Vanna asked herself if she were not more beautiful than
ever, for the childlike pathos of expression added the needed touch of
softness to her features.
"Oh, Vanna, you blessing! You have come at last."
"I've come, darling. Come to stay! As long as you want me."
Jean kissed her again and again, the tears gathering in the lovely eyes,
but she dashed them away, and in another minute was laughing and
chattering in her old gay voice.
"Bring tea, bring tea! And I'm engaged, remember! Not a soul is to
disturb me this afternoon. Vanna, you look sweet. If you go on
improving at this rate, you'll soon beat me hollow. Sit here, opposite,
where I can see you. Oh, you look so fresh, and happy, and well! You
are like a breath of sea air. I've been stifling for months in this
stuffy room, with not even a tree to look at, to remind me that it's
spring." She threw an impatient glance at the stained-glass window
which had made such a deep hole in Robert's purse. "Robert goes out at
nine, and gets home at seven. Oh, my dear, such days! I've had such a
dose of my own society that I'm sickened. If there's a person on earth
I detest at this moment, it's Jean Gloucester."
Vanna smiled whimsically.
"It doesn't look like it. You seem to me to take a very fair amount of
interest in her still. You look as charming as ever, you wonderful
person. What a marvellous gown! Where in the name of mystery did you
evolve it? and how many coffers of gold did you squander in the
purchase?"
Jean had the grace to blush.
"Oh, well! one must be respectable. It _is_ rather a marvel. It was
designed for me by an artist woman who has gone in for gowns; but no
earthly inducement will ever make me tell what it cost. It's so
soothing to have something becoming that it's been as good as medicine.
Looked at in that way, it's _cheap_! And I have been so good about
money all the year. Rob balanced our books last week, and we were only
a hundred out. Very good, I call it, when you remember that I had _no_
experience. The first time we had asparagus for dinner I couldn't eat a
bit. I just sat staring at every stick. You have always to pay for
experience. Besides, as I said to Rob, you are only newly married once,
and it would be a sin to rub off the bloom worrying about pennies. It's
silly to spoil the present for the sake of what may happen in a dozen
years. We may be dead, or if we are not, we shall probably be better
off. Rob's position will be improved, the boys' education will be
finished, and father can allow me more. Men are so fussy about
capital... Vanna, do you realise that it is a whole year since I've
seen you? You have told me very little about yourself in your letters.
There's so much I want to hear. Not about Miggles to-day--we'll leave
that. I don't want to cry. Tell me about yourself!"
"Oh, not yet! One thing at a time. I've not half finished with you,"
said Vanna with a thrill of nervousness, which she tried her best to
conceal. "There are a hundred things that I am longing to hear. But
first about Robert. How is he? Well--flourishing--giving
satisfaction--as nice as ever?"
"Nice!" Jean tossed her head in disdain. "What a paltry word. He is
the best man out of Heaven, my dear. That is the only description for
_him_. I've lived with him for eighteen months, and have not discovered
one single, solitary fault. That's simple truth, not exaggeration. I
honestly believe he is perfect."
"And with you for a wife! You are a darling, Jean; but method was never
your strong point, and by your own account your housekeeping hasn't
always been a success. Does he continue to smile through all the
upsets, and forgettings, and domestic crises, such as you described to
us at Seacliff? I can't believe it of a mere man!"
"Oh, I didn't mean to say that he preserves a dead-level calm. I should
hate him if he did. He is rather irritable in small ways. You can
excite him to frenzy--comparatively speaking--by moving the matches from
his dressing-room, or mislaying his sponge or nail scissors; but then it
is the servants who get blamed--never me; and in big things he is great!
If he became paralysed to-morrow, or lost every penny he possessed, or
if!"--Jean's face sobered--"_died_, he might suffer tortures, but he
would not speak one word of rebellion, and he would keep his interest in
other people, and be truly, unfeignedly, ungrudgingly glad that they
were so much more fortunate than himself. Oh, he is a marvel! I adore
him. I would give worlds to be like him. I am bursting with pride at
being the woman he has chosen out of all the world; but he spoils me so,
that it's becoming second nature to want all my own way, so I keep
falling farther and farther behind."
"Robert wouldn't admit that! No doubt he thinks himself the laggard,
and you just such another paragon as you have described."
Jean pursed her lips in a whimsical grimace.
"No! The droll part of it is, he does _not_. He doesn't understand me
one bit; I'm a continual enigma to him. Half the time he is puzzled out
of his wits, and the other half he is--_shocked_. Such eyes! You
should see them staring at me, growing bigger and bigger, when I let
myself go, and grumble or rage. He disapproves, but he makes excuses,
because I am I, and he loves me, and wouldn't change me for the greatest
paragon alive." She was silent, smiling mischievously to herself for
several minutes, then burst out suddenly:
"Can you imagine it, Vanna? I sometimes wish he were not quite so good!
It's aggravating for a sinner like me to be shown up continually
against such a contrast. And sometimes it lands one in such fixes... I
could tell you such stories of this year!" She snuggled back against
her cushions. "Ah, it _is_ good to have you here. I have so longed for
a girl to talk to... The first six months we went about a great deal,
paying visits to his friends. The first time I asked him to describe
the people, as I knew them only by name. `Oh, Meg!' he said, `Meg is
the simplest of creatures: kindly, and easy-going as you find 'em.
You'll feel at home in five minutes. No fuss, no ceremony. The sort of
house where you feel absolutely at home.' Well, what would _you_ expect
from that description? I saw a vision of a suburban villa, and a stout,
frumpy woman with a fat smile, and packed a modest little semi-evening
frock to let her down gently. My dear! it was a mansion, and she was
the very smartest creature I have ever beheld. The first glimpse of her
in afternoon clothes took away my breath; but there was worse to come.
She had asked a dozen people to dinner to meet us, and while we were
dressing--it was a summer evening, and quite light--I saw carriages
bowling up to the door, and visions in satin dresses trailing up the
steps. There was nothing for it; I put on my wretched little frock,
eating my heart out the while at the thought of all my trousseau
grandeurs lying useless at home, and descended--the bride, the guest of
honour--the worst dressed woman in the room! Can you imagine my
suffering?"
Vanna smiled. She could; and also the manner in which Jean would
upbraid her husband after the fray.
"And Robert? What had he to say? How did he look when he first saw you
alone?"
"Radiant, my dear. Beaming! Absolutely, utterly content. Blankly
astonished and dismayed to find that I was not the same. Utterly
unconscious that my dress had been any different from the rest. Blindly
convinced that there had not been one in the room to touch it!"
They both laughed, a tender indulgence shining in their eyes. It was
the look with which women condone the indiscretion of a child; but Jean
was still anxious to expound her own side of the situation.
"Yes! It's charming; but you've no idea how trying it can be at times.
Other women lament because their husbands complain of their meals. I
wish to goodness Robert _would_ complain. It would make things easier
with the maids. Good plain cooks need so much keeping up to the mark,
and I never get a chance of grumbling. When the things are unusually
bad, and I am mentally rehearsing what I shall say in the kitchen next
morning--`you really must make the soup stronger. The gravy was quite
white... Why did the pudding fall to pieces?'--you know the kind of
thing--Robert will lean back with a sigh, and say, `I _have_ had a good
dinner. You've eclipsed yourself to-night. I am getting quite
spoiled.' I glare at him, but it's no use. He says, `What is the
matter, dear?' and I see a smug smile on Brewster's face, and know she
will go straight into the kitchen and repeat the whole tale. How can I
grumble after that? The wind is taken completely out of my sails.
Sometimes I think that for practical, everyday life a saint is even more
trouble than a sinner. Then the friends he brings here! You never knew
such a motley throng. It may be any one from a duke (figuratively a
duke. He has met all sorts of bigwigs, `east of Suez') to a vagrant
with broken boots, and not an `h' in his composition. And it's always
the same description: `do you mind if I bring a man home to dinner
to-night? I met him at --' some outlandish place--`and he was awfully
decent to me. He is passing through town, and I should like to have him
here. Such a good fellow!' Then, of course, if I have rice pudding,
it's the duke; or if I order in an ice, it's the vagrant. Once or twice
I've tried cross-questioning, but it's no use. If I ask, `is he a
gentleman, Robert?' he looks at me with his biggest eyes, and asks,
`would I ask any one to meet _you_, who was not?' But, bless him! his
ideas and mine on that point do _not_ agree. So here, my dear, you
behold the novel spectacle of a woman who has only one complaint to make
of her husband, that he is _too_ good! But he loves me, Vanna, more
than ever. We haven't grown a bit stodgy, only just lately I've been so
ill and depressed. It will be better now you are here... Now tell me
about yourself. You've had a sad time, but you don't look sad. You
look happy and well. Vanna! you are blushing. What is it? Tell me.
There is something--I know there is. Tell me at once!"
"Yes, there is something." Vanna braced herself against the chair, a
thrill of nervous foreboding coursing through her veins. She drew off
her left glove, which she had purposely left on during tea, and held out
the hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a large square diamond.
"There is that!"
"Vanna! A ring? On your engagement finger! Who gave you that?"
"Piers Rendall!"
The colour rushed in a crimson flood over Jean's face; her lips parted
in breathless, incredulous surprise.
"_Piers_! Vanna! You _mean_ it? Piers? Piers and you? You are
engaged? When? Where? For how long?"
"At Seacliff. A fortnight ago. But we have loved each other from the
first."
"And you never told me; you never said a word."
"No. I have not seen you; but even if I had I could not have spoken.
Remember how _you_ felt! Could you have discussed Robert with me while
you were waiting? I asked Piers not to announce the engagement until I
had told you. No one has been told so far, except his mother."
"Mrs Rendall? She knows? It is settled then? Really absolutely
settled?"
"Certainly. I told you so. A fortnight ago."
A little chill of offence sounded in Vanna's voice. Jean's
congratulations were a trifle too long delayed; her surprise too blank
to be flattering. "Aren't you going to congratulate me, Jean?"
"But--but--You told me--you said--the doctor said--"
"That I should never marry. Just so! That fact remains. Piers knows;
I did not deceive him; he knew months ago. He came up to interview Dr
Greatman himself. We know that we can never marry, but we love each
other, and mean to take what happiness remains. No one ever forbade me
to be engaged."
"How can you be engaged? What for? Engaged _not_ to be married? It's
absurd. What could you say? How could you explain? What would people
think?"
Vanna laughed--a short, hard laugh. Still Jean had not congratulated
her, nor said one loving word.
"If it is a false position, it is just those `people' of whom you speak
who force us into it. The conventions of society don't allow a man and
a woman to enjoy each other's society undisturbed. To be engaged is the
only way in which they can gain the liberty. Therefore that is the way
we must take. There is nothing else to be done."
"And--when you _don't_ marry? You are both well off, and not too young.
People will expect you to marry at once, and when you don't--"
"That is our own affair. They will be told at the beginning that it
will be a long engagement, and however much they may wonder among
themselves, they will hardly have the impertinence to question us on the
subject. I imagine they will be polite, and kind, and congratulate us.
I don't think there will be many who will hear the news without speaking
_one_ kind word."
The inference was undisguised--was intended to be undisguised. Jean
flushed again, and knitted her delicate brows.
"I don't mean to be unkind, but it sounds so wild, so impracticable, so
utterly unlike you, Vanna. Where will you live? How can you meet? You
are only twenty-five. People are so ready to talk. What do you propose
to _do_?"
"To go on with our lives. I have money, thank goodness. I must have a
little house--it won't be rich and luxurious like yours--just a little
corner where I can put my things, and feel at home. I must make a
sacrifice to convention and have a sheep dog, too, I suppose--some
lonely woman like myself, who will be thankful for a home. She can look
after the servants, and the cleaning, and understand from the first that
she leaves _me_ alone. Then I shall find some work. I have an idea
working out in my head which I hope will bring interest and occupation.
And Piers shall come to see me. We shall have a place where we can meet
in peace and comfort."
"Vanna, you won't have peace--it's impossible. Oh, I know it's hard
that your life should be spoiled, terribly, terribly hard; but remember
what the doctor said--that you had no right to spoil the man's life
also. When you repeated that to me that afternoon you said there was no
fighting against it. If you hold Piers to you now, you will steal his
chance of wife and home and children."
"Ah, there they are again--those children!" Vanna's lip curled in
bitter passion. "Those visionary children who are for ever cropping up
to block the way. No legal form can make a wife and home. I am more to
Piers than any other woman, despite all my limitations; his home is
where I am. Why should I be sacrificed, a live woman, with all my
powers strong within me, for the sake of problematic infants who may
never arrive? And if they did, is it all joy to be a father? Are you
sure that the joy equals the pain? Your father was broken-hearted that
day when you left him with a smile. You did not trouble about him; why
should I give up everything for the sake of possible children?"
There was silence for several moments; then Jean spoke:
"Vanna, you talk as if I did not _want_ you to be happy. Ask Robert!
He'll tell you how often I have spoken about you; how I've cried in the
midst of my own happiness to think you could never have the same. But
this! Oh, it's a mistake, dear; it's a mistake; it will land you in
worse trouble. Piers will never be content; you won't be content
yourself; it won't be happiness, but a long, long fret."
"Other people--married people, happy married people--look back and call
the years of their engagement the happiest time of their lives. I've
heard them. You've heard them yourself."
"Yes. But why? They lived in the future, building castles, the castles
in which they were to live. If you could have heard them talking when
they were alone, you would have found that it was almost always about
the future--When shall we be married? Where shall we go for our
honeymoon? Where shall we live? They imagined it all sunshine, all
joy; and when the reality came, and its shadows, and ups and downs, they
looked back, and realised how happy and unburdened they had been. But,
Vanna dear, if you take away the future--if there is no looking
forward--a dread, instead of a hope--"
Vanna shivered, but she held herself erect, and took no heed of the hand
held out towards her. She looked round the beautiful, luxurious room,
at the glowing stained-glass window, which shut out the grey aspect of
the outer world, and as she did so, bitterness arose. Once more the
knife-edged question cleft her heart. Why should the ugliness of life
be turned into colour and beauty for one traveller, while the other
might not even take to herself a crumb of life's feast without reproach
and misgiving? A moment before she had craved for Jean's sympathy; now
she felt cold, and hard, and resentful, unwilling to accept such
sympathy if it were offered. Jean was too happy to understand. She was
one of fortune's favourites, for whom life had always been smooth and
easy. How could she realise the hunger of one who had stood continually
outside the feast? Of what use were sweet words if understanding were
lacking? Her voice when she spoke again sounded chill and aloof:
"You need not enlarge. Piers and I realise too well that our lot is
different from other happy lovers, but we have both known what it is to
feel lonely and sad, and we believe that we shall find consolation in
each other's love. We mean to try, at least. Our minds are firmly made
up on that point, whatever our friends may think. If you wish to cast
me off, Jean--I shall be sorry--but, I tell you frankly, it will make no
difference."
"Vanna, _don't_! Don't be so bitter; don't speak to me in that voice; I
can't bear it," cried Jean with gasping breath. The sound of her voice
brought Vanna's eyes upon her in startled inquiry, and at the sight of
her face resentment vanished, in a spasm of love and fear. So white she
looked, so spent, so pitifully frail and broken. Jean was ill: this was
no moment to trouble her with exhausting mental problems. Vanna felt a
swift pang of penitence at the thought that she who had arrived in the
character of nurse and consoler had already contrived to bring about a
crisis of weakness.
In a trice her arms were supporting the lovely head, her lips pressed to
the white cheek, her lips cooing out tenderest reassurements.
"There, darling, there! I was a brute, a mean, bitter, grudging brute.
Forgive me, and we'll never quarrel again. I know it, Jean! All you
have said, and _morel_ I did make a stand; I refused to listen, but I
love him so; I'm so hungry for happiness--I couldn't stand out!
Whatever comes, whatever happens in the future, we shall have _some_
time together. Think how you would feel in my place, and you'll
understand. You and Robert mean so much to us both, you _must_ wish us
well."
Jean cried, and clung to Vanna's hands with feverish protests of love
and fealty; but she allowed herself to be soothed and petted and waited
upon with a docility as new as it was touching. When Vanna skilfully
led the conversation to brighter topics, she slowly regained her
composure, and some of her old brightness, but her face still showed
signs of her distress, and Vanna inwardly quailed at the thought of
Robert's wrath when he returned and discovered the manner in which she
had inaugurated her arrival.
For every one's sake she considered it wise to avoid a second argument
that night, and returned to her own room to unpack before Robert
arrived, leaving Jean to break the news to him as she pleased. The
sound of his cheery whistle came up to her from the hall; she heard the
doors open and shut, and flushed and paled as she followed in
imagination the conversation in the room below. A quarter of an hour
passed, then came footsteps, and a tap at the door.
"Vanna! It's I! May I speak to you for a moment?"
The voice was cordial, with its old cheery note. At the sound of it
Vanna dropped the bundle of clothes which she was holding, and hurried
to fling open the door. Robert was standing before her, pale and, if
possible, thinner than ever, but with a great tenderness shining in his
eyes. Without preamble he took both her hands in his, and said:
"Jean has told me. She is your oldest friend. We want you to feel that
this is your home until you have one of your own. Ask Piers whenever
you like. He will always be welcome. There's the little den; it is at
your service. We'll do everything we can for you, Vanna."
But he did not congratulate her, and the lack smote on Vanna's heart.
"Thank you, Robert," she said wistfully. "That's like you. I am very
grateful, but, but can't you say you are _glad_? Piers and I love each
other very much, and we have been very lonely. Robert, you, of all
people, ought to be able to understand the possibility of a spiritual
love!"
But Robert only flushed, and looked distressed.
"We are not spiritual beings yet, Vanna. That's the trouble. I
understand the temptation. I don't presume to judge. Piers is a better
man than I. He may be able to rise where I should sink."
"What would _you_ do if you were in our place? If Jean were like me,
and you loved her, but could not marry?"
Robert's eyes craved pardon, but his lips did not hesitate:
"I should take a passage in the first boat, and put the width of the
world between us."