Five years later Vanna Strangeways and Piers Rendall were taking tea
with Robert and Jean Gloucester in their London home. Those years of
busy living had left their trace on all four friends; but, as is usually
the case, these changes were most marked on the faces of the women.
A man of forty is almost invariably handsomer than the same man at the
age of twenty-five; but though a woman may gain in expression, the
delicate bloom of youth is a charm which can never be replaced.
Jean Gloucester would always be beautiful, but already in her thirtieth
year she wore a worn and fragile air. The two children who now occupied
the nursery upstairs had made heavy demands on her strength. Jean was
one of the women who, though naturally robust, seem totally unfitted for
the strain of child-bearing. Her figure was slight almost to
emaciation, and her cheeks had lost their bloom, but she was still a
picture fascinating to the eye as she leant back against the cushions of
the sofa--bright rose-coloured cushions, newly covered to show off the
beauty of a wonderful grey gown made in the long flowing folds which she
affected, and which were in striking contrast to the inartistic dresses
of the period.
In whatever direction Jean economised it was never in dress or household
decorations. She was one of the women in whom the beauty instinct takes
precedence above other tastes. If it had been her lot to live in a
garret on ten shillings a week she would have deprived herself of food
until she had saved enough money to paper the walls with a harmonious
colour, and to buy a strip of curtaining to match. To purchase a
prosaic garment for five pounds, when an artistic one could be procured
for ten, was to her practically an impossibility. She stifled any pangs
of conscience by arguing that the outlay was economical in the end.
Good things wore longer, one did not grow wearied of them as of cheaper
designs; and, to do her justice, these theories were invariably
supported by her husband. His wife's beauty was a continual joy to
Robert Gloucester, and he took a boyish delight in the moments when,
walking by her side, he encountered chance City friends, and watched the
first casual glance brighten into surprised admiration. It appeared to
him but another instance of Jean's surprising cleverness that she always
"hit upon such stunning clothes," and he pitied from his heart the poor
fellows who possessed dull, dowdy wives. Jean looked like a queen
beside them; but a queen is an expensive luxury in the home of a
struggling business man. The process of "selling out a share or two"
had been resorted to several times in the course of the last few years,
and Robert had begun to lie awake at nights, pondering uneasily about
the future. The lines in his forehead had deepened into furrows, but
his eyes were clear and bright as ever; he moved in the same quick,
alert fashion, and his laugh rang full and joyous as a boy's.
Piers Rendall's dark hair had turned grey--a curious dark shade of grey
which gave an effect of _poudre_. The change gave an added distinction
to his appearance, and showed the dark eyes and eyebrows in striking
contrast. He was thin, however, and the nervous twitching of the
features was more frequent than of old.
As for Vanna, what attractions she possessed had never been of the
golden-haired, pink-cheeked category, and there was consequently little
change visible at a casual glance. She was prettily dressed in a soft
blue gown, and the stag-like setting of the head, the arched black
brows, and the delicate oval of the face were untouched. Love and work
had filled her life, and her expression was both sweet and strong; but
there were new lines written on her face--lines whose secret no one knew
but herself.
All these years Vanna had been fighting a battle--a battle against self
and fate. When at the end of her hospital course _she_ had settled down
in her own house, Piers had been hotly indignant at discovering that the
same embargo as of old was to be laid against his visits. One night a
week! The thing was preposterous. He had given way to her wishes, had
been patient and self-sacrificing, more patient than ninety-nine men out
of a hundred would have been under the circumstances. He had waited,
marking off the months as they passed, counting on the future to reward
him for his abstinence, and now was she going to put him off again, to
forbid him the house, to treat him like a common acquaintance? He
stormed and argued, Vanna stood firm. They parted for the first time in
coldness and anger, but the next day Piers took back his words, and
begged for forgiveness.
"You may be right, I don't know. Women are so confoundedly calm and
reasoning; but it's hard, Vanna! If you knew how I long for you--what a
lost, aimless wretch I feel hanging about, knowing that you are alone--a
few streets off! It was easier when you were shut up in hospital and I
couldn't get to you; but now! Sometimes it drives me half mad. You
can't blame me for flaring out. It's because I love you, darling--love
you so wildly. You wouldn't have me love you less?"
"No! a thousand times no." Yet no persuasion could move Vanna from her
point. On that one evening a week she was all that the most ardent
lover could desire; with every power she possessed she strove to secure
the perfection of that hour. Piers's favourite dishes appeared at
dinner; his favourite flowers decked the rooms; she rested during the
day, so as to be at her best and brightest in the evening, dressed
herself in his favourite colours, lavished love upon him in generous,
unstinted flow. Every evening he left her aglow with love, chafing at
the thought of the time which must elapse before their next meeting,
breathing out threats of rebellion. Now and again he did indeed break
through the rule, making an excuse of an opportunity to take Vanna to
some special entertainment; but these occasions had the excitement of
stolen pleasures, and were not allowed to become common.
Sometimes when Piers was visited by one of his black fits of depression;
when she realised that these fits grew more frequent with each year as
it passed, Vanna knew a terrible sinking of the heart. But she strove
valiantly to disguise it even from herself, for she realised that for
her wisdom lay in living in the present and resolutely shutting her eyes
to the future. Piers also she strove to inoculate with this doctrine,
forcing him to see outside reasons for his depression.
"Our love is more perfect, we mean more to each other than nine out of
ten married couples. If we have not their joys, we are spared their
griefs. Dearest, is any human being really content? Is he _meant_ to
be content? The animals are peaceful and satisfied to browse, and eat,
and lie down and sleep; they are in their rightful environment, but we
as spiritual beings are wandering adrift. The divine spark within is
eternally urging us on, further, higher--casting aside the baubles. It
is not a fault; it's a birthright. We can be patient, but never, never
content."
"Robert--"
"No! He has Jean, and she has his heart, but he wants her to be
stronger; he wants to be richer for her sake. He craves for the
perfection which he can never know."
But it was hard to be always strong, to be compelled to reason and
argue, and fight down self, instead of claiming her woman's privilege of
being cared for and protected. There were hours when Vanna would have
given all she possessed to break down and cry her heart out in Piers's
arms; but it was an indulgence she dared not claim. A fuller knowledge
of her lover's character had shown that his powers of endurance were
less than her own. He would have been all tenderness and compassion,
but she would have paid for that hour by weeks of heavy depression. So
Vanna fought on, and was silent.
In one respect her circumstances were happier than her lover's; for
while Piers's interest in business was of the perfunctory order of the
already rich man, her own work was a continual delight. From time to
time she visited a patient, but by far the greater number came to her to
be housed and tended. They were a pathetic crowd; middle-aged and
elderly women of gentle birth, worn out with the struggle of life,
shrinking with terror from bodily illness, not because of the suffering
involved, but from the fear of loss of employment and subsequent want
which it involved. To be nursed, housed, and fed free of charge was a
godsend indeed, and Jean's prophecy of ingratitude was rarely fulfilled.
Sometimes, indeed, Vanna felt that ingratitude would have been easier
to bear than the trembling blessings called down on her head by those
poor souls for whom perforce she could do so little. She grew to dread
the last few days of a visit, to shrink afore-hand from the pitiful
glances which the departing guest would cast around the pretty, cosy
rooms, as if storing up memories to brighten barren days. Her charity
had the sting of all such work, the inability to do more; but in it she
found interest and occupation, and a continual object-lesson. These
poor waifs and strays, who were thankful for a few weeks' haven, would
think themselves rich beyond measure if they owned one half the
blessings she herself possessed. Ought she not to be grateful too?
On this autumn afternoon Jean had an exciting piece of news to tell to
her visitors.
"Guess who is engaged! Some one you know--know very well: an intimate
friend."
"Fine or superfine?"
"Both, of course; but you know her best. A very old friend. Near
here--"
"Don't tell, Jean; don't be in such a hurry. Let them guess," cried
Robert, laughing; but already Vanna was gasping in incredulous tones:
"_Not_ Edith Morton!"
"Yes! Yes!" Jean clapped her hands with her old childlike abandon.
"Isn't it lovely? Aren't you pleased? She came round last night to
tell me. To Mr Mortimer. She has seen a lot of him at their literary
society. He is a clever man; every one speaks highly of him, and he is
rich. It's all as charming as possible, and most suitable."
Mr Mortimer! Vanna knitted her brows, recalling a grave, middle-aged
figure, and striving to imagine him in the new role of Edith Morton's
lover. Edith had sailed for Canada shortly after Jean's marriage to pay
a visit to a married sister, and had returned at the end of two years,
apparently heart-whole; but Vanna knew that her life had been empty of
interest, and feared lest the attraction of a home of her own and a
definite place in the world might have induced her to give her promise
without love.
"Mr Mortimer! He is a fine man; I like him--but for Edith? He seems
so old, so settled down. I never dreamt of his getting engaged."
"Nonsense! He is forty-five and she is thirty-two. Very suitable. A
woman ages more quickly than a man. He will look years younger with a
wife to smarten him up; and they are as much in love as if they were
twenty; beaming, both of them--the picture of happiness. The wedding is
to be almost at once. He says they have waited long enough, and can't
afford to waste another day. I shouldn't wonder if they rushed it
through in six weeks, and took a furnished house till they had time to
look round. Much the best plan."
"Much!" agreed Vanna quietly. Jean's impetuous speech often planted a
dart of which she was the first to repent; but as she would ruefully
confess to Robert, it was so difficult to think of Vanna and Piers as an
engaged couple. They were so much more like a settled-down, married
couple, living on quietly from day to day, taking life as it came,
making no plans. It was only when she saw the shadow fall on the faces
of the two listeners that she realised her mistake. She sprang to her
feet and pulled loudly at the bell.
"We'll have the children! Lorna would never forgive me if I let you go.
Babs looks too sweet in her new frock..."
"Just for a moment. I must be taking Vanna home. It's damp, and I
can't let her risk cold."
Piers spoke hastily, and rose to his feet as if in preparation for
saying adieu. Jean's children were dainty little creatures, to whom he
and Vanna were truly attached; but each shrank from seeing them in the
presence of the other. The family group of the lovely mother, with her
golden-haired babies, the proud, happy father, was so perfect, so
complete, that less happy mortals looking on might well be excused a
stab of envy. Vanna and Piers each knew the pang of the childless,
which was doubled in intensity in the knowledge of the other's
suffering.
The two little girls entered the room side by side. Their sex had been
a grievous disappointment to Jean, who had the overpowering desire for a
son which possesses many women; but the little maids were pretty and
charming enough to satisfy any parent. Lorna, dark, glowing, with her
mother's wonderful eyes; the baby Joyce, a delicious fat ball crowned
with a mop of yellow curls.
They were delightfully free from shyness, and greeted the two visitors
with sweet, moist kisses, and "bears' hugs" from tiny white arms. Vanna
took Joyce on her knee and tried bravely to talk baby-talk, and keep her
eyes averted from Piers's lowering face; but at the end of ten minutes
she gave up the struggle, made her farewells and followed him into the
street.
It was a dark, misty evening--one of those evenings when the cold
penetrates to the marrow, and the great city is at its worst and
dreariest. Piers turned up the collar of his coat, so that Vanna could
see little of his face; but his walk, his bearing, the forward droop of
his head were painfully eloquent. During the whole of the ten minutes'
walk he did not speak a word, but Vanna knew that when they were alone
in her own quiet room the floodgates would open, and trembled at the
thought of yet another scene. When the door was opened she went
straight to her bedroom, lingering purposely over her toilette, in the
hope that Piers would have time to calm down, and remember his
resolution made so ardently after each fresh outburst. Of what avail to
rail against fate, when the effort could only revert on one's own head
in weariness and remorse? Was it not he who had first preached the
beauty of a spiritual love? This was the view on which she must lay
fullest stress to-night, this the pure and lofty ideal to which she must
raise his thoughts. And then Vanna--a woman through and through--stood
another five minutes before the glass, carefully bestowing those little
touches to her toilette which would add to her physical charm, and evoke
Piers's admiration to the uttermost.
He was pacing the room from end to end. The sound of his footsteps
reached her ears before the door opened, and the moment she appeared he
came towards her with outstretched arms.
"Vanna! this must end. It is unsupportable. We cannot endure it any
longer. Why can every one be happy except us? Edith Morton married in
six weeks! Good God, and we have waited five years; may wait for ever.
To hear Jean prattling of its being so wise, so sensible, and you
agreeing in a calm, even voice--it drove me wild! There are some things
a man cannot stand. I have come to the end of my tether."
Vanna stood like a statue, eyes cast down, hands clenched by her sides.
No! this was not one of the scenes to which she was accustomed; this was
something more. There was a note in Piers's voice which she had not
heard before--a note of determination, of finality. Within her soul she
heard the knell of the end.
"Vanna, you must feel for yourself that things are impossible. We must
marry. We must risk all. This farce cannot go on. We have done our
best, and we have failed. Nothing that could happen could be worse than
to go on through the years wasting our lives. We must take our risks,
and face them together. We must marry!"
To the last day of her life Vanna never ceased to marvel at her own
courage and calmness at this moment of supreme temptation. A hundred
times over she had tremblingly acknowledged to herself that if Piers
made a violent attack upon her determination she could not answer for
the result. The temptation to consent, to gain happiness at whatever
cost, would be so immense that continued resistance would be next to
impossible; but at this moment there was no feeling of temptation. The
steady, persistent effort of years finds its reward in these crises of
life--in a strength of character, a stiffening of the mental muscles,
which changes tumult into calm. Vanna ceased to tremble; she stood
motionless before her lover, oblivious of his outstretched arms, her
whole being projected into the thought of the future.
It was as if on a darkened night a sudden flash of light had been
vouchsafed, by which the landscape was revealed, with the pitfalls
yawning at her feet. A tranquil, trustful soul like Robert Gloucester
might have taken on himself the burden of her life, and have come
unscathed through the ordeal--calm himself, calm in his influence, a
true doctor in the home; but Piers, by reason of those very qualities
which endeared him to her woman's heart, was the last man on earth to
support the strain. His fear, his anxiety, though expressed in
tenderest devotion, must inevitably act and react on both. At this
moment the great question appealed to her woman's heart less in its
abstract than in the personal form, as affecting the happiness of the
beloved. Whatever he might feel at this moment of stress and passion,
it could not be for Piers Rendall's ultimate happiness to marry a woman
over whom hung the deep cloud of inherited madness. His aim
accomplished, joy would be speedily eclipsed in dread. In imagination
she could see his haggard looks, feel the dark eyes brooding over her
with fearful care. So far he had been free. If the chains fretted too
sorely he had only to drop them, and go forth. How would he bear it if
there were no escape? How could _she_ bear it for his sake?
Vanna lifted her head and looked deep into her lover's eyes. Her voice
was clear and steady:
"No, Piers! I will never marry you. Never, to the end of time. But I
will not bind you. You are quite free--"
"Free!" He turned from her with a loud, harsh laugh. "Good God, how
you quibble with words! I have loved you, I have given you my life--how
can I be free? What have I left if you cast me off? What have _you_
left? How can you insult me with such words? How can you be so cold,
so cruel? Women have no hearts. They don't know what it is to love--"
The wild words flowed on in breathless torrent. Then suddenly came the
collapse: he turned towards her, met the glance of her piteous eyes, and
melted into remorse. "My poor Vanna, I am hurting you. Forgive me,
darling! I am a brute, a selfish brute; I am half mad myself... Oh,
this world! what a hell it can be! What have we done to be cursed and
set aside? It is cruel--unjust. If we can never marry, why did we ever
meet?"
Vanna shivered. "_Why did we ever meet_?" Was it Piers who had spoken
those words?--Piers, who had declared that to love her was a higher joy
than to be the husband of any other woman! Once again the knell-like
bell tolled in her ears. It was almost a relief when, after a few more
incoherent words, Piers suddenly turned to depart.
"I won't stay. I am hurting you. I'll go now, and come back when I am
calm. You'll be better alone--"
For the first time in five years he left her without a kiss or a caress,
and Vanna sat, stunned and motionless, gazing on the ruins of her life.
No one came near to interrupt her solitude. It was a rule that she
should be uninterrupted when Piers was present, and his departure had
apparently passed unnoticed by the household. A dense, overhanging
shadow possessed her spirit, out of which one thought alone was clear.
Piers was unhappy. She, who would have sheltered him from every ill,
had brought upon him the keenest suffering of his life.
Two hours later, when Piers himself opened the door, he found Vanna in
practically the same attitude in which he had left her, crouched in the
corner of the sofa. The fire had died out in the grate, and the air of
the little room struck bleak and chill. The face turned towards him had
the delicacy of an etching, the dark brows arched above the deep-set
eyes, the finely moulded cheeks white and wan. Unlike most women,
Vanna's attraction was distinct from colour; she looked her best, not
her worst, in minutes of mental strain. Piers closed the door,
approached her hastily, and, taking her hands in his, drew her to his
side. He spoke but two words, but they were prompted by the force which
is the greatest diviner of the needs of the human heart, and the whole
wealth of the language could not have added to their eloquence.
"_My Joy_!" he said, in that deep, full voice which Vanna had heard but
once or twice before, in the great moments of their love.
They wept, and clung together, and Vanna's hungry heart found comfort
once more. After all, would she have been more content if Piers had
_not_ rebelled?