The next year passed slowly and heavily. In the spring Jean had an
illness which made it necessary for her to spend several months on the
sofa--a decree which she accepted with extraordinary resignation.
Nothing could have demonstrated so powerfully the change which the last
seven years had wrought in her physical condition as this willingness to
be shut off from social life.
"I've been so tired," she confided in Vanna, letting her head fall back
on the pillow, and closing her eyes with a long-drawn sigh, "so tired,
that it's been a struggle to get through each day. It's bliss to be
lazy, and to feel that one is justified. When I wake up in the morning
and remember that I needn't get up for breakfast, I could whoop with
joy. The doctor expected me to rebel. Goodness! I wonder how many
thousand tired women would hail such a prescription--to lie in bed until
eleven; dress quietly, and go down to the sofa; read amusing books; have
a friend to tea; sleep again, to be fresh for the husband's return; to
bed at nine; and _you must not be worried_! My dear, it's Heaven begun
below! I don't say I should like it as a permanency, but as a change
from general servants' work (which is plain English for a middle-class
wife and mother) it is highly refreshing. We'll have to get an extra
maid, of course. I've worked like a slave to keep the house as it must
be kept if I'm to have any peace in life. We have such heaps of silver
and in town it needs constant cleaning, and the mending is everlasting,
and the making for the children, _and_ the shopping, and helping in the
nursery to set nurse free to do some washing. The laundry bills are
ruinous; but you _must_ have children in white! It's a nuisance having
to spend more. It always happens like that with us. Just as we say,
`the next quarter must be lighter; we shall need nothing new,' bang
comes another big drain, and sends us back farther than ever. Money
_is_ a trial! You don't half realise how much you are saved by having a
comfortable income, Vanna. That's a _big_ blessing, and you ought to be
thankful for it."
Vanna considered. No! she was not actively thankful. When at any
special moment the subject was brought before her, she could indeed
realise the benefit of a sufficiency of money, which enabled her to
choose and carry on the work which was most congenial; but as a rule the
accustomed good was calmly taken for granted, and brought no feeling of
joy. She made a mental note, and passed on to the consideration of
Jean's problem.
"Couldn't you contrive to reduce work while you are laid up, dear? Lock
up all the silver that is not absolutely needed, and let the children
wear coloured overalls. I'd make them for you, of a pretty, becoming
blue, which would save half their washing. You might shut up the
drawing-room, too. You can't entertain, and you are comfier here in the
den. It would be so nice if you could avoid extra help. Another
servant in the house would be a trial."
But Jean only smiled with indulgent patronage.
"Oh, my dear, I can't upset everything. And I shall need some one to
wait upon me, and run up and down. It would be very poor economy to
save a few pounds, and be worried to death. You have no idea how
difficult it is to get any rest when you are the mother of a family.
One day--I've often intended to tell you about this, and make you
laugh!--you know how you have told me how lonely and sad you feel when
_you_ are ill, and lie all day alone in your room, never seeing a soul
except when your meals are brought up. _Well_, at the beginning of this
attack I awoke one morning with a crashing headache. I struggled up,
hoping it would go off after breakfast, but it grew worse. Robert
brought me in here and tucked me up on the sofa, and ordered a `quiet
day.' He said it was such a comfort to think that I _could_ be quiet,
and need do nothing but lie still and rest. He could not have borne to
go away and leave me ill if he had not been sure of that. Dear, blind
bat! He had not been gone five minutes when cook arrived for `orders.'
There was nothing in the house except the bit of mutton, and she thought
that was going bad. Would I like to look at it? She stood there gazing
before her in that calm, detached way they have--it is so maddening!--
never making one single suggestion, while I wrestled with it all--
children's dinner, kitchen dinner, dining-room dinner, kitchen supper,
to-morrow's breakfast... I was so worn out that I forgot all about my
own lunch. So did she! After she went it took about ten minutes before
the horrible throbbing in my head calmed down to what it had been
before, and by that time nurse appeared to say that Joyce had some spots
on her chest, and did I think it was wise for her to go out? Would I be
able to keep her for an hour while she promenaded with Lorna? Lorna got
so fratchety if she was in all day. I investigated the spots. I sent
for the doctor, and said they were _all_ to stay in, and nurse was
cross, and slammed the doors all day long. I lay down again, and
sniffed smelling-salts, till cook came back to say the fishman was very
sorry, but he _had_ no smelts, and what would I have instead? After
that I slept for a good quarter of an hour, till a parcel arrived with
tenpence to pay. I had only a sovereign in my purse, and no one had
change. There was nothing for it but to get the keys and go upstairs to
my bureau. After that the piano-tuner arrived. He comes once a
quarter, and picks his visits with demoniacal cunning for the very
_worst_ times in the whole three months. Mason hadn't the sense to send
him away, and I didn't know he was there until the awful _arpeggios_
began. Then I worked myself into a fever trying to decide whether I
should send him away, whether he would charge twice over if I did,
whether it would be bad for the piano, whether he would be long, whether
I could bear it if I covered my head. At last the strum, strum, on one
note began, and I rang and told Mason to send him away at once, and
_she_ was cross. Half an hour later some one sent a note with, `bearer
waits reply' on the envelope, and I had to sit up and write. The doctor
came at twelve, and said Joyce was perfectly well, but I looked
feverish; couldn't I lie down and rest? I could not look at lunch,
which was just as well, as there was none for me, and Joyce fell off her
high-chair just over my head, and I thought she was killed. She
screamed for an age, and I forgot my own head, thinking of hers; but
afterwards! I cried to myself with sheer pain and misery, and I thought
of your `long, solitary day' with such envy. The afternoon was the same
story, and when Robert came home he was _so_ disappointed to find me
worse! I didn't tell _him_ my experiences; he doesn't see the humour of
them when they affect me, but I said miserably to myself, `some day I'll
tell Vanna, and we'll laugh.' Dear me, what a comfort it is to have a
woman friend!"
Vanna smiled at her affectionately. It was good to hear Jean rattle
away in her old racy fashion, but her skilled eye was quick to note the
signs of fragility in the lovely face, which paled and flushed with such
suspicious rapidity.
"I think Sister Vanna had better apply for the vacant `place,' and take
possession until you are strong. Would you like to have me with you,
dear? We have been having rather a strenuous time lately, and when the
present inmates leave at the end of this week, I should be quite glad to
shut the house and give the staff a rest. It's a poor thing if I give
my life to nursing, and can't wait upon my one friend when she needs me.
Would you like to have me?"
Needless to say, Jean was enchanted at the prospect; so was Robert when
he returned at the close of the day; so also, more inexplicably, was
Piers himself. Vanna had been prepared for expostulations against a
proposal which would leave her less free for his visits, but none came,
and their absence added to the dull weight of oppression which had hung
over her ever since the evening when she had heard of Edith Morton's
engagement. Try as she would to live in the present, and avoid vain
imaginings, she could not blind herself to a certain change in Piers,
which seemed to increase rather than diminish. It was not a lessening
of love; never had she known him more devoted, more passionately her
own; but in his tenderness was an element of sorrow, of self-reproach,
which chilled her heart. Piers was sorry for her! Some thing was
working in his mind, the knowledge of which must give her pain. What
could it be?
The revelation came one evening after she had been located for some
weeks in the Gloucester _menage_, and for all her forebodings, found her
unprepared.
"Vanna, I have something to tell you to-night. I have been trying to
say it for some time. Darling, can you be brave?"
Vanna looked at him sharply. They were sitting together on a sofa drawn
up before the fire, and the kindly glow hid the sudden whitening of her
cheeks. She leant back against the pillows, feeling faint and sick with
the rapid beating of her heart.
"Not--very, Piers! Tell me quickly. Don't wait."
"Vanna, I'm going abroad."
Her eyes dilated with surprise. This was not what she had expected.
Compared with the greater dread, the announcement came almost as a
relief. She struggled with the oppression in her throat and breathed a
breathless, "Where?"
"To India. I have a chance. A junior partner is invalided home. I can
take his place for a few years. It is the best thing--I am sure of it.
I have made up my mind."
"Is it because you are--_tired_ of me, Piers?"
He turned upon her in passionate protest.
"Tired? Heaven knows I am tired; tired to the soul of waiting for the
woman I love; of eternal fighting against self! It's more than I can
bear. I can't go on without some change, some break."
"You would find it easier to leave me?"
He hesitated, shrinking, then braced himself to a painful effort.
"Yes! it would be easier. You think me brutal, but I am a man. I
cannot endure this life. If you cannot be my wife, I must go. It is
hard to part, but it will help us both, and after a year or two we can
begin afresh. I have been trying to tell you. I was thankful to know
you were to be here, with Jean, for I must sail soon. In a few weeks."
"Yes." Vanna had a sudden rending remembrance of the moment when she
sat in Dr Greatman's consulting-room, and heard her life laid waste.
Now, as then, she felt no disposition to weep or lament; the fountains
of her heart were frozen, and she was numb with pain. "Yes; I suppose
so. The best time for the Red Sea. You must avoid the heat... You
will enjoy the voyage, Piers."
Her frozen calm was more piteous than tears. Piers groaned, and buried
his face in his hands.
"Oh, Vanna, Vanna! my poor, poor darling! What must you think of me? I
have failed you after all my vows; and yet, God knows, it is _because_ I
love you, because my love is stronger than myself, that I must go! You
will never understand, but can't you believe me? Can't you trust me
still?"
"I know you love me, Piers. Will you write to me when you are away?"
"Will I write? Do you need to ask? I shall live for your letters.
There will be nothing else to look for but their arrival, and being able
to write back, and tell you all my thoughts. I'll make a diary for you,
dearest; write something every day, so that each mail shall bring you a
small volume. We have always maintained that distance could make no
difference to our love, but it does this much, darling--it silences
angry words! I have made you miserable with my repinings many times
these last years; but whatever I might feel, I could never endure to
send a hard word travelling to you across the world. It may be happier
for you, darling--more peaceful."
She smiled--a wan, strained smile.
"I won't try to keep you, Piers, if you want to go, but--I can't
pretend! Letters can never make up. I have been happy--happier than I
even thought I could be; but Jean was right, Robert was right--it has
not been fair to you. I should not have consented, but I loved you so;
I was so tempted. Even now I am not sorry. No; I am _not_ sorry! Even
if I never see you again, I have had these years--six years of happiness
and love, and you are still young, you have your life ahead--"
He stopped her with his lips on hers.
"You don't meant it, you don't believe it. Don't hurt me, my heart! Be
generous; be patient; and I'll come back more your own than ever. It's
because I love you--because I love you--."
That was the strain which he dinned into her ears--the one fundamental
fact on which all arguments hung; but Vanna's sore heart could find in
it no solid comfort. A love which finds separation easier than loving
intercourse is incomprehensible to a woman's mind.