Robert and Jean were not surprised. That was the fact which, for Vanna,
stood out in conspicuous relief. They were grieved, sympathetic,
unspeakably tender towards her; but she divined that if they felt any
surprise, it was not that Piers had found his present position
untenable, but rather that he should have been able to endure it so
long. That they should feel so, who were her dearest, most admiring
friends, planted a sharp stab in Vanna's heart, yet it was to them that
she owed what poor comfort was to be found during the long intolerable
weeks before Piers's departure.
Jean said little. In her own hour of blackness she had discovered the
futility of words, but in a hundred quiet, exquisitely tactful ways she
forced upon Vanna the importance of what remained: of the place which
she occupied in so many lives; of her own love and need.
"You will never know what you have been to me, Vanna! I have often
wanted to tell you; but it isn't easy to speak of these things. I think
after one has married and settled down, one needs a woman friend more
than ever. There is so much that even the best and tenderest of men
can't understand. You've been my safety-valve and my prop. Multiply my
gratitude by the number of all the poor souls whom you have nursed and
tended, and you will realise your riches. Thoughts _help_, Vanna--I'm
convinced of that--loving, thankful thoughts going out towards you from
all parts of the land. It's impossible that your life should be cold or
bald--"
"Is it, Jean, is it? It sounds very sweet, dear, and very lofty; but
put yourself in my place. Would all the gratitude in the world cheer
you if Robert went away?"
The colour flooded Jean's face, then slowly ebbed away, leaving her pale
and wan.
"No," she sighed, breathlessly. "No; nothing! There would be no
comfort. He is everything to me--everything! More, a thousand times
more, than when we were married; but, Vanna, can you believe it? there
have been times during these last years when I have envied _you_. The
balance hasn't been _all_ on my side. To be well; to be strong; to be
able to run about, and plan out one's life; to say `I will do this, I
will do that'; to shut up house at a day's notice, shake off
responsibilities, and go away for long, lovely rests--oh, it has seemed
so _good_! When we were young we took health for granted: one has to be
ill to realise how it counts; how desperately it counts. Love is said
to triumph over all; but, Vanna dear, one needs to be well to be able
even to love. That sounds strange, but it's true; there's no feeling
left. Often and often I've longed all day for Robert to come home, and
after he has been in the room for five minutes, I've longed for him to
go away again. I've been too tired! Of course every woman does not
suffer as I have done; but then how many have a husband like Robert? I
tell him sometimes that my bad health is the price I've had to pay for
having a saint for my husband. If I'd kept well, it would have been too
perfect. One does not get everything... And the children--little pets!
they love me now; I am a sort of god to them; all that I do is right;
but sometimes as I hold them a pang goes through my heart; such a pang!
_I know it won't last_! I shall go on loving them more and more,
_needing_ them more; but they will grow past me. They will make their
own lives, their own friends, and I shall retreat farther and farther
into the background. They will love me still; I shall be the `dear old
mater; but they won't need me any more.' I won't really touch their
lives. I remember how father loved me, and how I left him without a
pang! Is it _possible_ that he felt as I should do, if Lorna or
Joyce... The young are cruel to the old--"
Thus Jean, with many tender, loving words; but Vanna noted with a pang
that she never once expressed the belief which alone could have brought
comfort--the belief that Piers would speedily return home, and remain
faithful until death.
The last day came--a blur of pain and grief. Piers spent his last hour
alone with Vanna in the den, in which the first happy hours of their
engagement had been passed, demanding of her a dozen impossible
promises--that she would stay with Jean until his return, that she would
not tire herself, that she would be happy; and if at times a bitter
reply trembled on her lips, she repressed it valiantly, knowing that by
so doing she was saving herself an added sting. His last words
imprinted themselves in her brain, and were sweet to remember:
"... If I am ever any good in this world or the next, it is your doing.
You have given me faith, you have given me joy, the revelation of
heaven and earth. Everything that I have, that is worth possessing, is
your gift...!"
When the door closed behind him--oh, the knell of that closing door!--
Jean left her friend alone until an hour had passed, and then sent her
children as missioners of comfort--the two dainty little maidens in
their sublime innocence of untoward happening. Lorna had acquired two
new pieces of "poentry"--"Oh, Mary, go and call the kettle home," and
"anozzer one" called, "Twice ones is two"--which she must needs recite
without delay. Joyce developed earache, and remembering former help in
need, expressed a wailing desire to sleep in "Wanna's bed," for "Wanna
to _stwoke_ me!" The little, soft, warm body clinging to her, the touch
of the baby lips were unspeakable comfort to Vanna during those long
wakeful hours when every moment carried Piers farther and farther away.
A week later Vanna returned to the hospital where she had been trained,
to fill a temporary vacancy for a few months. Hard work was her best
medicine--hard, incessant work, which left no time for thought, and sent
her to bed so weary that sleep came almost as soon as her head touched
the pillow. A nurse by instinct, it was not in her nature to perform
her duties in mechanical fashion. The human aspect of a case made a
direct appeal to her heart, and, surrounded on every hand by suffering
and want, she was forced into a realisation of her own blessings. She
was alone, but youth, health, and money remained to help her on her way,
and Piers's letters arrived by each mail--long, closely written sheets,
detailing every day of his life, drawing word-pictures of home
surroundings, new acquaintances; above all, breathing the tenderest,
most faithful love. Each letter was read and reread until it was known
by heart, was answered with a length equal to its own, and by the time
this was dispatched--wonderfully, surprisingly soon--another letter was
due. She read of the arrival of the mail at Brindisi, and counted over
the hours.
The first shock of parting was over, six months had already passed by.
Six months was half a year, a quarter of the time of Piers's probable
absence! When the half was over, what joy to strike off the months
which must elapse before his return; and meantime could any other man in
the world have written such delightful, heart-satisfying letters?
Vanna was keenly interested also in the changes in hospital treatment
which had taken place during the four years since she had finished her
course, and felt that the six months' experience had been valuable from
a medical as well as a mental point of view. Nevertheless, it was with
no regret that she saw the nurse return whose place she had taken, and
made her own preparations for departure. At thirty-two the unaccustomed
strain of hospital life told heavily on a constitution weakened by
mental strain, and she thought with joy of the comfort of her own home,
of long, restful hours, when she could write to Piers at her ease, of
talks with Jean, of play with the children.
She drove straight from the hospital to the Gloucesters', where she had
arranged to spend a week in idleness before the effort of reopening her
own home. The rooms were _en fete_, profusely decorated with flowers.
Jean and the children rushed to the door to receive her--a charming
trio, all dressed alike, in a flutter of white muslins and blue ribbons.
The whole made an entrancing picture to one accustomed to the bare
austerity of a hospital ward; and Vanna felt her spirits soar upwards
with a delightful sense of exhilaration. She hugged Jean with
schoolgirl effusion, swung the children about in a merry dance, and gave
herself up with undisguised zest to the pleasures of the moment: the
daintily spread, daintily provided tea, the luxurious appointments of
the little house, her own comfortable bedroom, the easy laxity of hours.
The first long chat with Jean seemed but to open out the way for a
hundred other subjects which both were longing to discuss, and when it
was over, the agreeable task remained of dressing herself in a pretty
gown to partake of the sociable evening meal.
"Oh, dear! The pomps and vanities of this world, how I love them; how
good they are," she sighed happily. "What a delight it is to sit at a
dear little table bright with silver and flowers, and eat indigestible
dainties, and know you can sit still and be lazy all evening, and go to
bed when you like, and get up, no, _not_ get up, stay in bed and have
breakfast, and snoodle down to sleep again if you feel so inclined! I
_shall_ be lazy to-morrow! And to wear a pretty dress, and a necklace,
on a nice bare neck, instead of a stiff starched bow sticking into one's
chin. Have my strings marked my neck? How do I look? I seemed to
myself a perfect vision of beauty, but Jean looks at me askance. I
don't fancy she looks flattering."
"No, not a bit," said Jean bluntly. "You look a wreck, like most
discharged patients--fit for nothing but a convalescent home. Don't
talk of necks! It's nothing but bones, a perfect disgrace. I shall
feed you up, and forbid work for weeks to come. What you need is a
good, bracing change. I need a change, too. Couldn't we three go off
together, and do something _nice_? I've had nothing but seaside
holidays with the babies since we were married. A month in Switzerland,
in high, bracing air, in good hotels, among the mountains--oh, how good
it sounds. Say yes, Rob, like a darling. I _want_ it so!"
But Robert did not speak. It was the first time in the history of their
acquaintance that Vanna had known him show even a moment's hesitation in
granting a request from Jean's lips, and _she_ looked at him in
surprise. Distress was written upon his face, and a wistful appeal for
forgiveness, but stronger than all, an air of decision which gave no
promise of weakening.
"I'm sorry, darling; but it's impracticable. It will be hard enough to
squeeze out any holiday this year; an extra trip abroad is out of the
question. Expenses have been heavy lately"--he shrugged his shoulders
with a smile. "They always _are_ heavy, somehow, and we must be careful
not to launch into fresh extravagance."
"We have _not_ been extravagant. The money has gone in uninteresting,
disagreeable _necessities_. No one can call a doctor's bill
extravagance, or a new cistern, or stair carpets. _Au contraire_, we've
been so dull and prudent that it would be a tonic to spend a little
money on fun, for a change. Can't we manage it, somehow, Rob? Do!
Sell a share, or something. It _would_ be a treat."
The lines on Robert's face deepened suddenly; his smile flickered out.
"No; I've done that too often. That must come to an end. My shares are
painfully near an end. I'm sorry, dear, but it's impossible."
Jean shrugged her shoulders. The lines deepened on her face also, and
her lip quivered with disappointment, but she made no fruitless
protestation. For the rest of the meal she was silent, leaving the
conversation to be carried on by Vanna and Robert; but before leaving
the room she went out of her way to pass Robert's chair and lay a
caressing hand on his shoulder.
He lifted his face to her with the old adoring expression in his brown
eyes, and the tired lines disappeared from his brow. He had kept up the
conversation out of consideration for Vanna's feelings, but his
attention had really been engrossed by Jean, and his own regrets at
being obliged to refuse her request. Now he evidently felt himself
forgiven, and was transparently grateful for his wife's forbearance.