Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (continued 3)

Chapter Ten.

The Wedding Day.

Jean Goring and Robert Gloucester were married in the early days of October, after a bare three months’ engagement. They themselves found the period one of ideal happiness, but, as is usually the case, it was somewhat trying to their relations and friends. Jean, in her gay young beauty, had filled the centre of the stage for many friends, who were bound to suffer when the light shone no more upon them, and Jean had neither eyes, ears, nor heart for any one but her fiancé. Mr Goring gave his consent to the engagement with a readiness which was largely based upon the affection which his prospective son-in-law had already awakened.

“He’s a splendid fellow—a man in a thousand. Thank Heaven you’ve chosen a man who won’t bore me to death hanging about the house. It’s a poor match in a worldly sense, but that’s your affair. You had chances of rich men before now, and wouldn’t look at them. I believe in letting people live their own lives, in their own way. I’ll give you a good trousseau, and allow you two hundred a year; but I can’t do more. There’s the boys’ education coming on.”

“Oh, thank you, father. That’s sweet of you. I never expected so much. We shall be poor, of course, but I shan’t mind. It will be rather fun living in a small house and playing at housekeeping. I never cared much for money.”

Mr Goring grimaced expressively. Jean had not cared for money, simply because she had never realised its value. Every want had been supplied, and there had been a comfortable certainty of a lenient parent in the background when her own generous allowance ran short. Graceless mortals never realise the value of the blessings which are theirs in abundance. Jean had enjoyed easy means and perfect health all her life, and took them as much for granted as light and air.

“Hadn’t you better take some cooking lessons, or something?” asked her father uneasily. It crossed his mind at that moment that he had not done his duty by the man whom Jean was about to marry, in allowing his girl to grow up in absolute ignorance of her work in the world. “Gloucester doesn’t strike me as a man likely to make money, and you ought to be trained. Talk to Miggles. Ask her. She has about as good an idea of running a house as any woman I know. It’s a good thing you are going to live within reach of home. I’m thankful Gloucester thinks of settling in town.”

“Yes, oh, yes! Of course, if they gave him a really good offer for India—I should rather like to live in India!”

Jean smiled into space, blissfully unconscious of the pain on her father’s face. He was not a demonstrative man, and no one but himself knew how he had loved and cherished this child of his youth—the daughter who had inherited the beauty and charm of the girl-wife with whom he had spent the golden year of his life. To his own heart he acknowledged that Jean was his dearest possession—dearer than wife, dearer than sons, dearer than life itself, and Jean could leave him without a pang—would “rather like” to put the width of the world between them!

“India’s a long way off, Jean. I should miss you if you went.”

“But we’d come home, father. We’d have a long holiday every five years.”

Well! well! Mr Goring reminded himself that in his own youth he had been equally callous. He recalled the day of his first marriage, and saw again the twisted face of his mother as she bade him adieu at the door. He had known a pang of regret at the sight, regret for her suffering, her loss; not for his own. For himself, the moment had been one of unalloyed triumph; he had heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage bore him away and he was alone with his bride. It was natural that it should be so—natural and right; but when one came to stand in the parent’s place, how it hurt! He set his teeth in endurance.

Mrs Goring regarded the engagement and prospective marriage primarily as a disagreeable upset to domestic routine, and did not rest until she had secured Vanna’s consent to prolong her visit until the bride had departed.

“There will be so much to arrange, endless letters to write, and people to see. Jean will be worse than useless, and poor dear Miss Miggs is not fit to rush about. If you would stay and help, my dear, I should be unutterably grateful. When you undertake a thing it is always well done.”

“I should like to stay,” replied Vanna simply. The first days of Jean’s rapturous happiness had been hard for her friend. It was not in human nature to avoid a feeling of loss, of loneliness, of hopeless longing for such happiness for herself, but it was a comfort to know that she could be of real practical help. Jean, of course, had declared in words that nothing, no, nothing, could ever lessen the warmth of her friendship, and Vanna had faith to believe that in the years to come the love between them would increase rather than diminish. In the meantime, however, she must needs stand aside, and be content to be neglected, ignored, regarded at times as an unwelcome intruder—a difficult lesson to learn.

At the very first meeting after the engagement the difference of relationship had made itself felt, for Jean had shown a distinct annoyance when Vanna referred to the prophecy of the rose.

“He had told you—you knew? He talked about it to you afterwards. You knew how he felt—” Her face flushed with resentment; there was a cool aloofness in her glance, as though a friend whom she had trusted had been discovered prying into hidden treasures. “Please don’t speak of it again; don’t let any one else know. Promise me never to mention it.” That was all, but her manner said as plainly as words, “It is our secret—Robert’s and mine. What right have you on our holy ground?”

Vanna was by nature just and reasonable, and she told herself that in Jean’s place she might have felt the same irritation, though perhaps she would have been more chary about showing it. She held herself in check, and was careful never again to refer to the forbidden topic.

On another occasion, when called to give her advice on a matter in consultation between the lovers, Robert had addressed his fiancée as “Rose” when Vanna, looking up quickly, surprised a swift glance of reproach on Jean’s face.

“You have forgotten,” said that look. “We are not alone. That name is not for the ears of a stranger. It is for use only between you and me, when we are alone in our own kingdom, with the world shut out.”

The lonely ones of the world smart under many darts planted by these wordless arrows.

And Piers Rendall? Vanna was perplexed and mystified by his reception of the news. She had dreaded to see him amazed, broken down, despairing, and when he arrived at the Cottage the day after the great event, had felt her heart throb with a sympathy that was painful in its intensity. They were seated in the hall drinking tea, a happy family group, the lovers side by side on an old oak settle, when the gate clicked, and Piers’s tall figure was seen walking up the path. He looked anxiously towards the open door, and Vanna felt convinced that he had noticed the absence of the couple the afternoon before, and had a premonition of the news which lay in store. She lowered her eyes, and braced herself, as if it had been upon her own shoulders that the blow were about to fall.

“Oh, it’s Piers! I must tell Piers!” cried Jean gaily. Now that the deed was done, her former reserve had given way to an abandon of light-hearted joy. She told the great news to every one she met; it was her great joy to tell it, her regret that there were so few to listen.

Now, at sight of her old friend, she sprang from her seat.

“Robert, come,” she cried, stretching out a beckoning hand, and standing proudly linked together, the lovers met the unconscious Piers on the threshold.

“Piers! Piers! I’m so glad you came. I did so want to see you. Guess what has happened! Guess—quick! We are so happy—so ridiculously happy. Guess!”

Piers stood still, looking from one to the other with a swift, questioning glance. Despite herself, despite her dread, Vanna felt it impossible to restrain from one look at his face. She turned shrinking eyes upon him, but what she saw was strangely, wonderfully different from what she had expected.

Piers stood looking from one to the other of the triumphant lovers, and for the first time since she had known him, Vanna saw his face illumined with happiness and content. It seemed incredible, but it was true. The dark eyes had lost their hard, irritable brilliance, and shone deep and soft; the discontent of the mouth was turned into a happy smile.

“You mean—you mean—” he stammered incredulously. “By Jove! you are engaged—you two! Is it really possible?”

“Yes! Yes!” Jean jumped on her feet, like a small excited child. “You’ve guessed it; it’s true. Congratulate us, Piers. We love to be congratulated.”

“By Jove!” ejaculated Piers once more. Jean’s assumption of haughtiness had evidently put him off the scent, for the news appeared to take him completely by surprise. “By Jove, I do congratulate you. You deserve congratulations. Gloucester, you are the luckiest man on earth. Jean, he is the only man I have ever met who is worthy of you. You’re a wise girl; you’ve done the right thing. I do congratulate you with all my heart.”

Jean jumped again, while Robert looked down at her, his soul in his eyes.

“Oh, you nice Piers! How nicely you say it. I knew you would be pleased. Come in, come in; we’re having tea. Come and congratulate the family.”

Piers duly went the round, repeating his congratulations in more formal manner to Mr and Mrs Goring; but it was not until tea was over and they had adjourned into the garden that he and Vanna had any conversation together. He was still overflowing with excitement and pleasure, and eager to discuss the great news with Jean’s chosen friend.

“I saw that he admired her, of course—every one does; but she was so off-hand and casual that I never imagined that things were near a dénouement. I’ve seen her more encouraging to half a dozen other fellows. But it’s splendid; the best news I’ve heard for an age. Jean and Gloucester—those two together—it’s poetry, romance, the ideal! He is a man in a thousand; she will be safe with him. Humanly speaking, her future is assured. You feel that, don’t you—the absolute goodness and sincerity of the fellow?”

“Oh, yes! I told you so once before. It was of him that I spoke when we were discussing temperaments, and I told you of a man I had just met whose ‘aura’ was so radiantly attractive—that afternoon in the glen.”

“The Happy Land,” he corrected, looking down at her with a smile. “So that was Gloucester, and we agree in our estimate of his character. That’s good! Dear little Jean, I’m so glad of her happiness.”

Vanna laughed, an inexplicable sense of relief sending her spirits racing upwards.

“And I’m so glad that you’re glad. I was so afraid that this would give you pain. I expected—I imagined—I thought you also were in love with Jean.”

His face sobered swiftly.

“And so did I; but it was only imagination. It gave me no pain to hear this news, and if it had, I should deserve no pity. I’ve known her for years; I had my chance, but I never took it; was never even sure that I wanted to take it; was contented to drift. Gloucester carried the camp in fourteen days.” The old shadow of discontent was clouding his face once more; he was seeing in imagination Robert’s face as he looked at Jean, and telling himself drearily: “Love is a gift, as much as other great powers. It is not in every nature to rise to a wonderful, transforming passion. He can, that man. One can read it in his face. He has not frittered away his gift; it was all there, unused, unsullied, waiting for Jean, until she should appear. He has a genius for loving, and like all geniuses he makes his power felt. Jean felt it. It is that that has drawn her to him. To gain Jean in a fortnight, while I, poor weakling, wavered for years, asking myself if I loved her! Love! I don’t understand the meaning of the word. I never shall. It’s the same there as in everything else: I only half-way—never to the end...”

Vanna was doubly relieved to be assured of Piers’s well-being when the family returned to town, and she saw Edith Morton’s suffering behind her gallant assumption of content. Can anything be more pitiful than the position of a woman who loves, and finds herself passed over in favour of a chosen friend? She cannot escape to distant scenes, as a man may do in a similar strait; her pride forbids her to withdraw from accustomed pursuits; day by day, night by night, she must smile while her heart is torn, while her eyes smart with the tears she dare not shed, while her soul cries out for the sympathy she may not ask.

Vanna’s heart ached for Edith during those weeks, when every conversation turned upon preparations for the forthcoming wedding, and the lovers were blissfully engaged in the finding and furnishing of their home; but Jean herself exhibited a curious volte-face.

“We were quite mistaken about Edith,” she informed Vanna casually one day. “Robert and she have been like brother and sister all their lives; there was never any question of sentiment on either side. I can’t think why we imagined anything so foolish.”

Vanna did not reply. She divined, what was indeed the truth, that Jean’s disbelief was the result, not of conviction, but of deliberate intent. She simply did not choose to allow a painful thought to disturb the unclouded sunshine of her day. She was selfish—frankly, openly, designedly selfish, as young things are apt to be to whom love comes before suffering has taught it lessons; to whom it appears a right, a legitimate inheritance, rather than a gift to be received with awe, to be held with trembling.

And so the weeks passed. Summer turned into autumn, and one October morning Jean and Robert stood side by side before the altar of a dim old church, and spoke the words which made them one for life, while Vanna Strangeways and Edith Morton stood among the group of white-robed bridesmaids, hiding the ache in their hearts behind smiling faces. To one was given the best gift of life; from the others was taken away, by the saddest of ironies, that which they had never possessed.

The church and the house were crowded with guests; the paraphernalia of a “smart wedding” was duly and ceremoniously enacted. The newly married pair stood backed against the drawing-room fireplace to receive their guests, who passed by in a line, thence defiling into the library to regard a glittering display of gifts; thence again to the dining-room to partake of the formal, sit-down luncheon which was the fashion of the day. The bride and bridegroom sat at the top of the horseshoe table with the bridesmaids and their attendant groomsmen ranged on either side, Vanna and Piers Rendall, as foremost couple, occupying the place of honour. At the conclusion of the meal Jean stood up in her place, her gauze-like veil floating behind her, and cut the great white cake, while the spectators broke into cheers of applause. There were certain points at which it was the custom to cheer at these wedding feasts—this was one of them; another, perhaps the most popular, was when it came to the turn of the stammering bridegroom to return thanks for the speech in which his health had been proposed. It was at the point when the inevitable reference was made to the newly made partner that the laughter was timed to break out; but no one laughed when Robert Gloucester pronounced for the first time those magic words “My wife!”

Down the length of the long tables more than one of the elder guests hurriedly glanced aside, or bit at the end of a moustache, hearing in that voice a magic note which wafted them back through the long years of prose and difficulty to the day when they, too, stood upon the glad threshold of life.

Later on Jean disappeared to died her bridal trappings, and came down half an hour later in hat and coat, to run the blockade of the assembled guests in the hall, en route to the carriage at the door. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were shining; as each hand was stretched out she pressed it warmly in her own; to each good wish she returned a gracious acknowledgment; when a face was held forward expectantly she was ready with a kiss and a caress. Every one praised her graciousness, her affectionate remembrance of old friends. “She kissed me so lovingly.” “She said goodbye to me so sweetly.” A buzz of appreciation followed her as she went; but in reality Jean had walked in a dream, seeing an indistinct blur of faces, hearing a meaningless babble of words, conscious only of Robert’s figure waiting for her at the door.

Mr Goring had escaped from the crowd and bustle to stand bare-headed on the pavement, whence he could catch a last glimpse of his daughter as she drove away from the house which had been her home. His face looked pinched and worn in the keen autumn air; he smiled and joked with the men by his side, but his eyes were restless, and kept turning back to the door through which Jean would pass for the last time as a daughter of the house. Another moment and she was there; the crowd surged after her on to the pavement. He stood before her, and held out his hand. She held up her cheek, smiled, and leapt lightly into the carriage, the door of which Robert was holding open. He sprang to his seat, there was a vision of two heads bent forward, of two radiant, illumined faces; the coachman flicked up his horses—they had passed out of sight.

Mr Goring shivered, and turned back to the house.

“The happiest moment of my wedding day?” answered Jean to a question put to her some months later. “The happiest moment of all was when the carriage drove off from the door, and left you all behind!”

Chapter Eleven.

Contrasted Fates.

While Jean was blissfully enjoying the first weeks of her married life, the friend who had been to her as a second mother was lying dangerously ill in her upper room. The bustle of the last few months, culminating in the excitement of the wedding, had proved too much for Miggles’s weak heart; and having gallantly kept on her feet until the supreme need was past, she had the less strength left with which to fight the enemy.

“Don’t tell Jean. Promise not to tell Jean!” That was her first and most insistent cry; and being satisfied on the point, she laid herself down, and spoke no more for many weary days and nights.

Once again Vanna found herself bound to the household, and had the consolation or feeling of help to the mistress and of comfort to the invalid, who seemed to cling pathetically to Jean’s friend in the absence of her own dear nursling.

Hospital nurses were much rarer luxuries in the seventies than at the present day, and in this case the duty of nursing the invalid was undertaken by Mrs Goring, her maid, and Vanna, equally. The maid slept in the sick-room, ready to pay any attention which was required during the night; Mrs Goring was exact and punctilious in administering medicines and food at the right intervals, and in seeing that the sick-room was kept scrupulously in order; it devolved upon Vanna to ease the invalid by the innumerable, gentle little offices which seem to come by instinct to women of sympathetic natures, and later on as she grew stronger, to amuse her by reading aloud, talking, and—what in this case was even more welcome—lending an attentive ear while the other discoursed.

The sudden breakdown had called attention to the state of Miggles’s heart, which had troubled her at times for some years back. The result was serious, so serious that the doctor had warned her that her days of active service were over. Henceforth she must be content to live an idle life, in some quiet country spot, where she would be free from the bustle and excitement of town life. Mr and Mrs Goring proposed that she should live in the Cottage at Seacliff, where the capable woman who acted as caretaker could wait upon her and do the work of the house, and Miggles, as usual, was full of gratitude for the suggestion.

“A haven, my dear, opened out to me at the very moment I need it,” she said ardently to Vanna. “It’s been like that with me all my life. Goodness and mercy! I’ve always loved that dear little house by the sea; there’s no place on earth where I would rather end my days. The doctor says I shall go off quite suddenly. He didn’t want to tell me, but I explained that I was not at all afraid. From battle, murder, and lingering death, that’s the way I’ve always said it—not that I wish to put myself above the Prayer Book, but one must be honest, and that’s how I felt in my heart. I’ve no claim upon any one, and a long, expensive illness is a great drag. I’d be so ashamed! ‘Our times are in His hand,’ my dear; but if it’s not presumptuous, I hope He’ll take me soon. Next summer, perhaps, before the boys want to come down for the holidays. I should like to have the winter just to be quiet and prepare. June, now! June would be a sweet month to pass away in. Would it not, my dear?”

“Miggles!” cried Vanna, half laughing, half in tears. “Miggles, how can you be so callous? I absolutely refuse to discuss the date of your death. It’s not a cheerful subject for us, whatever it may be for you; and I hope you’ll be spared for a long, long rest after your busy life. How can you talk about dying in that matter-of-fact way, as if it were a removal from one house to another? Have you no dread, not of the mere act of death—that is often a real ‘falling asleep,’ but of the leap in the dark, the unknown change, the mystery behind?”

Miggles lay back against her pillow, a large, unwieldy figure, with thin bands of hair brushed back beneath an old-fashioned night-cap, her hands clasped peacefully on her knee.

“No, my dear,” she said tranquilly; “the mystery doesn’t trouble me. I’m a poor, weak creature, and I was never clever at understanding. I only know that it’s going to be a change for the better, so of course I’m ready to go. When I hear people talk of shrinking and trembling at the thought of death, I think they can’t really believe what they profess, or why should they prefer to live on, lonely, and suffering, and poor, rather than make a little journey to gain peace and rest? It’s not reason, my dear, it’s not reason.”

Miggles was silent, blinking her little eyes, and panting after the exertion of talking. Gradually a pucker gathered on her forehead, and an expression of anxiety spread over her face.

“There is only one thing that troubles me—only one thing; but it’s very serious. I can’t”—she turned solemn, innocent eyes upon the girl’s face—“I can’t feel myself a sinner! That’s a great secret, my dear, but you’ve been so kind to me this last week that I feel I can make the confidence. Of course I should not wish it repeated. No! isn’t it sad? I’ve tried my best, but I can’t do it. It seems to me that I have done my best. I was a good daughter. My dear mother died blessing my name; and with the dear Gorings I’ve done my duty—for love, I’ve done it, far more than money. All through I’ve done my duty, and I have loved God and the people round me. I’ve never felt ill-will towards a living creature; and when I come to search for my sins, dear—really and truly—I tell you in confidence, I can’t find them,” cried Miggles sadly. She lowered her chin, glancing sideways at Vanna as a shamed child might do discovered in the perpetration of an infantile peccadillo, and Vanna smiled a tender, humorous response.

“Can’t you, Miggles? Not if you try very hard? I can’t help you, I’m afraid. My bad memory refuses to remind me of your crimes. It’s a serious state of affairs.”

“It is, dear,” agreed Miggles gravely. “I’ve been taking myself to task, lying here upon this bed, and examining into the state of my soul. I fed very grateful, and full of faith, and quite tranquil and happy at the thought of passing away. I could not fed that, you know, if I had a ‘conviction of sin,’ like all the good people in books. It has always put me so terribly out of the way when I have failed to please any one, and they have been cold and stand-off in their manner. It does happen like that sometimes, even with the best intentions... If I believed I had grieved my dear Heavenly Father, how wretched I should be! But I don’t, dear, I don’t. I am quite happy, quite at peace. The question is, Am I justified? It would be rather a comfort to be a Catholic sometimes—would it not, dear?—and confess to a dear, saintly old priest. Not, of course, that I could subscribe to their creed I can tell you that I’ve been quite upset in church sometimes when they intone the Litany, and call themselves miserable sinners in such very despondent tones. I did not feel myself a miserable sinner, and it was no use pretending that I did. That made me wretched in another way, for I thought I must be a Pharisee, which would be worst of all!”

“Dear Miggles, the Litany was written at the time of the Plague of London, and was meant to be a sort of national penitential psalm. The plague was believed to have been sent as a punishment for the sins of the nation, and the priests marched in procession through the streets intoning this cry for mercy. It was never intended to be used as a regular part of the Church service in times of peace and prosperity; and I think a good many people feel like you, who would not have the courage to put their thoughts into words. A service of praise would often seem more dignified and inspiring. Dear, good, kind little soul, why trouble yourself to find trouble? If you have peace, you have the greatest of all blessings, and a blessing that is never enjoyed, dear Miggles, until it has been won. I’m struggling for it now, but it’s a long way off. I have still many battles to fight.”

The old woman looked at the young one with a long, questioning glance.

“Yes, dear child! I have seen it, and wondered. But you are so young still, and your life is ahead. We shall see you happy like Jean, starting your home with a fine young husband—”

“No!” Vanna held up a warning hand. “Miggles, you have confided in me. I’ll tell you something about myself, but you must never allude to it again. It doesn’t bear speaking of. There is a reason why I can never marry. I can’t tell you what it is, but it is fixed—irrevocable. I shall never be happy like Jean.”

Miggles stretched out her hand and laid it upon the dark head, smoothing the hair with gentle touch. But she did not speak. In the course of her sixty years she had heard many such assertions from the lips of girls who had afterwards lived to become happy wives and mothers. She told herself that dear Vanna had no doubt suffered a disappointment, and was feeling cast-down and hopeless in consequence. Quite natural, poor dear—quite; but in time youth would reassert itself; she would meet some one else, such an attractive girl as she was, and would find that the heart which she supposed dead was still capable of love and joy. Oh, certainly she would marry and be happy; but for the moment one could not tell her so. That would be cruel. Time! time! that was the best medicine. She smoothed and stroked with tender, motherly touch, and Vanna, blessing her for her silence, felt the sudden crystallising of an idea which had been growing quietly in her mind during the past week.

“Miggles,” she said quietly, turning her head sideways, so as to be able to look the other in the face without disturbing that caressing hand. “Miggles, how would you like it if I came down to live with you at Seacliff? Carter can look after the house and make you comfortable, but you would have no companion, and might feel lonely sometimes. Evenings seem very long and dreary when one is alone. We are two solitary women, alone in the world, without any ties; we might help each other. What do you say?”

Miggles subsided into instant tears. “It’s too good of you. Oh, my dear, my dear, I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you. It’s too good of you, too sweet. I shall always remember and bless you for thinking of it, but it would be too selfish—too grasping. I could not allow it.”

“Miggles, listen! I’ve been puzzling what to do with myself this next year; I have no home, now that my aunt is dead, and no tie to any special place. That’s a lonely feeling, Miggles, when you are only twenty-three. It would be a solution of the problem if you could let me come to you. I sounded Mr Goring and he was willing; more than willing, delighted at the idea. And I have some money of my own, you know, dear, and as Mr Goring would not hear of my paying anything towards the household expenses, I am going to spend it on pleasures and luxuries. I have a lovely plan—to buy a comfortable little pony carriage in which to drive you along the lanes, and give you fresh air without fatigue. Then, when you don’t feel inclined to go out I’ll use the horse for riding. I love riding, and it will be good exercise to scour the countryside. Perhaps sometimes there’ll be a Meet. If there were hunting I should feel quite gay. I want to come, if you care to have me.”

“Care!” Miggles laughed, cried, gasped, ejaculated, panted, in such extravagance of joy, such depths of humility, such paeans of gratitude, that Vanna had to exercise her prerogative as nurse, administer a soothing draught, and insist upon a rest forthwith.

“Not another word. If you are good and obedient, I’ll come; if you are not, I won’t. I am not going to saddle myself with a rebellious patient. So now you know. Kiss me, and shut your eyes—”

“But,” protested Miggles, “but—but—”

Long after Vanna had left the room she lay awake, staring with wistful, puzzled eyes at the opposite wall. A social creature, devoted to her kind, no one but herself knew how heavily the prospect of loneliness had weighed upon her. Vanna’s proposition had been like a flash of sunshine lighting up a grey country, but she could not rejoice with a full heart until she was satisfied of the girl’s happiness.

“A young thing like that shut up with an old, ailing woman—it’s not right, not fitting. I must not be selfish. I need quiet at the end of my days, but at twenty-three! To take her to that lonely place, away from all her friends: can it be right? I’d love her, and mother her, but with all my will I can’t do the thing she needs most of all—be young with her again. She is sad, dear child, and it’s only a friend of her own age who can comfort and cheer—”

Suddenly Miggles jerked in her bed; the fixed eyes brightened; the heavy cheeks broadened into a smile.

“Ah-h!” she murmured happily. “Ah-h! That is well, that’s well. That will bring it all right”; and nestling down in the pillows, she composed herself happily to sleep.

Across the trouble of her mind there had flashed the remembrance of the visits of Piers Rendall.

Chapter Twelve.

The Cottage on the Cliff.

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.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Sanest Woman.

During the remainder of the winter Piers Rendall paid frequent visits to Seacliff, appearing at unexpected moments, sometimes after but a week’s interval, sometimes but once in the month. The feeling that he might arrive at any moment brought an element of excitement into Vanna’s quiet life. It was delightful to awake in the morning and feel that there was something to which she could look forward—an object towards which to move. When he came there would be invigorating gallops across the downs, visits to the Happy Land, where each was bound to cast care to the winds; happy tea-parties in the dining-room; cosy chats round the fire, Miggles lying on her sofa, Vanna seated on the footstool by her side, Piers in his favourite position on the hearthrug, his long legs stretched out, his back resting against the wall. Sometimes he would recount the doings of the great city, and discuss politics up to date for the edification of the two women, who were keenly interested in the course of events. Sometimes he would read aloud from a book in which Miggles was interested; sometimes they would roast chestnuts, and laugh and jest and cap amusing anecdotes like a party of merry children. Looking at Piers’s face illumined by the firelight on one of these occasions, a sudden vision flashed before Vanna’s eyes of that face as she had seen it first. The tightly drawn skin, the down-turned lips, the hard brilliancy of the eyes, the nervous twitching of the features. This man smiling upon her looked strong, and happy, and glad. Whence had come the change?

At Whitsuntide Jean and Robert came down for a three days’ visit—the first since their marriage, and the little cottage was filled with the atmosphere of spring and joy. Two people more utterly content, more beautiful in their happiness, it would be impossible to conceive. Jean was in her gayest, least responsible mood, full of histories of her own failures as housekeeper, her difficulty with bills, her hopeless exceeding of the weekly allowance—the which she recounted with triumphant amusement, while Robert sat looking on with an air of penitence and guilt. That he should dare to inflict petty economies upon this goddess among women!

Towards her old friend Jean’s manner was composed of a mingling of tenderness and wonder.

“There’s no question about this place suiting you, Vanna,” she said the last evening, as the two girls enjoyed a short tête-à-tête in the garden. “I have never seen you look so well; nor so pretty. Robert says so, too. Somehow—I don’t know how it is, but you look different, I keep looking at you to see the cause. You have not changed your hair?”

“No; my hair is as you last saw it. It won’t ‘go’ any other way. There’s no difference that I know of. It exists only in your imagination.”

“No!” Jean was obstinate. “You look different. Dear old thing, it’s a comfort to see you so sweet and blooming. I was afraid I should find you all gone to pieces. I do admire you. When I think of your life, and mine! I should be such a beast. Miggles says you are an angel. So does Piers. Not in so many words, of course. Piers never says what he feels. He is such a silent, shut-up creature, but I could see that he was simply bursting with admiration of your life down here. Doesn’t he look well? I have never seen him so bright. Robert says he goes a great deal to the Van Dusens’. They have such a pretty daughter. I’ve wondered so often if he could be in love at last. That would account for it all. I hope he is—Old Piers! I should like him to be happy.”

“Very probably it is. He is certainly changed,” said Vanna briefly.

The next day the Gloucesters took their departure, and left behind a sense of loss and blank. Miggles struggled under a weight of depression at the thought that this might be the last time that she would ever behold her beloved child and pupil; the maid covered up the furniture of the guest-room with dull regret; Vanna was racked by an access of bitterness and jealousy. All the dearly won composure of the past eight months seemed swept aside. She was back again in the slough of despond which had followed the memorable visit to the doctor. Every sight, every sound, every word that was uttered seemed to press against her nerves with unbearable jar; she felt a sense of enmity against Miggles, the village, the whole human race; above all, against Jean and her husband. She shut herself within the walls of a cold and sullen reserve, never speaking unless spoken to, answering with the curtest of monosyllables. For three long days she hardened herself against the pleading of Miggles’s eyes and the tenderness in the feeble voice, but on the afternoon of the third day she brought her footstool to the side of the sofa, and laid her head against the old woman’s knee.

“Comfort me, Miggles! My heart is so sore. I’m sad, and I’m bad, and I’ve made you miserable, and now I come to you for help. I’m so tired. Say something to help me along!”

“What is it, dearie? Grieving after Jean, and feeling lonely to be left without your friend? It was such a short visit. So good of them to spare the time, but from our point of view it was rather aggravating. You want her back again, as I do, and grieve that she’s so far away.”

“No, I don’t! I don’t want to see her. I’m glad she’s in town. I hope she won’t come again. The contrast is too great. I can’t stand it. She has everything, and I have nothing. It’s not fair. She doesn’t deserve it any more than I do. Why should she be beautiful, and strong, and happy, and adored, while I am lonely, and sad, and tainted by disease? I can’t bear it. I wish she had never come.”

Miggles’s face showed a network of lines of distress and bewilderment.

“But—but I don’t understand! You love Jean; she is your best friend. You are not sorry that she is happy? You don’t grudge her her good fortune? That wouldn’t be possible. You are far too sweet.”

Vanna gave a short, despairing laugh.

“No, I’m not sweet. I’m bitter, bitter to the core; and you might as well know the truth—at this minute I do grudge her happiness. I grudge it so much that my very love seems changed to gall. You are an angel, Miggles, but you are old, and your life is over. I’m young, and it’s all ahead. It’s the most difficult lesson of all to stand aside and look at happiness through the eyes of others. It’s easy enough to weep with those that weep. If we are whole ourselves we are thankful that we have escaped; if we are under the ban, there’s a companionship in suffering. We understand each other, and help each other along; but to rejoice with those who rejoice demands a nobility of which at the moment I am simply incapable. This world is unfair and unjust. Things are too horribly uneven.”

“Dear child, this world is not all. It’s only the beginning, and so soon over.”

“Oh, no, Miggles, that’s not true. It may seem so from the standpoint of eternity; but we are human creatures, and from our standpoint it’s terribly, terribly long. Fourscore years, and how slow those years are in the passing! When I think I may have fifty more!... Besides, even eternity doesn’t right things. How can it? If we are all going to be happy in heaven, Jean will be as happy as I. There will be no difference between us, but she will have had the earth-joy which I have missed, the dear, sweet, simple, domestic joys for which I was made, for which my body was fashioned, for which I crave. They are gone—gone for ever! Eternity itself can’t make them up. There seems no compensation.”

The old woman pressed her hand on the girl’s dark head, but for some minutes she did not speak. Into her placid, gentle nature, such upheavals had never come; she had been content to walk along the narrow way, taking each day as it came, without bitterness or repining, but the natural shrewdness which relieved her character from insipidity would not allow her to take the credit of this attribute to herself. “It’s because I was given that disposition,” she told herself humbly. “Vanna is clever and ambitious. It’s more difficult for her.” She shut her eyes, and prayed that the right words might be sent to her feeble lips.

“But, dearie, I’m not so sure that we shall all be equally happy in heaven, any more than on earth. I never could believe that just because your body died you were going to wake up a perfected saint. We’ve got to learn our lessons, and perhaps happiness isn’t the quickest way. I can’t argue—never could; the dear boys found that out, and used to lay traps for me, asking me to explain; but life is only a little voyage—a trial trip, as the papers say. You may have fine weather, or you may have storms; the only thing that matters is to get safe to the haven. Sometimes when we’ve been down here for the summer it has rained persistently; 1861 was one year—the time Pat broke his leg! We’ve been cross and disappointed, and at the time it has seemed hard, but looking back after a few years it has faded into nothing. ‘Wasn’t it wet?’ we say, and laugh. It was only for a month—such a little time! Who would think of looking back and grizzling over a little disappointment twelve years old! And perhaps, dear, just because we couldn’t go out in the sunshine to pick the dear flowers, because we had to stay indoors and be quiet and patient, we learnt something, found out something, that helped us along, and made us fitter for the haven. I’m very stupid—I can’t explain—”

“Dear Miggles, you are very wise! I am fortunate to have you. Be patient with me, and love me a little bit in spite of my naughty words.”

“A little bit! Indeed, my dear, I have grown to love you with all my heart. After Jean, I really believe you are my dearest on earth.”

After Jean! That stung. Jean had so much. She might surely have spared the first place in one old woman’s heart; and what a sweetness it would have been to come first to just one person in the world! Vanna’s sense of justice pointed out that it was not reasonable to expect a few months’ devotion to eclipse the association of a lifetime; but though reason may convince the brain, it leaves the heart untouched.

Jean had Robert; Miggles had a whole family of adopted children; Mrs Rendall had her son; Piers had—a sharp stab of pain penetrated through the dull misery of her mood, a stab which had pierced her at every recollection of Jean’s light words—“Always at the Van Dusens’—such a pretty daughter—I believe he is in love.”

Was it true? and if so, how did it affect herself? Vanna went out into the garden and seated herself in her favourite seat, at the edge of the cliff, whence the winding steps cut out in the face of the chalk descended steeply to the shore. The tide was out, and a few village children scrambled barefoot over the slippery boulders, searching for treasures in the pools between; the sound of their happy voices floated up to her ears.

What was it to her if Piers Rendall loved and wedded another woman? He was her friend; during the last few months he had given a hundred signs of his care for her, his anxiety to help and cheer her life. She in return must be equally generous. She must rejoice over his happiness, and pray for its coming. Why not? It was no loss to her. She herself might never marry. Piers Rendall could be nothing to her. Vanna threw back her head and burst into a peal of high, unnatural laughter. The children playing on the rocks glanced up in amaze, and stood staring at the strange spectacle of “The Cottage Lady” laughing all to herself, and Vanna laughed on and on, with ever harder, higher notes. Piers could be nothing to her. No, nothing! nothing but life, and sun, and air, and food, and raiment, and hope, and comfort. Nothing but that. Everything in the world, and nothing more. Unutterable joy, unfathomable loss. She knew now. The scales had fallen from her eyes. In a blinding flash of light she saw her own heart, and knew that it held but one thought, one image, one hope.

How long had she loved him? She recalled their first meeting, when he had frowned at the sight of her, and she had watched him walk along the shore by Jean’s side with resentment in her heart. Their acquaintance had begun with prejudice and dislike, yet almost at once her sympathy had gone out towards him; almost from the first it had distressed her to see his depression; that nervous twitch of the features had been a positive pain, she had turned away her head to avoid the sight. Later on, when Jean was engaged, he had drawn nearer, and looking back on the day of the wedding, she knew that it had been for his sake that she had taken an interest in her costume, from a desire to appear fair in his eyes. At the moment of entering the church it had been his face which had stood out from all the rest. She had been so thankful to see his smile. All that afternoon and evening he had been quietly, unostentatiously attentive, as if divining her sense of loss, and striving, in so far as might be, to fill the gap. Twice again she had seen him before leaving town, and then had come the morning when he had appeared at the Manor House window, and she had seen her own transfigured face in the glass. That was the day when the last barrier had broken down, and friendship had finally made place for love.

Nature, which had decreed that she might never marry, had not at the same time been merciful enough to take away the power of loving; rather had it bestowed it upon her in a deeper, fuller fashion than is possessed by nine women out of ten. Every power of her being surged towards this man in a passion of love and longing. She stretched out her hands as if to grasp him, and sobbed to feel them empty. Laughter turned to tears—the slow, difficult tears of a breaking heart. For ever and ever these hands must remain empty. As if the present were not sufficiently painful, Vanna then projected herself into the future. In imagination she saw Piers engaged to this pretty, strange girl; listened to his mother’s endless prattle concerning her beauty, his happiness, the coming wedding; saw him located at the Manor with his bride by his side, bringing her over to the Cottage, sitting beside her in the Happy Land. The future was desolated; and the past? The past also crumbled to nothingness before this shock of self-revelation. Where now was the peace and conquest on which she had congratulated herself during the last few months? Not only had they disappeared, but it appeared that they had never existed. That lightsome frame of mind, which she believed to have been gained as a reward for duty well done, had in reality been nothing more or less than the dawnings of love; the deep undercurrent of joy and hope which had lain beneath the surface of her life.

Vanna hid her face in her hands. At that moment the sight of the gay, smiling scene seemed but to mock her grief. She felt a wild longing for winter, for the stormy sky and sea, the frowning cliff, which would be a fit setting for her life. How could she go on tending Miggles, sitting quietly in the house, separated from Piers, seeing him with another?

The sound of footsteps startled her from her trance—ascending footsteps, scaling upwards from the beach. She straightened herself, thrust back her hair, and struggled to compose her features. It seemed part of the same dull trance that it should be Piers’s face which rose into sight, his dark eyes which turned anxiously to her face. She had not known of his coming, but she was not surprised; a stupor of indifference had succeeded the passion of despair; she felt no surprise, no embarrassment, but sat watching him stonily, until he reached the last step and stood by her side.

“Was that you laughing just now? I heard you as I came along the shore. It was you?”

“Yes, it was I.”

“And now you are crying!” His tone was quick and tense with anxiety. “What is the matter? You are not well. Something has been troubling you. It is not like you to be hysterical.”

Vanna’s lips curled, her eyes stared steadily into his. A sudden impulse seized her, and she gave herself no time to pause.

“And why not? On the contrary, it is just what you might expect. There is no counting on what I may do. My moods are very variable, but you must make excuses for me. There is madness in my family. My father died in an asylum, and my grandmother, and two aunts. I have been warned that I may have the same fate in store. You can hardly expect me to behave like a normal creature. It is no wonder if I wax hysterical at times. It’s not exactly a pleasant prospect to look forward and picture that fate in store. You must make allowances for occasional outbursts.”

He stood above her, looking down with dark, intent eyes as though he would see into the very heart of her being.

“When were you warned? Lately? Since I was here last? Is that what is troubling you now?”

“I saw the doctor last summer. He warned me then, but I had known the facts for two years before that. They had been hidden from me, but I found them out, and went to the doctor for advice.”

“A year ago! You have known all these months when you have been happy and gay? Then this has nothing to do with to-day. What is troubling you to-day?”

She looked at him blankly. On his face was a great sympathy, a great tenderness, but no sign of the horror and amazement which she had expected. The great tragedy of her family seemed to weigh as nothing as compared to her grief of to-day. The tears rose in her eyes, but they were tears of relief. Her voice faltered in pitiful, childlike fashion.

“I was lonely, and I remembered, and I was afraid—afraid to look forward...”

He bent down and took her hands in his with a firm but gentle pressure.

“Get up! You are not lonely any more. My horse is in the village. Go and get ready, and we will have a ride.” He strengthened his grasp, looking deep into her eyes. “What does it matter to me if every soul belonging to you were mad? You are the sweetest, the sanest woman I have ever met.”

Chapter Fourteen.

The Company of Saints.

From that day forward Vanna deliberately shut her eyes to the barriers which blocked her life, and gave herself up to the joy of the present. Piers knew her dread secret, and the knowledge would surely be sufficient to put any thought of her as a wife out of his mind, if indeed such a thought had existed. Her conscience being clear that he at least would not suffer through a continuance of their intimacy, she for her own part was ready to pay the price of future suffering for the rich joy of the present. The joy would not, could not last, but it was better, a thousand times better, to taste the full flavour of life, even if but for a few short months, than to drag on to old age ignorant of the deepest experiences which can stir the human soul. If suffering must come, knowledge would come with it—comprehension, sympathy, and to the end of time the memory of golden hours.

Piers’s visits increased in number, and he was unceasing in his efforts for all that concerned the welfare of the two inmates of the Cottage. In his presence Vanna expanded like a flower in the sun. Love, the magician, worked his spell upon mind and body, so that beholding her own likeness in the glass she would often blush again, as she had blushed on the afternoon of Piers’s first visit. Her pale cheeks were tinged with colour, her eyes shone, her very hair showed rich russet gleams as she wandered bare-headed in the sun. The sound of her own laugh, the aptness of her own words, astonished and delighted no one so much as herself: it was as if a hundred unsuspected beauties and charms, after lying latent all her life, had sprung suddenly to birth. There were moments when, from sheer pride and self-congratulation, she came near following Gwendoline Harleth’s historic example, and kissing her own reflection in the glass. “I am happy!” she told herself triumphantly. “This is happiness—the best I shall ever know. I must realise it, enjoy every moment, enjoy it to the full. I must guard it preciously, shut my eyes and ears to all the little jars and frets, and not allow them to interrupt. It is my golden time. In years to come, I must be able to look back and remember that I made the most of it when it was mine. It would be madness to waste an hour...”

Meanwhile the two old ladies looked on with silent understanding. Mrs Rendall had been in her own way an ardent admirer of Vanna in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but a mother looks with changed eyes upon a girl whom she suspects her son of honouring with his love. No one is worthy of that honour, and it is rarely indeed that an element of coolness and jealousy does not tinge the former affection. Mrs Rendall pursed her lips at the mention of Vanna Strangeways, and no longer pressed for repetitions of the weekly visits.

To Miggles it was unalloyed joy to behold the growing attachment between the two young people whom she loved so dearly. Never by word or deed did she hint at her desire; but as the months passed by and her health steadily declined, she hugged the thought that when her hour came the dear child who had comforted her last days would find another and a sweeter home. An ever-increasing feebleness warned her that her days were numbered, though so far she had been spared severe suffering. The local doctor confided in Vanna that such immunity could not be expected to the end, for in such cases violent paroxysms of pain were almost inevitable. Vanna shrank with fear from the prospect; but the God in whom Miggles so sweetly trusted had decreed an easier release for His child. Sitting beside an open window in the second spring of her sojourn at the Cottage, Miggles contracted a chill, which quickly developed into bronchitis. The attack did not appear serious to onlookers; but some premonition of the end seemed to visit the invalid herself, for she called Vanna to her bedside, and whispered an eager request:

“My keys, dear! On the ring! I want them here.”

Vanna brought the big, jingling bunch from its place in the work-basket with its red silk linings. Miggles had the slavish devotion to locking up which characterised her time, and it was seldom indeed that any of her possessions could be reached without the aid of at least two keys. Now with feeble fingers she separated two from the rest, and held them out for the girl’s inspection.

“This big one with the red thread, that’s for the cupboard in the spare room. This little one—the smallest but two—that’s for the bottom drawer inside. If I die this time—one can never tell—go at once and open that drawer. At once! To save you trouble.”

Vanna nodded, and put back the bunch in the basket. She herself had no fear that this illness would end fatally, until in the still hours of the night she crept to the bedside and beheld on her friend’s face the grey shadow which, once seen, can never be mistaken. The doctor was summoned, with Piers Rendall, who by good providence was staying at the Manor, and the dread sentence was pronounced in the little sitting-room in which so many peaceful hours had been spent.

“Slipping away! Heart failure! The heart is too weak to stand the extra strain caused by this oppression on the lungs. She will not last out the day. Don’t grieve, Miss Strangeways. It’s a merciful release. If she had lived she would have had great suffering. We must be thankful for her sake.”

Vanna and Piers sat together by the bedside during the long hours of that morning. A telegram of warning had been dispatched to Mr and Mrs Goring, but it was not possible that they could reach the secluded village before late in the afternoon. Miggles lay with closed eyes, breathing heavily, but without further sign of distress. For the most part she seemed to sleep, but once, when Piers bent over her, she opened her eyes and essayed to smile.

“How are you now, dear? How do you feel?” asked the young man anxiously; and Miggles struggled bravely to reply.

“Quite—well!” said the feeble voice; and after a moment’s pause—“And very happy!”

After that she sank ever deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, while the watchers sat on either side, watching the still face.

It was just as the clock struck five, and the sun passing beyond the barrier of the cliff left the little room grey and dull, that with a movement of surprise, as if wakened by the touch of an invisible hand, Miggles suddenly lifted her lids and gazed around. The heavy, bulging cheeks had wasted away, and the eyes, which in health had appeared small and insignificant, now stared out, large and wide from the hollow sockets. As she looked, the first surprise was superseded by a great and incredulous joy. She turned her head from side to side, the faint smile deepening to rapture, while her panting lips gasped out the same word—once, a second time, and again a third:

“Angels! Angels! Angels!”

The two who looked on bowed their heads, and were still. To them it was a small, dull room, prosaic in furnishing, grey, with the shadow of night and death, but Miggles’s opening eyes beheld therein the company of saints.

Piers and the faithful maid turned Vanna out of the room. She had done enough, they said. It was not for her to be pained by the last sad rites. She allowed herself to be led on to the little landing; but when Piers tried to lead her downstairs she refused to move. Remembrance had come to her of Miggles’s request with respect to the keys, and the search which was to be made “at once.” She had no idea what she was to find as she knelt beside that bottom drawer, while Piers stood watchfully at her side; it was the impulse of obedience pure and simple which guided her movements. The first glance brought no illumination, for a strip of muslin hid the contents from view. With its removal came the scent of lavender, and there, neatly ranged in order, lay a pair of fine linen sheets with pillow cases to match, a nightgown, and a cap with a border of pleated lace, its muslin strings neatly folded and secured in place with a pin.

Miggles’s burial clothes! prepared long since with her own hands, and put aside to “save trouble” to those left behind. Vanna bowed her head, and burst into a passion of tears.

Chapter Fifteen.

Vanna’s Kingdom.

Miggles was buried at Seacliff by her own written request. A letter addressed to Mr Goring was discovered after her death, in which her wishes were expressed with the simple candour and consideration for others which had ever characterised her utterances.

“I wish to be buried here at Seacliff. It will be less trouble than taking me to town, and I have always loved the little place. I don’t wish money wasted on an elaborate coffin, but I should love all the flowers which people find it in their hearts to send. I don’t wish any one to wear mourning, or to give up their pleasures or amusements because of my death. I always loved to see you dear ones happy and gay, and if I can still see you from the other world, it would grieve me to see you sad. I want you to go on with your lives in the usual way, and not think it necessary to mourn for me. But I should like to be remembered. I hope you will still let me share your lives. Talk of me sometimes when you are together—not sadly, but quite cheerfully and happily. Say sometimes, ‘Miggles would like that!’ ‘Miggles would say that!’ ‘how Miggles would laugh!’ just as if I were in another room. I may be even nearer, and it seems to me now that even heaven itself could not make me happy if I saw you sad...”

Mr and Mrs Goring, the two schoolboys, Piers Rendall, his mother, and Vanna were the chief mourners. Jean was expecting a baby, and had been somewhat alarmingly delicate during the last months, so that it was impossible for her to travel to Seacliff, and Robert refused to leave her even for a day. The little burial-ground lay inland, nearer the Manor House than the cottage on the cliff, and after the service was over the mourners returned to lunch with Mrs Rendall.

Piers and Vanna followed slowly after the others until a side gate was reached leading into the grounds, when Piers produced a key from his pocket, and, entering, led the way, not towards the house, but down hill in the direction of the glen, but Vanna stood still in the path, looking at him with surprised, reproachful eyes.

“To-day?”

“To-day! Why not? She is happy; it was her great wish for us that we should be happy, too. Come!”

He took her hand in his, and she made no attempt to withdraw it. Worn out as she was with the strain and grief of the last few days, the firm clasp seemed to bring with it strength and comfort. Hand-in-hand they descended the sloping path and stood beneath the shelter of the trees. As on the day of their first visit together, the delicate beauty of early summer surrounded them on every side. The foliage still retained the fresh green of springtime, the grass was dotted over with patches of fragrant violets and anemones, the water of the stream babbled musically over the mossy stones. As Piers gazed around there was on his face an expression which Vanna had never seen before—an expression of exaltation, of almost incredulous content.

“Vanna,” he cried breathlessly, “it is true! All my life I have feared and doubted. Even as a child, when my mother taught me at her knee, the doubts arose in my mind, and the questions. You have wondered why I never went to church. It would have been a mockery when I could not believe. I have read, and listened, and discussed; and out of it all came only more doubt, more confusion. It is my nature to mistrust—was my nature, till I met you.” His hand tightened on hers with almost painful pressure. “You have taught me the reality of goodness and truth, and now, through you, this has come—this revelation. It is true! There is another life. This world is not all. I have doubted all other evidence, but I cannot doubt what I have seen. They were there, Vanna, close around us, the spirits—the ‘angels’ of Miggles’s sweet old faith! We were too blind to see, but they were there, and she saw them. That light in her eyes! Can you ever forget? That was not death—it was life—the coming of life! Oh, my darling, my darling, what this means to me! A new heaven—a new earth. The falling of the scales!”

He lifted his quivering face to the sky as though asking forgiveness of the God whom he had denied; but the woman by his side had no thought at that moment for anything in heaven or earth but himself. Amazement of joy following so hard upon grief seemed to sap the last remnant of strength. She trembled violently, and gripped at Piers’s arm. He turned in alarm, but the face looking up to his was quivering with joy, not pain.

“Vanna! What is it?”

“You called me—you called me—” She broke off, trembling, shaking, blushing to the roots of her hair. “What did you call me?”

For a moment he stared bewildered; then remembrance came—the echo of his own words throbbed in his ear, bringing with them a second revelation, the revelation of his own heart. He seized her in a grasp violent in its intensity, and drew her towards him, gazing deep into her eyes.

“Vanna, my beloved! This too! My love, and yours! A new earth indeed. The words said themselves, darling; they have lived so long in my heart that they slipped from my lips before I had realised my wealth. I who thought I could never love, to have walked into it, step after step, deliberately, blindly, until I found myself so deep down, so engulfed, that I could not be free if I would. Vanna, I have only lived since I knew you. It was you I needed all those empty years: you have given me life, joy, hope; you must give me the last thing, too—your love! After this vision I can’t live without it. You are mine, Vanna; I can’t give you up.” He drew her head to his shoulder and pressed passionate kisses on her lips, her hair, her white, closed lids, and she clung to him, forgetting everything in the bliss of certainty, the intoxicating nearness, the touch of his lips on her own.

“Vanna! Was it this you felt—a foretaste of this joy—when you walked into your kingdom and read its message? It’s in your Happy Land, my dearest, you have found your love. May it be an omen of the future! Speak to me!... Tell me in words. I have never heard a woman’s lips speak to me of love.”

Vanna looked up at him, a wealth of devotion in the depths of her eloquent eyes, but her lips trembled over the words:

“What can I say? The words won’t come. I was lonely, too, and you are everything—everything. From the very first day you filled my mind. I thought it was friendship. When I found out, I struggled, but it was no use, so I gave in, and let myself love you more and more. It was my best happiness—the only happiness I could look for. I never ventured to hope that you could love me.”

He laughed, a low, tender laugh, and framing her face between his hands, lifted it towards his own.

“Was I blind and deaf? Could I see you, and talk to you, and listen to your praises from far and near, and keep my head? Do you know in the least what you are like? I’ll carry a little mirror in my pocket and let you see yourself some time when you are animated and happy. I’ll make you admire yourself.”

“Have you fallen in love with me for my looks?”

“Partly. Certainly. I love your looks, and I won’t have them depreciated. And with your goodness, and sweetness, and strength, and your unreasonableness, and temper, and weaknesses—and which I love the most I really can’t say. There’s not a bit of you I don’t love, or would have altered if I could.”

Vanna shivered. Already the golden moment had passed, and a shadow fell across her joy. This climax of bliss—what could it be but a presage of the end? She drew herself away from Piers’s encircling arms.

“Ah, what have I done? Piers, what have I done? I have forgotten—we have both forgotten. I told you my secret that day on the cliff when you heard me cry. Do you know why I cried? Because Jean had spoken of a girl in town, with whom she thought you were in love. It tortured me; I was nearly wild with jealousy and despair. And then you came, and I blurted it all out. No! it was not noble. I was thinking of myself. I wanted to get the weight off my mind, that I might enjoy you with an easy mind. I felt that if you knew the worst, and cared to be with me after that, the responsibility was yours, not mine; and I tried—I tried to make you care! I deluded myself, but I know now that I did try. I thought I could not help it, but it was selfish—cowardly. I should have thought of your good. Piers, I can never be your wife; you can never marry me. I have only brought fresh trouble. Can you ever forgive me?”

He smiled at her, and, disregarding the outstretched hands, drew her back into his arms.

“Forgive you, my best of blessings! For the moment I can think of nothing but love. My mind isn’t big enough to grasp anything beyond that tremendous fact. The present is ours, darling; be content in that. We are here together in our Happy Land—you and I. Nothing can rob us of this hour. If it ended here, this minute, I should still bless God for His goodness. To know you love me, to hold you here in my arms—it’s worth living for, Vanna. But it’s not going to end. Trust to me. I will go up to town. I will interview the doctor. I will find a way. You are mine, and all the world shall not keep you from me.”

Vanna smiled in his face with happy, love-lit eyes. He was a god in her eyes, and the gods are omnipotent. If Piers willed a thing it did not seem possible that he could fail. Reason fled discomfited. She loved, and was blind.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Second Best.

Piers lost no time in going to town to interview Dr Greatman, but the result was not encouraging. He came back to Vanna with a worn face, and the restless discontent of older days eclipsing the happiness of his eyes.

“If it were only my own risk, I would take it a thousand times over,” he declared; “but when he tells me that it would be worse for you, that I should be increasing your danger, there is nothing to be said. I would kill myself rather than do that. I have racked my brain, I paced the floor the whole of last night, but no inspiration will come. There seems no way out.”

“There is no way,” said Vanna quietly. They were sitting in the morning-room in the Cottage, that little room which seemed so empty without the familiar figure on the sofa by the window. In deference to Miggles’s wishes, Vanna was wearing a simple white dress; but although the melancholy aspect of mourning robes was removed, her face also looked bleached and wan. The waiting hours had been terribly long to the woman whose fate hung on the verdict. “There is no way! You made me hope in spite of myself, for it seemed impossible that any one could refuse you what you wished; but nothing is changed since I saw him last. There was no reason why he should alter his opinion. I can see now that he spoke to me so plainly just to try to avoid this crisis; but it has come, and it is my fault. I ran away from another man who was beginning to love me, but when it came to my own turn my courage gave way. I knew that the day would come when I should have to suffer for every hour of joy, but I was prepared to pay the price. I am prepared still. I have had my day. I know what happiness is—the greatest happiness which a human soul can know; and nothing can take that away. I never dared to think that you would love me, but you do; and it’s such perfect bliss to know that, and to feel your arms round me, and to be able to say all I feel, instead of bottling it up in my heart as I have had to do all these months, that for my own sake I can’t regret. Only for yours, dearest; only for yours!”