A Question of Marriage Part 13

"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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sertions 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 rea.s.sert 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, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, panted, in such extravagance of joy, such depths of humility, such paeans of grat.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sion 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 bra.s.s to her cry--and yet, yet, had not the answer been vouchsafed? It would not have been her own choice to pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dsend, 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 la.s.situde 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sociation 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 pa.s.sed along the ugly, commonplace hall, Vanna was confronted by her own reflection in the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s--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, a.s.sumed 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 ba.s.s 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.