A Question of Marriage Part 18

"Can you imagine it, Vanna? I sometimes wish he were not quite so good!

It's aggravating for a sinner like me to be shown up continually against such a contrast. And sometimes it lands one in such fixes... I could tell you such stories of this year!" She snuggled back against her cushions. "Ah, it _is_ good to have you here. I have so longed for a girl to talk to... The first six months we went about a great deal, paying visits to his friends. The first time I asked him to describe the people, as I knew them only by name. 'Oh, Meg!' he said, 'Meg is the simplest of creatures: kindly, and easy-going as you find 'em.

You'll feel at home in five minutes. No fuss, no ceremony. The sort of house where you feel absolutely at home.' Well, what would _you_ expect from that description? I saw a vision of a suburban villa, and a stout, frumpy woman with a fat smile, and packed a modest little semi-evening frock to let her down gently. My dear! it was a mansion, and she was the very smartest creature I have ever beheld. The first glimpse of her in afternoon clothes took away my breath; but there was worse to come.

She had asked a dozen people to dinner to meet us, and while we were dressing--it was a summer evening, and quite light--I saw carriages bowling up to the door, and visions in satin dresses trailing up the steps. There was nothing for it; I put on my wretched little frock, eating my heart out the while at the thought of all my trousseau grandeurs lying useless at home, and descended--the bride, the guest of honour--the worst dressed woman in the room! Can you imagine my suffering?"

Vanna smiled. She could; and also the manner in which Jean would upbraid her husband after the fray.

"And Robert? What had he to say? How did he look when he first saw you alone?"

"Radiant, my dear. Beaming! Absolutely, utterly content. Blankly astonished and dismayed to find that I was not the same. Utterly unconscious that my dress had been any different from the rest. Blindly convinced that there had not been one in the room to touch it!"

They both laughed, a tender indulgence shining in their eyes. It was the look with which women condone the indiscretion of a child; but Jean was still anxious to expound her own side of the situation.

"Yes! It's charming; but you've no idea how trying it can be at times.

Other women lament because their husbands complain of their meals. I wish to goodness Robert _would_ complain. It would make things easier with the maids. Good plain cooks need so much keeping up to the mark, and I never get a chance of grumbling. When the things are unusually bad, and I am mentally rehearsing what I shall say in the kitchen next morning--'you really must make the soup stronger. The gravy was quite white... Why did the pudding fall to pieces?'--you know the kind of thing--Robert will lean back with a sigh, and say, 'I _have_ had a good dinner. You've eclipsed yourself to-night. I am getting quite spoiled.' I glare at him, but it's no use. He says, 'What is the matter, dear?' and I see a smug smile on Brewster's face, and know she will go straight into the kitchen and repeat the whole tale. How can I grumble after that? The wind is taken completely out of my sails.

Sometimes I think that for practical, everyday life a saint is even more trouble than a sinner. Then the friends he brings here! You never knew such a motley throng. It may be any one from a duke (figuratively a duke. He has met all sorts of bigwigs, 'east of Suez') to a vagrant with broken boots, and not an 'h' in his composition. And it's always the same description: 'do you mind if I bring a man home to dinner to-night? I met him at --' some outlandish place--'and he was awfully decent to me. He is pa.s.sing through town, and I should like to have him here. Such a good fellow!' Then, of course, if I have rice pudding, it's the duke; or if I order in an ice, it's the vagrant. Once or twice I've tried cross-questioning, but it's no use. If I ask, 'is he a gentleman, Robert?' he looks at me with his biggest eyes, and asks, 'would I ask any one to meet _you_, who was not?' But, bless him! his ideas and mine on that point do _not_ agree. So here, my dear, you behold the novel spectacle of a woman who has only one complaint to make of her husband, that he is _too_ good! But he loves me, Vanna, more than ever. We haven't grown a bit stodgy, only just lately I've been so ill and depressed. It will be better now you are here... Now tell me about yourself. You've had a sad time, but you don't look sad. You look happy and well. Vanna! you are blushing. What is it? Tell me.

There is something--I know there is. Tell me at once!"

"Yes, there is something." Vanna braced herself against the chair, a thrill of nervous foreboding coursing through her veins. She drew off her left glove, which she had purposely left on during tea, and held out the hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a large square diamond.

"There is that!"

"Vanna! A ring? On your engagement finger! Who gave you that?"

"Piers Rendall!"

The colour rushed in a crimson flood over Jean's face; her lips parted in breathless, incredulous surprise.

"_Piers_! Vanna! You _mean_ it? Piers? Piers and you? You are engaged? When? Where? For how long?"

"At Seacliff. A fortnight ago. But we have loved each other from the first."

"And you never told me; you never said a word."

"No. I have not seen you; but even if I had I could not have spoken.

Remember how _you_ felt! Could you have discussed Robert with me while you were waiting? I asked Piers not to announce the engagement until I had told you. No one has been told so far, except his mother."

"Mrs Rendall? She knows? It is settled then? Really absolutely settled?"

"Certainly. I told you so. A fortnight ago."

A little chill of offence sounded in Vanna's voice. Jean's congratulations were a trifle too long delayed; her surprise too blank to be flattering. "Aren't you going to congratulate me, Jean?"

"But--but--You told me--you said--the doctor said--"

"That I should never marry. Just so! That fact remains. Piers knows; I did not deceive him; he knew months ago. He came up to interview Dr Greatman himself. We know that we can never marry, but we love each other, and mean to take what happiness remains. No one ever forbade me to be engaged."

"How can you be engaged? What for? Engaged _not_ to be married? It's absurd. What could you say? How could you explain? What would people think?"

Vanna laughed--a short, hard laugh. Still Jean had not congratulated her, nor said one loving word.

"If it is a false position, it is just those 'people' of whom you speak who force us into it. The conventions of society don't allow a man and a woman to enjoy each other's society undisturbed. To be engaged is the only way in which they can gain the liberty. Therefore that is the way we must take. There is nothing else to be done."

"And--when you _don't_ marry? You are both well off, and not too young.

People will expect you to marry at once, and when you don't--"

"That is our own affair. They will be told at the beginning that it will be a long engagement, and however much they may wonder among themselves, they will hardly have the impertinence to question us on the subject. I imagine they will be polite, and kind, and congratulate us.

I don't think there will be many who will hear the news without speaking _one_ kind word."

The inference was undisguised--was intended to be undisguised. Jean flushed again, and knitted her delicate brows.

"I don't mean to be unkind, but it sounds so wild, so impracticable, so utterly unlike you, Vanna. Where will you live? How can you meet? You are only twenty-five. People are so ready to talk. What do you propose to _do_?"

"To go on with our lives. I have money, thank goodness. I must have a little house--it won't be rich and luxurious like yours--just a little corner where I can put my things, and feel at home. I must make a sacrifice to convention and have a sheep dog, too, I suppose--some lonely woman like myself, who will be thankful for a home. She can look after the servants, and the cleaning, and understand from the first that she leaves _me_ alone. Then I shall find some work. I have an idea working out in my head which I hope will bring interest and occupation.

And Piers shall come to see me. We shall have a place where we can meet in peace and comfort."

"Vanna, you won't have peace--it's impossible. Oh, I know it's hard that your life should be spoiled, terribly, terribly hard; but remember what the doctor said--that you had no right to spoil the man's life also. When you repeated that to me that afternoon you said there was no fighting against it. If you hold Piers to you now, you will steal his chance of wife and home and children."

"Ah, there they are again--those children!" Vanna's lip curled in bitter pa.s.sion. "Those visionary children who are for ever cropping up to block the way. No legal form can make a wife and home. I am more to Piers than any other woman, despite all my limitations; his home is where I am. Why should I be sacrificed, a live woman, with all my powers strong within me, for the sake of problematic infants who may never arrive? And if they did, is it all joy to be a father? Are you sure that the joy equals the pain? Your father was broken-hearted that day when you left him with a smile. You did not trouble about him; why should I give up everything for the sake of possible children?"

There was silence for several moments; then Jean spoke:

"Vanna, you talk as if I did not _want_ you to be happy. Ask Robert!

He'll tell you how often I have spoken about you; how I've cried in the midst of my own happiness to think you could never have the same. But this! Oh, it's a mistake, dear; it's a mistake; it will land you in worse trouble. Piers will never be content; you won't be content yourself; it won't be happiness, but a long, long fret."

"Other people--married people, happy married people--look back and call the years of their engagement the happiest time of their lives. I've heard them. You've heard them yourself."

"Yes. But why? They lived in the future, building castles, the castles in which they were to live. If you could have heard them talking when they were alone, you would have found that it was almost always about the future--When shall we be married? Where shall we go for our honeymoon? Where shall we live? They imagined it all sunshine, all joy; and when the reality came, and its shadows, and ups and downs, they looked back, and realised how happy and unburdened they had been. But, Vanna dear, if you take away the future--if there is no looking forward--a dread, instead of a hope--"

Vanna shivered, but she held herself erect, and took no heed of the hand held out towards her. She looked round the beautiful, luxurious room, at the glowing stained-gla.s.s window, which shut out the grey aspect of the outer world, and as she did so, bitterness arose. Once more the knife-edged question cleft her heart. Why should the ugliness of life be turned into colour and beauty for one traveller, while the other might not even take to herself a crumb of life's feast without reproach and misgiving? A moment before she had craved for Jean's sympathy; now she felt cold, and hard, and resentful, unwilling to accept such sympathy if it were offered. Jean was too happy to understand. She was one of fortune's favourites, for whom life had always been smooth and easy. How could she realise the hunger of one who had stood continually outside the feast? Of what use were sweet words if understanding were lacking? Her voice when she spoke again sounded chill and aloof:

"You need not enlarge. Piers and I realise too well that our lot is different from other happy lovers, but we have both known what it is to feel lonely and sad, and we believe that we shall find consolation in each other's love. We mean to try, at least. Our minds are firmly made up on that point, whatever our friends may think. If you wish to cast me off, Jean--I shall be sorry--but, I tell you frankly, it will make no difference."

"Vanna, _don't_! Don't be so bitter; don't speak to me in that voice; I can't bear it," cried Jean with gasping breath. The sound of her voice brought Vanna's eyes upon her in startled inquiry, and at the sight of her face resentment vanished, in a spasm of love and fear. So white she looked, so spent, so pitifully frail and broken. Jean was ill: this was no moment to trouble her with exhausting mental problems. Vanna felt a swift pang of penitence at the thought that she who had arrived in the character of nurse and consoler had already contrived to bring about a crisis of weakness.

In a trice her arms were supporting the lovely head, her lips pressed to the white cheek, her lips cooing out tenderest rea.s.surements.

"There, darling, there! I was a brute, a mean, bitter, grudging brute.

Forgive me, and we'll never quarrel again. I know it, Jean! All you have said, and _morel_ I did make a stand; I refused to listen, but I love him so; I'm so hungry for happiness--I couldn't stand out!

Whatever comes, whatever happens in the future, we shall have _some_ time together. Think how you would feel in my place, and you'll understand. You and Robert mean so much to us both, you _must_ wish us well."

Jean cried, and clung to Vanna's hands with feverish protests of love and fealty; but she allowed herself to be soothed and petted and waited upon with a docility as new as it was touching. When Vanna skilfully led the conversation to brighter topics, she slowly regained her composure, and some of her old brightness, but her face still showed signs of her distress, and Vanna inwardly quailed at the thought of Robert's wrath when he returned and discovered the manner in which she had inaugurated her arrival.

For every one's sake she considered it wise to avoid a second argument that night, and returned to her own room to unpack before Robert arrived, leaving Jean to break the news to him as she pleased. The sound of his cheery whistle came up to her from the hall; she heard the doors open and shut, and flushed and paled as she followed in imagination the conversation in the room below. A quarter of an hour pa.s.sed, then came footsteps, and a tap at the door.

"Vanna! It's I! May I speak to you for a moment?"

The voice was cordial, with its old cheery note. At the sound of it Vanna dropped the bundle of clothes which she was holding, and hurried to fling open the door. Robert was standing before her, pale and, if possible, thinner than ever, but with a great tenderness shining in his eyes. Without preamble he took both her hands in his, and said:

"Jean has told me. She is your oldest friend. We want you to feel that this is your home until you have one of your own. Ask Piers whenever you like. He will always be welcome. There's the little den; it is at your service. We'll do everything we can for you, Vanna."