A Question of Marriage Part 6

"Halloa, Slave! How are you feeling?"

"Hugging my chains! This is a piece of luck, your coming down so soon.

What brought you away from the gay capital before the end of the season?"

"The train, sir! People who ask personal questions must expect to be snubbed. I ran away, but not alone. I've a friend with me--Miss Strangeways. Come and be introduced."

They had entered the hall while Jean was speaking, and Vanna caught the quick frown of annoyance on the man's face. He had a strong, well-knit figure, and a thin, nervous face. His hair was dark, his features were sharply aquiline, the whole effect was handsome and distinguished, but not altogether agreeable. The dark blue eyes had a somewhat irritable expression, and the features were subject to an occasional nervous twitching. They twitched at sight of Vanna seated in the deep cane chair facing the door, and his lips straightened themselves eloquently.

Vanna knew that he was mentally wishing her at Jericho, and seeing his hoped-for _tete-a-tete_ turned into a dull trio. But the revelation was but momentary, and nothing could have been more courteous than his greeting.

"How do you do, Miss Strangeways? I have heard so constantly about you from Jean that it is a double pleasure to find you here."

Vanna murmured a conventional acknowledgment and felt mentally antagonistic. To feel oneself _de trop_ is never an agreeable experience, and unreasonable though it might be, she resented both Mr Rendall's att.i.tude and his courteous disguise of the same. During the meal which followed she remained stiff and silent, while her three companions chatted and laughed with the ease of old friendship. Jean sparkled, her depression dispersed by the presence of a companion of the opposite s.e.x, Miggles beamed from behind the tea-tray, and indulged in reminiscent anecdotes, to which the young man lent the most flattering attention. His bright eyes softened in genuine kindliness as he looked into her large, good-natured face, and he waited upon her with the utmost solicitude. Evidently there was a real bond of affection between the homely old woman and the handsome man. Towards Jean his att.i.tude was more complex. Vanna, watching with jealous, anxious eyes--jealous on behalf of that other suitor whose claims she had denied--could not decide how much or how little his feelings were involved. He admired her, of course--what man would not admire Jean? They bandied words together, joked, teased, protested, without a suspicion of self-consciousness; at times they smiled at each other with undisguised affection; at other times some light word uttered by the girl seemed to strike a false note, and the irritable expression in the man's eyes flamed into sudden anger.

"He has a pa.s.sionate nature; he could feel very deeply. I think he is not happy." Such was Vanna's diagnosis of Piers Rendall's character as she drank her tea and ate her plum-cake in almost uninterrupted silence.

Her companions had endeavoured to draw her into the conversation. Jean had grimaced eloquently across the table, but Vanna made only a feeble response. It seemed as though Jean's depression had been suddenly shifted on to her own shoulders; the peaceful content of the last few days had disappeared; she felt solitary, wounded, jarred. When the meal was over and the three young people started out on their walk, these feelings deepened. Had she not already received her instructions--that she was to feign an accident as an excuse for obliterating herself for the others' benefit? Vanna set her lips with an obstinate little resolve to do nothing of the kind. She would not obtrude her society where it was not desired, but she would stoop to no pretence by way of excuse. When they had walked about a mile along the sea-front, she quietly announced her intention of sitting down.

"I don't think I shall go any farther. I've brought a book. I shall sit here and rest, and you can pick me up as you come back."

"Oh, Vanna! Why? Are you tired, dear? Aren't you well?" demanded naughty Jean.

"Perfectly well, thank you," replied Vanna coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Piers Rendall thought her exceedingly disagreeable for her pains.

The two figures crossed the belt of pebbly stones, and walked over the sunny sands to the water's side. Hitherto they had kept to the levelled promenade, and to Vanna's irritated senses it appeared an added offence that, once released from her presence, they should at once hasten into solitude. She turned her eyes away and stared drearily into s.p.a.ce.

Revolt surged in her heart. It was not fair. Jean had everything-- home, parents, beauty, strength, the right to be wooed and won. The world was cruel--unjust. Why should such differences exist? Her own lot was too hard. She had not deserved it. She had done her best.

Circ.u.mstances had not been too easy--always there had hung a shadow; life in the little country hamlet with Aunt Mary, delicate and sad, had been by no means ideal for a young girl. Without conceit she knew herself to have been dutiful, affectionate, kind. She had put her own wishes in the background, content to minister to an old woman's declining years. Her own turn would come. Life lay ahead, crowded with golden possibilities; when they came they would be all the sweeter for the consciousness of duty well done. And now? Ah, well, in converse with one's nearest friend one might affect to be brave and independent, but in the solitude of one's own woman's heart it seemed as if those possibilities had been wiped away, and left nothing behind.

In times of trouble and upheaval the sufferer is constantly exhorted by sympathetic friends to turn resolutely away from the sad past, and look ahead. Onward! they are told--press onward! Life lies not in the past, but in the future. Despair comes of looking back, courage with expectation. Poor Vanna recalled these axioms with a weary heart. That was just what she dared not do. What could the future hold for her?

She sat very still, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes shut against the glare. The sun seemed cruel to-day; the dance of golden light across the sands, the sight of those two light-stepping figures in the distance. She would help Jean, help others, who were in need. There was no lack of work in the world for hands which were willing and free.

She could make other people happy; could live a n.o.ble, selfless life.

Even so, and at the thought, the lips of three-and-twenty quivered, and the salt tears flowed. She wanted to be happy herself--longed to be happy. The selfless life sounded barren and cold; it roused no flicker of joy. "How shall I bear it?" asked Vanna of herself. "How can I live, looking on, always looking on, having no part? Even to-day with Jean--my darling Jean--and that strange man, I felt sore and angry and--_bad_! He thought me a cross, ungracious girl. His opinion does not matter, but other people will think so too if I behave in the same way; and that would be terrible. I could not exist if people did not care for me. In self-defence I must overcome. But how to do it?"

Vanna leant her head on her hands and sent up a wordless prayer. In her own fashion she was deeply religious, but it was not the fashion of her day. Her aunt had been shocked and distressed by her heterodox sentiments, and had spent many hours in prayer for her niece's conversion, while Vanna, in her turn, had been fully as shocked at the old woman's conventional ideas.

Aunt Mary had been the most tender and forgiving of mortals. Her memory, tenacious till death of the smallest kindness shown towards her, was absolutely incapable of retaining an injury. If any one offended, her own anxiety was to find for them a means of reform; to her charity there seemed literally no end.

When a trusted servant repaid endless kindnesses by a flagrant theft, Aunt Mary was bowed down with penitence for occasional carelessness on her own part which might possibly have led the sinner into temptation.

"I remember distinctly one Sunday night when I left my purse in the dining-room, and was too lazy to go downstairs to fetch it, and at other times I have left change lying about. It was wrong of me--terribly wrong. One never knows what need there may be--what _pressing_ need-- and to see the money lying there before her eyes!"

To the scandal of the neighbourhood, instead of giving the offender in charge, or at least dismissing her in shame and ignominy, Aunt Mary tearfully apologised for her own share in the crime, and proposed a future partnership in which both should endeavour to amend their ways.

Jane was sullen and unresponsive, too much overcome by surprise perhaps to be able to express any grat.i.tude. That she felt it all the same was testified by her dog-like devotion to her mistress. All went well until another year had pa.s.sed, when in a sudden burst of emotion the maid confessed to a fresh peccadillo. Now, indeed, any sane person would have realised the folly of keeping such a sinner in the house, and, hurling reproaches on her head, would have promptly ejected her from the threshold; but Aunt Mary was once more content to play the part of comforter. "I have my own besetting sins, Jane," she said gently, "and I fear I have given way to them many times during this past year. You have kept straight until the last week, and you have confessed your fault. Have courage! You have made a good start. I shall treat you exactly as before, and trust you more fully!"

That was the end of Jane's offences. Henceforth to the day of her mistress's death she remained the most faithful and loyal of handmaids.

Such was Aunt Mary, who devoutly worshipped a G.o.d whom she believed capable of torturing for eternity a sinner who had transgressed during a few short years of life, or a helpless infant who had chanced to die unbaptised! She was likewise convinced that the whole non-Protestant world was irrevocably d.a.m.ned, and harboured serious doubts with regard to Dissenters and the High Church party. She accepted as final and irrefutable every doctrine which she had been taught as a child, and would have been as ready to believe that Jonah swallowed the whale as the accepted version of the story, if it had been so inscribed in the Bible. To think for oneself on matters religious she considered profane; to expect fuller light with fuller knowledge--a blasphemy. To her mind the whole duty of man was comprised in attending his parish church, supporting his vicar, and subscribing to the creeds--Athanasian included. Aunt and niece had had the nearest approach to a quarrel which they had ever known one day when the girl's intolerance had broken forth into words:

"Aunt Mary," she had cried, "your religion is _wicked_! You are good in spite of it. You don't _really_ believe it. You only think you do.

You subscribe ten and sixpence a year to the South American mission, and lie down in peace and sleep, believing the whole continent to be d.a.m.ned, while if one poor dog were suffering outside your gate you could not rest until you had rescued it. Can ten and sixpence buy peace, while a continent perishes? Your creed is unworthy of you!"

"My dear, you forget yourself. You shock me deeply. Such words from a young girl's lips are terrible to hear. Profane! Rebellious! The poor, dear vicar! I must ask you never again to allow yourself to speak in this way. If the wicked thoughts arise, at least let them not find vent in words."

After this Vanna was careful to avoid religious discussions with her aunt, but she noted with amus.e.m.e.nt that next year the good lady's South American subscription had been increased by half a crown.

Now Aunt Mary had been moved up to a higher cla.s.s, and the scales of ignorance had fallen from her eyes. The puzzles of life were solved for her, but her niece was still struggling with her tasks, and they were hard to learn. She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, the sea breeze blowing back the hair from the set, white face. Aunt Mary would have said that this trouble was G.o.d's will--His direct dispensation; but Vanna could not accept this explanation. It was surely _not_ G.o.d's will that in past generations two people had put their own happiness before duty. Aunt Mary would have said again that as regards herself this punishment for the sins of others was "permitted," and intended to be.

Well!--one had only to look around the world, at everyday happenings, to realise that the Almighty did _not_ interfere with natural laws. Thrust an arm into the fire, and that arm burns; infect your child with disease, and that child suffers, despite your prayers and entreaties.

It is inevitable; but the sufferings were surely of men's causing, "The thing of all others which, according to my light, must most 'grieve' the Spirit of G.o.d is the way in which His own children misjudge Him," Vanna told herself slowly. "Dear, sweet Aunt Mary, who believed Him capable of things to which she herself would never condescend--all the good people who look out upon a sky full of worlds, and believe that their own particular tiny sect hold the monopoly of truth, and that every one who differs from them must inevitably be lost. Perhaps--who knows? it is misjudging Him just as cruelly to believe that the ghastly happenings of our life are of His choice. He has given us free-will; we make mistakes and suffer for them, and make others suffer too; but that's our own doing, and--reverently speaking--outside His power. He is sorry for us--infinitely sorry, waiting and longing to send help, when our eyes are open to receive it. Perhaps I'm wrong, I can't tell; but it's the belief that helps me most, and removes the sting. I have such a big trouble for a woman to face--a lonely life; such a big effort to make-- to look at happiness through the eyes of others, and keep sweet, and generous, and ungrudging. I need so much help..."

The minutes pa.s.sed, while Vanna sat motionless, buried in thought.

Pa.s.sers-by cast curious glances at the still figure seated upon the pebbly beach above the fringed line of seaweed--her scarlet cloak gathered round her shoulders, her dark hair blown back from her face.

It was not a beautiful nor even a pretty face in the usual acceptance of the words: the features were neither good enough to be noticeable, nor bad enough to jar. The only beauties were found in the dark, finely arched eyebrows, the oval shape of the face, and the stag-like setting of the small head, to which characteristics Vanna owed that air of distinction which redeemed her from the commonplace. Piers Rendall had paid little attention to the quiet girl who had sat beside him at the tea-table, and afterwards made an unwelcome third in the walk along the sea-front; but as he and Jean retraced their steps across the sands an hour later, his eyes turning towards the waiting figure fastened on the pale face, and lingered there.

We all own a mental picture-gallery which we carry about with us till death. Some of the pictures are ours by deliberate choice, printed on memory by loving intent; others, pain has stamped in undying lines; a few have gained their place as it were by accident. We had no intention of yielding them a place, no interest in the purchase; quietly and all uninvited they ranged themselves against the walls, and refused to be dislodged. Piers Rendall's glance had been turned in indifference, almost dislike; but to the end of his life the picture of Vanna remained with him, as she sat on the grey stones, above the belt of seaweed, with the scarlet cloak round her shoulders, and the hair blown back from her face. Jean's merry banter fell on deaf ears; he was not listening; had for the moment forgotten her existence. Her eye followed his, divining the explanation; she smiled expectantly, waiting until he should speak.

"What is the matter with that girl?"

"Tiredness, I should say. Bored! Sick of waiting so long. It was _your_ fault. You would go on."

"Nonsense. It's more than that. What has happened to her?"

"Nothing; I told you so. She has serious bouts sometimes. She has one now. So would you have, if you sat in this wind, getting chilled through for an hour on end."

"I am sorry to hear that. If it has not already happened, it must be still before her. It is written in her face."

"Piers, how tiresome! Leave my Vanna alone. _What_ is in her face?"

"Tragedy!" said Piers Rendall.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"THE HAPPY LAND."

The next event was the receipt of a letter from Mr Rendall's _mere_, containing an invitation for lunch. Jean read it aloud to Vanna as they sat together on the tiny lawn where the postman had been intercepted.

"... Please excuse the formality of a call. I am getting old, and these hilly roads try my nerves. We hope you will all come over to lunch on Wednesday, at one o'clock. I shall be pleased to meet Miss Miggs again, and to make the acquaintance of your young friend. The carriage shall call at twelve-thirty. Believe me, my dear Jean, Your attached friend--"

"Good for her! We accept with pleasure, of course."

"I don't."

"Vanna! How disagreeable you can be when you try. Why were you so bleak and crusty to Piers yesterday? I wanted you to be nice."

"You told me to keep out of the way, and I did it. I didn't take to him, nor he to me."

"Humph! I don't know," Jean considered, her chin resting upon the cup of her hand. "He was a trifle quelled to find you here--that was natural, for he thought I would be alone; but he was impressed. When we came back from our walk you were staring out to sea with such big, sad eyes, and he looked at you, and wondered. You impressed him, Vanna."

"You are not to tell him! I forbid you to tell him about me!"