Chapter Seven.
“The Happy Land.”
The next event was the receipt of a letter from Mr Rendall’s mère, 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!”
Vanna spoke with a headlong impetuosity which surprised herself. She did not understand why she shrank from the idea of Piers Rendall listening to an account of her family history; but the prospect stung, and she could not control her impatience. Jean looked at her with quiet reproach.
“I should not dream of such a thing. I shall never speak of it, never—except at your express request.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m very irritable these days. Write your acceptance, and I’ll do my utmost to behave. What is she like—this mamma? A female Piers?”
“Not one bit. A little shrinking creature, very proper, very dull—in a gentle fashion, appallingly obstinate. She and Miggles together are as good as a play. You’ll hear. They’ll get entangled in a dual conversation, and all I ask is—don’t look at me! Mrs Rendall would never forgive me if I laughed. She’s a trying little person, and Piers is sweet to her; never loses his patience. He deserves a halo for that.”
Vanna raised protesting eyebrows.
“Well, I hardly knew my parents, but I have realised the want of them so badly all my life that I can’t screw myself up to an access of admiration for a son who is decently polite to his mother. Suppose she does try his patience at times—that’s inevitable, I should say, between a young man and an old woman—how many times has she borne and forborne with him; what mountains of patience has she expended on his training? It’s not a virtue, it’s mere common decency that he should be kind to her now. He would be despicable if he failed.”
“Quite true, every word true. You are theorising, dear, and there’s not an argument against you. But leave theories alone for a moment and look at facts. How many parents and children—grown-up children—do you find who live together in sympathy and understanding? Precious few. Sometimes there’s an open feud; that’s rare, and can’t go on in the nature of things; sometimes there’s an armed truce; sometimes there are successions of jars; almost always there’s a gulf. They see with different eyes, and hear with different ears, and each side thinks the other blind and deaf. One side lacks sympathy, the other imagination. It seems the most difficult thing in the world to ‘put yourself in his place.’”
“I don’t know. If I’d had my own mother, it seems to me we would have been friends. It wouldn’t have needed a great exercise of sympathy to realise that she was old and tired, tired with looking after me; and if I had made a friend of her and talked to her, and—told her things, she would have sympathised with me in return. I know she would. I feel it!”
“Did you, ‘tell things’ to Aunt Mary?”
“No, of course not. That was different.”
“Ah, you think so; but it is not. It’s the generation that’s the bar, not the person,” cried Jean with one of her quick flashes of intuition. “Youth wants youth and looks for it, and finds it easier to confide in a girl after a week’s acquaintance than in her very own mother, I’ve seen it not once, but dozens of times. It doesn’t mean that she loves her more, or a tenth part as much, but in a curious, inexplicable way she’s nearer. It’s hard on the parents. Every age has its own trials: love troubles when you are young; weakness when you are old; when you are middle-aged it must be just this, to yearn after your children, to long to help and comfort, and to see them prefer some one else! I’m sorry for parents; but why do they grow so old? If I have a daughter, I shall keep young for her sake. At least I shall remember that I was young. I shall never say: ‘the rain is coming down in sheets, the wind is in the east. I can’t think why you can’t be content by your own fireside, instead of racing half over the town,’ I shan’t be overcome with surprise when she forgets to order the fish on the eve of a proposal, or expect her to look a fright in mackintosh and goloshes when she goes out with men friends. I shall remember how I preferred to look nice, even if my feet were soaked!”
“You may also remember that you suffered from rheumatism thereby, and wish her to profit from your experience.”
“No use, my dear. Her rheumatism’s her own, and if it comes she will bear it, but never my goloshes! A parent can be wise and prosy, and expound the law; but he can’t do more. If he tries, he loses instead of gains. I shall school myself to the fact that my little girl is bound to err, and that we are bound to suffer in consequence, she in deed, and I in looking on. That’s the price of being a mother. Then when she’s had her own way and been buffeted, she’ll come to me and I’ll help her. Dear little girl!”
The lovely face was aglow with tenderness: it was easy to see that the maternal instinct was strong in Jean’s heart, and that she would rise to her fullest height as wife and mother. The next moment she raised herself, flashed an anxious look at Vanna’s face, and deftly turned the conversation.
“Well, anyway you’ll see for yourself that Mrs Rendall’s a trial. When she and Miggles get started, don’t interrupt—let them have it out by themselves. Piers loves to listen, and so do I.”
The next day an old-fashioned barouche bore the three ladies over several miles of hilly roads to the square white mansion where the widowed Mrs Rendall lived in peaceful seclusion from the world. After the style of old-fashioned houses, it was situated in a hollow, sheltered from the wind, but also cut off from a view of the surrounding country. The entrance hall was bleak and uninteresting, the rooms, so many big square boxes, furnished with Early Victorian heaviness, and an astonishing absence of individuality. Vanna counted eleven little tables in the drawing-room, each bearing a weight of senseless ornaments. On the marble chimney-piece a pair of red glass “lustres,” a pair of Parian marble figures, male and female, were mathematically arranged on each side of a Bohemian glass centre-piece, bearing a medallion portrait of a simpering brunette. A bannerette of crimson cross-stitch, on which was worked a cluster of steel-bead roses, hung pendant from a brass rod; the water-colour paintings on the walls were encircled by large white mounts; the drab carpet was garlanded with flowers; in the air was the sweet, somewhat musty flavour of potpourri. Mrs Rendall wore a large widow’s cap on the top of a small grey head, and was the sort of woman who is instinctively connected with a shoulder-shawl and mittens. It was difficult to imagine her the mother of the handsome man with the bright, irritable-looking eyes, who stood by her side to welcome the guests on their arrival.
The dining-room was a distinct improvement on the drawing-room, as is invariably the case when the mistress of the house is devoid of taste. The mahogany furniture was solid and purposeful, and the family portraits on the red flock walls added an air of richness to the prevailing comfort. The table itself was beautifully spread with the finest of napery and some treasured pieces of old family silver. Six specimen glasses were set at equal distances, each bearing a head of geranium and a spray of maidenhair fern; two white-capped maids stood stiffly at attention.
“Piers, my dear,” said Mrs Rendall primly, “will you ask a blessing?”
During the progress of the first course the conversation was general and futile. The party was too small to allow of separate conversations: the young people seemed inclined to allow their elders to lead the way, and as one old lady seemed determined to cling tenaciously to one subject, and the other to dash continually to pastures new, the result was something confusing. Vanna felt the pressure of Jean’s foot on her own, and received a twinkling glance of amusement. “Now!” said the glance as plainly as words could speak. “The fun’s beginning. Let them have it to themselves.”
“No! I never disturb my borders,” announced Mrs Rendall firmly. “Neither bulbs nor perennials. My gardener says—”
“But you remember the Totteridges!” Miggles interrupted, insistently smiling. “Emily Mackintosh. She married the son of the old man, Rev. Totteridge, Vicar of Newley. My sister Susan was bridesmaid. Pink taffetas. All the go. He went out to India and was killed by a tiger. Poor Emily! You know their garden. That border by the church wall—”
“My gardener says—”
“Emily always divided the bulbs. Some people leave them for three years. Our old landlord over at Sutton—did you know the Dixons? Charming family! They used to come over and play croquet with us at my old home. The second son was a dear fellow, but stuttered. So sad when a man stutters. What was I saying, dear? I do wander! Oh, yes! Old Mr Dixon moved them every autumn—”
“My gardener says—”
“But they grew so matted. You know! Matted! Jungles! I always say take a middle course. When I was spending my holiday in Devonshire I had tea in a lovely old garden. Clotted cream. Did you ever try it with marmalade? De-licious! All the lilies in one bed, and a stream running through. ‘Cool Siloam.’ Couldn’t help thinking of it, you know, but not in an irreverent spirit. Wouldn’t be irreverent for the world. It’s the spirit that matters, isn’t it, dear—the spirit, not the letter? The scent of those lilies—”
“My gardener says—”
“Yes, dear, and of course he has experience, but we must judge by results—judge by results. Stands to reason, as I say, and you had so few blooms. What can you expect if they never get any attention? Poor things. We all like attention. I do, I’m sure. And if they’re matted, can they bloom? Now try it one year! You’re mistress. I don’t approve of being overruled. Consideration, but not concession. Hear all that other people have to say, and take your own way afterwards, as my dear mother used to say. Jean, you are laughing! Naughty girl! What is so funny about bulbs?”
“My gardener says that well-established bulbs bloom better than those which are continually removed,” said Mrs Rendall firmly. “I intend to follow his advice.”
“Certainly, dear. Why not, if you wish it? The garden’s your own. Hope he appreciates his place. People always say gardeners are despotic; my dear father would have no interference. Discharged three men in succession for giving advice, and when the fourth came for orders the first morning—I remember it so well; I was a girl at the time, about fourteen—‘d’ye see that row of gooseberry bushes?’ he said. ‘Dig ’em all up, and plant ’em back again head downward.’ ‘Very good, sir,’ said the man. At lunch time there they were—poor things! roots sticking up in the air—you never saw such a sight—obliged to laugh, you know, obliged to laugh, though daren’t show it. ‘You’re the man for me,’ said my father. ‘There’s a shilling for you; go and get a drink.’ My mother was an abstainer, but he would never join. A pity, but men, my dear, men, can’t be coerced—!”
“Piers,” said Mrs Rendall coldly, “return thanks.”
In the face of such an interruption Miggles was perforce reduced to silence, and the luncheon party broke up. Coffee was served in the drawing-room, and Vanna mentally resolved to plead fatigue as an excuse for spending the next two hours with the old ladies; but she was not allowed to carry her plan into execution.
“I want to take you the round of our little estate, Miss Strangeways,” Piers announced when the coffee-cups had been put aside. “Jean knows it of old, but we always seize the opportunity of showing it to strangers. I won’t ask you to come with us, Miggles, for the paths are distinctly rough, and you will be more comfortable sitting quietly on the verandah with mother. What sort of heels are you wearing this afternoon, Jean?”
“Flat, ugly, English! I have too much sense of fitness to sport ‘Louis quinze’ in country roads; but why do English bootmakers set their faces so sternly against insteps? I’m never comfortable out of a French shoe,” said Jean with a sigh.
She slid her hand through Vanna’s arm with an affectionate pressure which was intended to show her agreement in Piers’s invitation, and the three young people walked across the lawn, leaving the old ladies seated in their low cane chairs.
“Sleep sweetly—and dream of bulbs!” quoth Jean, peering at them over her shoulder. “Piers, I don’t want to grow old. It doesn’t seem possible that a time can ever come when I shall be content to wear cashmere boots and sleep on a verandah while other people play in the sun. Do you believe that I shall really grow old?”
Piers Rendall looked at her and his lips twitched, but his eyes did not soften—the hard brilliancy, which was their chief characteristic, became if anything a trifle more accentuated. It was a curious look for a man to cast at a girl with whom he was in love. Was he in love with Jean? Vanna asked herself curiously for the hundredth time in the course of the last few days. If she had but known it, Rendall was engaged in asking himself the same question, and finding it almost as difficult to answer.
At times, yes! He would have been less than a man if he had not been occasionally swept off his feet by the vivid beauty of that upturned face. Jean present—laughing, teasing, cajoling—could hold him captive. Ear and eye alike were busy in her presence, busy and charmed; haunting, everyday cares were thrust into the background, and discontent transformed into joy. For the hour it would seem as if the whole happiness of life were to laugh, and dance, and to rejoice in the sunshine. So far so good, but—Jean absent, the spell dissolved. The thought of her had no power to hold him; he could live tranquilly for months together, indifferent to, almost forgetful of, her existence. Here there was surely something wrong. This could be no real passion, which was so lightly dispelled. If he really loved as a man should love, the thought of her should be as chains drawing him to her side. Piers Rendall sighed. “Perhaps,” he told himself with weary self-depredation—“perhaps I am incapable of real passion. It is the same story all round. I never get far enough. Nature made me in a mocking mood, cursing me with high aims and poor achievements. What I long for is never accomplished, what I attain never satisfies. If I am to find any happiness from life, I must adjust the balance and be satisfied with smaller things. It’s time I married. Most men can live alone, but I’m sick of solitude. Ten years of life in chambers is enough for any man. Jean is a darling, a delight to the eyes; she’s only a child, but she’s sweet all through, and she’ll grow. She’ll be a dear woman. I am always happy in her company—it’s only when we are apart that I have doubts. If she would have me, we should always be together. Would she have me, I wonder?”
He looked down at the girl as she walked by his side, critically, questioningly, with a certain wistfulness of expression, yet without a throb of the desperate, death-and-life tension which another man might have felt, which he himself understood enough to miss and to covet.
“Shall I never feel?” he asked himself, and his thin face twitched and twitched again.
“You don’t speak,” cried Jean lightly. “Poor Piers! he thinks it a silly question, but he is too kind to speak the truth. Does the girl expect to be immortal? he is saying to himself, and trying to conjure up a picture—the picture of Jean Goring, old! Ah, well, it will be only my husk that alters; and even when it’s withered and dry there’ll be this comfort; you’ll be withered, too! We shall all grow old together, and we’ll be friends still, and cling together, and sympathise, and think the young so—crude!” She laughed, and pointed forward with an outstretched hand.
“Here’s the tennis-lawn, and there’s the fernery, and here’s a prosaic gravel path dividing the two. You’ve seen fifty thousand other gardens like it before. Now shut your eyes—keep them shut, and let me guide you for the next two minutes. Then prepare for a surprise.”
Vanna shut her eyes obediently, and surrendered herself to the guiding hand. For some yards the path stretched smooth and straight beneath her feet, then suddenly it curved and took a downward dope. At the same time the well-rolled smoothness disappeared, and her feet tripped against an occasional stone. The second time this happened a hand touched her shoulder with the lightest, most passing of pressures—that was Piers Rendall, who had evidently crossed the path at the opposite side from Jean, to be a further security to her steps. Vanna flushed, and trod with increased care, but the path was momentarily becoming more difficult, and despite all her precautions she slipped again, more heavily than before. This time the hand grasped her arm without pretence, and at the same moment she stopped short, and cried quickly:
“Oh, it’s too rough. I can’t go on. I’m going to open my eyes.”
“Open!” cried Jean’s voice dramatically, and with a hand placed on each elbow twisted her round to face the west.
Vanna gave a cry of delight, and stood transfixed with admiration. The commonplace white house with its tennis-lawn and beds of geraniums had disappeared; she stood on a path looking across a narrow glen illuminated by sunshine, which streamed down through the delicate foliage of a grove of aspens. The dappled light danced to and fro over carpets of softest moss, through which peeped patches of violets and harebells. The trunks of the aspens shone silvery white; here and there on the crest of the hills stood a grave Scotch fir, grey-blue against the green. From below came the melodious splash of water; the faint hum and drone of insect life rose from the ground; from overhead floated down the sweet, shrill chorus of birds. Vanna gazed, her face illumined with admiration, and her companions in their turn gazed at her face. It also was good to look at at that moment, and eloquent as only a usually quiet face can be.
“Oh! how wonderful! It’s a dell—a glade—a fairy glade! The unexpectedness of it! Only a few yards from those beds of geraniums! One feels as if anything like a house or bedding-out plants must be at the other end of the world... And down there the little stream...” She lifted her head with a sudden glance of inquiry. “The stream grows wider surely—there are stepping-stones—at the end there’s a lake. I am sure there is a lake—!”
Before Piers had time to reply, Jean had interrupted with a quick exclamation:
“Vanna! How did you know? How did you guess? You have never been here before?”
“Perhaps Miss Strangeways thinks that she has. Have you visited our glen in another incarnation, Miss Strangeways, that you remember its details so distinctly?”
Vanna shook her head.
“No; I have never known that feeling. One hears of it, but it doesn’t come to me. It’s more like—expectation. I seemed for the moment to see ahead. It must really be a fairy glen, for there’s enchantment in the air. Something—something is going to happen here. I feel it! Something good! We are going to be happy!”
Piers looked at her curiously, but Jean remained charmingly matter-of-fact.
“Of course we are, and we are going to begin at once. Let’s sit down and talk. It’s cool tinder these trees, and I’m sleepy after lunch. So you don’t remember being here before, Vanna? How stupid of you! You must have a very short memory. We’ve played here together scores of times, when there was no white house, and no smooth lawn, and the grandparents of these old trees were gay young saplings. I was a wood-nymph, and danced about with the other nymphs all day long, and flirted with the elves—elves are masculine, I’m sure! and feasted on nuts. (That habit lasts. I adore them still.) When winter came, I curled up into a tight little ball in the hollow of an oak, and slept till spring came back. Where is that old oak, I wonder? I long to meet it again. And all the long summer days we ate wild strawberries, and drank out of the stream, and played hide-and-seek among the trees. And one day, Piers, you came along—do you remember? I peered out from behind the leaves, and saw you coming.”
“I was not an elf then—one of the number who was honoured by your attentions?”
“Oh, dear me, no! Nothing so frivolous. You an elf! You were a woodcutter with a solemn face, and a long white beard, and a big strong axe, and you came trespassing into my glade with intent to kill my dear tree friends. But I circumvented you. When you took up your axe I swung on the branches till the sunshine danced on your eyes, and dazzled them so that you could not see.”
“The same old trick! I seem to have no difficulty in remembering you in that guise. It has a flavour of to-day.”
“Poof!” Jean blew disdain from pursed-up lips. “So much for you. If you are so clever at remembering, tell me something about Vanna as she was at that time. She was there that day—quite close to me. What was she like?”
Piers looked across to where Vanna sat, and, for the first time in the short history of their acquaintance, their eyes met with smiling ease and friendliness. Each felt a sense of relief to see the other in happier mood, and with it an increased appreciation of the other’s charm. “If he were always happy, how handsome he would be!”
“She is charming when she smiles. She should always smile!”
“So we are old friends, Miss Strangeways. We have Jean’s word for it, so it must be true. My memory is not very clear. Let me think. I was a woodcutter with a long grey beard. I must have looked rather striking in a beard. And I invaded Jean’s glade with intent to kill, and made your acquaintance there. What can you have been? Not a nymph, I think; perhaps a flower—”
Vanna lifted a protesting hand. Whence came this sudden tide of happiness; this swift rush of blood through the veins? The last year’s burden of sorrow had weighed heavily upon her shoulders; the Harley Street interview had seemed to put a definite end to youth and joy; but now suddenly, unreasonably, the mist lifted, she knew a feeling not only of mental but of actual physical lightness; hard-won composure gave place to the old gay impulse toward laughter and merriment.
“No—no. I guess what you are going to say; but spare me, I pray you! I was not ‘a violet by a mossy dell.’ It is the inevitable comparison, but it does not apply. Whatever I was, I am sure I was never content to nestle in that mossy bed.”
Piers Rendall looked at her reflectively, the smile still lingering round his mouth.
“No-o,” he said slowly. “I should not think the violet was exactly your counterpart. We must leave it to Jean—”
“She was a Scotch fir,” said Jean firmly. “She stood up straight and stiff against the sky, and there were little sharp spikes on her boughs, and if you ran against her, she pricked; but when the storms came, and the aspens bent and swayed, she stood firm, and the little needles fell on the ground, and made a soft, soft bed, and we lay there sheltered, and slept till the storm passed by. There! You never knew how poetic I could be. I’m quite exhausted with the effort, and so sleepy! I positively must have a nap. Run away, you two! Explore the glen for half an hour, and leave me in peace. If there’s one thing in the world I adore, it’s sleeping out-of-doors.”
She curled up on the ground as she spoke, nestling her cheek in her hand, and yawning like a tired child, without disguise or apology. Evidently there was no pretence about her statement, for already her eyelids had begun to droop, until dark lashes rested on the flushed cheeks; she moved her head to and fro seeking for greater comfort; peered upward, and exclaimed with added emphasis:
“Go away! I told you to go.”
Jean was accustomed to issue queenly commands, and her friends were accustomed to obey. Piers and Vanna strolled down the sloping path, leaving her to her dreams. A day before Vanna would have felt unhappily that Piers was chafing at the change of companionship, and condoling with himself in advance on a half-hour’s boredom; to-day she was troubled by no such doubts. Self-confidence had returned, and with it the old stimulating consciousness of charm.
Piers Rendall deserved no pity at her hands.
The path grew steeper, strewn with pebbles, interspersed with crawling roots of trees; the gentle trickle of water deepened in tone as it swirled in rapid flow round the mossy stones; banks of old-fashioned purple rhododendron framed the margin of the lake. A rustic bench stood at a corner, whence the most extensive view could be obtained; the two seated themselves thereon, and slid easily into conversation.
“So you have pleasant anticipations concerning our glen? We are used to admiration, but I think that it is quite the most charming compliment it has received. If it had recalled a dim memory it would not have been half so interesting, for when the good things arrive we are bound to have a share in them, if only the pleasure of looking on while you enjoy. What form does it take—this presentiment of yours? Have you any definite idea of what is to happen—or when?”
Vanna shook her head.
“Nothing! I only know that the moment I opened my eyes and looked round I felt a throb of—not surprise, something bigger than surprise, and a quite extraordinary rush of happiness and hope. Things have not been cheery with me of late, so it is all the more striking. I feel about ten years younger than when I left the house.”
He looked at her searchingly, and Vanna entered it to his credit that he spared her the obvious flattering retort. Instead, his own expression seemed to cloud; he leant his arms on his knees and, bending forward, stared gloomily into space.
“What sports of circumstances we are! I was looking round the table at lunch to-day and puzzling for the hundredth time over the question of temperament. Does it interest you at all? Do you find it a difficulty? Why are some of us born into the world handicapped with temperaments which hold us in chains all our days, and others with some natural charm or quality of mind which acts as an open sesame wherever they go? Look at Miggles! A plain, lonely old woman, without a sou. If she had been born with a ‘difficult’ temper, she might have worked, and slaved, and fought with evil passions, and gone to bed every night of her life wearied out with the stress of battle, and when the need of her was past, her employers would have heaved a sigh of relief, and packed her off with a year’s salary. Can’t you hear her requiem? ‘a good creature, most painstaking—what a relief to be alone!’ But Miggles! No sane creature would willingly send her away. You would as soon brick up windows to keep out the sun. She radiates happiness and content, without—this is the point—without effort on her own part! The effort to her would be to grumble and be disagreeable, yet she receives all the credit and appreciation which she would have more truly deserved in the other case. And Jean! Look at Jean! Honestly—we are both her devoted slaves—but honestly, is it by any virtue of her own? Does she reign by merit or by chance?”
Vanna smiled.
“I know what you mean. Jean is charming, but it is easier for her to be charming than for most people. Every glance in the glass must be as reviving as a tonic. She has no difficulty in making friends, for people advance three quarters of the way to meet her; and if by chance she is in a bad mood—well, she is charming still. Of course, if she were plain—”
“Exactly! She reigns in a kingdom of chance, and by no merit of her own. Doesn’t that seem rather hard on the unfortunates who start with a handicap—a restless, unsatisfied nature, for example—a nature which longs for the affection and appreciation which it seems fated never to receive; which suffers and struggles, and honestly sees no reason why life should be harder for it than for another? Yet there it is—the inequality, the handicap from the beginning. Jean has beauty and charm, but even these don’t weigh so heavily in the balance as happiness; the aura of happiness and content which radiates from Miggles and her kind—the Mark Tapleys of the world, who triumph over every sort of physical and material difficulty. You smile! Are you thinking of some one you know, some particular person who is included in this happy category?”
“Yes; of a man I met only the other day—a man over thirty, with eyes like a child; clear, and unclouded, and happy. Yet he had known many anxieties; in a worldly sense I suppose he would be counted a failure, but, as you say, one felt it, the aura of radiant happiness and content.”
“Lucky beggar! The world which counts him a failure would think me a success, because I have plenty of money, and was born to a decent position; but looking back over my life I can’t remember one single occasion when I have been really content. There has always seemed something wanting, a final touch of completeness floating out of reach. Yet I give you my word, if at this moment a wish would bring me anything I chose, I should not know what to ask!”
Vanna looked at him searchingly, noting the lean cheeks, the hollow brow, the deep lines around eyes and mouth.
“Isn’t that partly physical, don’t you think? You don’t look strong. The body affects the mind.”
Her voice involuntarily took a softer tone, the feminine tribute to weakness in any form; but Piers Rendall would not accept the excuse.
“On the contrary, it’s my mind that affects my body. I’m strong enough. My body was born free of microbes—the poison was in my mind. That seems a hard theory, but it’s true. Have you never noticed how one child in a family seems to have inherited all the weaknesses and failings, while the others get off scot free? He is plain, while they are handsome; sullen, where they are genial; underhand, while they are open. I know such cases where one can only look on and marvel—where there is no blame to be cast, where the parents have broken no law—are healthy, no relation—”
Vanna winced. A shadow passed across her face, as if cast by a flickering bough.
“Don’t talk of it,” she cried urgently. “Don’t! It is too pitiful, here in this glen. I can’t discuss such things here. Another time, perhaps, but let me be happy here. Talk of happy things. There is so much sorrow...”
Piers looked at her, and as he did so there arose in his mind the swift remembrance of her face as she had sat upon the pebbly beach a few days before—the face on which he had read tragedy. Remorse seized him. He hastened to retrieve his mistake.
“Forgive me. You are quite right—the scene is not appropriate. Miss Strangeways, by the laws of appreciation, this glen is yours. I have a conviction that these trees recognise you as their queen. Lay down a law, and we will keep it. Come what may, when you and I enter this glen, we will leave our troubles behind. It shall be a space apart, in which to be busy over nothing but being happy. We will talk of happy things, happy memories, happy prospects; best of all, the happy present. It shall be a sin against the realm and its sovereign to mention one painful fact. Is it agreed?”
Vanna looked around with wistful glance.
“The Happy Land! That is a charming idea—to keep one spot on earth sacred to happiness! Why has not one thought of that before? Yes, indeed, Mr Rendall, I’ll agree. The only pity is that I shall be here so seldom. One ought to keep one’s happy land within reach.”
“I hope you may come more often than you think. Mr Goring is talking of buying the Cottage, and if that comes off you will be constantly with them. My visits also are only occasional. For nine months of the year I am in town. It will be an extra attraction to come down to a place where I am bound to be happy. Where is your settled home?”
“I have no home at present.”
Vanna vouchsafed no further explanation, and Piers did not ask for one, for which she was grateful. More than once this tactful reservation of the obvious had arrested her attention, and been mentally noted as the man’s best point. Vanna felt sorry for him, tender over him, as a woman will do over something that is suffering or weak. The nervous, restless face looked far indeed from content, yet he had declared that if he had power to wish he would not know what to desire. That might mean that he was dwelling in that unrecognised stage of love, that period of discomfort, doubt, and upheaval, which precedes the final illumination. It would go hard with him if he loved and were disappointed. She put the thought aside with resolute effort. Was not the glen dedicated to happy thoughts?
The half-hour slipped quickly away, and presently Jean herself descended to seat herself on the bench by Vanna’s side, and take the conversation under her own control. At four o’clock they returned to the house, mounting the steep path, and entering with a sigh the stiff precincts of the garden.
On the verandah the two stout, black-robed figures of the old ladies could be seen reposing in their wickerwork chairs, but, behold, the distance between those chairs was largely increased, and between the two, the obvious centre of attraction, sat a third form—a masculine form, clad in light grey clothes, towards whom both glances were directed, who gesticulated with his hands, and bent from side to side. The face of this newcomer could not be distinguished; his figure was half hidden by the encircling chairs.
“Who the dickens?” ejaculated Piers blankly. He stared beneath frowning brows, searching memory, without response. “None of the neighbours. Some one from town. How has he come?”
Vanna looked, but without interest. In a short time the carriage would be at the door to carry the three ladies back to the cottage by the sea. The advent of a stranger could not affect them for good or ill. She turned to exchange a casual remark with Jean, and behold, Jean’s cheeks were damask—flaming, as if with a fever. Now what was this? The effect of that nap on the mossy ground? But not a moment before Jean’s colour had been normal. Had anything been said to arouse her wrath? Was she by chance annoyed at this interruption to the visit? And then, nearer already by a score of yards, Vanna turned once more towards the verandah, and understood. There, sandwiched between the two old ladies, smiling, debonair, at ease, a stranger, yet apparently on terms of easy friendship, sat—not the wraith of Robert Gloucester, as for a moment seemed the only possible explanation, but the man himself, in veritable flesh and blood. Incredible, preposterous as it appeared, it was nevertheless true. One could not doubt the evidence of one’s own senses, of the eyes which beheld him, the ears which listened to his words, as in characteristic simplicity he offered his explanation.
“How do you do? You are surprised to see me here. I came down by the twelve train. Mr Goring and I have arranged to have some fishing together. I’m putting up at the inn. I called at the Cottage and found you were out. The maid told me where you were to be found, and I thought I would walk over, and perhaps have the pleasure of escorting you home. I have introduced myself as you see!” So far he had addressed himself pointedly to Vanna, casting never a glance in the direction of Jean, but now he turned towards Piers with the frankest of smiles. “My name’s Gloucester. I’m just home from abroad. I’m going to fish with Mr Goring. Hope you don’t mind my intruding. I am at a loose end down here.”
“Not at all—not at all! Pleased to see you. Sit down. We’ll have some tea.” Piers spoke cordially; what was more to the point, he looked cordial into the bargain. Of a shy, reserved nature, cherishing an active dislike of strangers, he yet appeared to find nothing extraordinary or offensive in the intrusion of this man “just home from abroad,” who had raided his mother’s privacy in the hope of gaining for himself the pleasure of meeting her invited guests. Vanna looked past him to the faces of the two old ladies seated on the basket chairs, and beheld them benign, smiling, unperturbed. They also had fallen beneath the spell of Gloucester’s personality, and had placidly accepted his explanations. Jean walked to the farthest of the row of chairs, pushed it back out of the line of vision, and seated herself in silence. Piers strolled towards the house to hurry the arrival of tea, and Miggles declared genially:
“So nice for gentlemen to fish! Such an interest, especially getting on in years like Mr Goring. Gout, you know! such a handicap. I believe the inn is comfortable. Quite clean; but always mutton. You will have to take meals with us.”
“I—I’ve lost my handkerchief. I’ll look upstairs,” mumbled Vanna hurriedly. She dived through the open window, fled upstairs to the shelter of the bedroom where she had laid aside her wraps three hours before, and sinking down on the bed pressed both hands against her lips. For the first time for many weeks, laughter overcame her in paroxysms which could not be repressed. She laughed and laughed; the tears poured down her cheeks; she laughed again and again.