Chapter Twenty Two.
Marking Time.
Robert and Jean were not surprised. That was the fact which, for Vanna, stood out in conspicuous relief. They were grieved, sympathetic, unspeakably tender towards her; but she divined that if they felt any surprise, it was not that Piers had found his present position untenable, but rather that he should have been able to endure it so long. That they should feel so, who were her dearest, most admiring friends, planted a sharp stab in Vanna’s heart, yet it was to them that she owed what poor comfort was to be found during the long intolerable weeks before Piers’s departure.
Jean said little. In her own hour of blackness she had discovered the futility of words, but in a hundred quiet, exquisitely tactful ways she forced upon Vanna the importance of what remained: of the place which she occupied in so many lives; of her own love and need.
“You will never know what you have been to me, Vanna! I have often wanted to tell you; but it isn’t easy to speak of these things. I think after one has married and settled down, one needs a woman friend more than ever. There is so much that even the best and tenderest of men can’t understand. You’ve been my safety-valve and my prop. Multiply my gratitude by the number of all the poor souls whom you have nursed and tended, and you will realise your riches. Thoughts help, Vanna—I’m convinced of that—loving, thankful thoughts going out towards you from all parts of the land. It’s impossible that your life should be cold or bald—”
“Is it, Jean, is it? It sounds very sweet, dear, and very lofty; but put yourself in my place. Would all the gratitude in the world cheer you if Robert went away?”
The colour flooded Jean’s face, then slowly ebbed away, leaving her pale and wan.
“No,” she sighed, breathlessly. “No; nothing! There would be no comfort. He is everything to me—everything! More, a thousand times more, than when we were married; but, Vanna, can you believe it? there have been times during these last years when I have envied you. The balance hasn’t been all on my side. To be well; to be strong; to be able to run about, and plan out one’s life; to say ‘I will do this, I will do that’; to shut up house at a day’s notice, shake off responsibilities, and go away for long, lovely rests—oh, it has seemed so good! When we were young we took health for granted: one has to be ill to realise how it counts; how desperately it counts. Love is said to triumph over all; but, Vanna dear, one needs to be well to be able even to love. That sounds strange, but it’s true; there’s no feeling left. Often and often I’ve longed all day for Robert to come home, and after he has been in the room for five minutes, I’ve longed for him to go away again. I’ve been too tired! Of course every woman does not suffer as I have done; but then how many have a husband like Robert? I tell him sometimes that my bad health is the price I’ve had to pay for having a saint for my husband. If I’d kept well, it would have been too perfect. One does not get everything... And the children—little pets! they love me now; I am a sort of god to them; all that I do is right; but sometimes as I hold them a pang goes through my heart; such a pang! I know it won’t last! I shall go on loving them more and more, needing them more; but they will grow past me. They will make their own lives, their own friends, and I shall retreat farther and farther into the background. They will love me still; I shall be the ‘dear old mater; but they won’t need me any more.’ I won’t really touch their lives. I remember how father loved me, and how I left him without a pang! Is it possible that he felt as I should do, if Lorna or Joyce... The young are cruel to the old—”
Thus Jean, with many tender, loving words; but Vanna noted with a pang that she never once expressed the belief which alone could have brought comfort—the belief that Piers would speedily return home, and remain faithful until death.