How does one live through the first days of an intolerable grief? Looking forward, looking back, it appears impossible that reason itself could remain, yet in reality the automaton with the broken heart eats and sleeps, clothes itself, speaks in an ordinary voice, performs its necessary work.
Throughout the hours of that tortured morning Vanna told herself repeatedly that she would go mad, she would certainly go mad. It was impossible that any human creature could endure such anguish. She, in whose blood ran the fatal taint, must surely succumb sooner than others. She would go mad, and Piers would be justified. All the world would pity him. All the world would hail his escape.
But she did not go mad. She was not even ill. During the whole time of that awful soul-sickness there was not one hour when she was physically incapacitated. This extraordinary immunity of the flesh, over which each mourner marvels afresh, seemed at the time a fresh grievance. To be too ill to think, too ill to care, would have been heaven as compared with this hell of bitter, rambling thoughts. Her hero had fallen; his protestations had been empty words; there was no faith, or truth in this world, or the next; no mercy, no justice! She shut her doors and would admit no one. Jean and Robert would grieve for, and with her. Jean would cry. Robert’s face would cloud over with that pained, shrinking expression which it wore when any one dear to him was in grief, but they would not be surprised! In conclave one with another they would absolve Piers’s conduct, and say it was “natural.” Vanna laughed—a harsh, bitter laugh at the thought. So easy, so easy, when one had all the world could give, to be calm and judicial for others less fortunate! She hated Jean. She hated Robert. She hated the whole world. She hated God Himself.
Days and nights of darkness, weeks of black anger and despair, then slowly, quietly, like the coming of the dawn, the clouds began to melt, and the struggling light to make itself felt. First shame, and a shuddering horror of evil thoughts; secondly, bitterness thrust aside, instead of welcomed; finally the search-light turned upon herself, instead of on others. At that moment healing began, though it would be long indeed before any comfort from the process could be sensibly felt. To a just and generous nature it is impossible to cherish a heart-grudge where the head has pronounced absolution; and when Vanna’s first flame of anger had burnt itself out she had little blame in her heart for Piers Rendall. If he had fallen short of the ideal, was not she herself open to the same reproach? She who had always insisted upon the possibility of a spiritual love, was it consistent that she should wish to keep him sad and dissatisfied, or grudge him happiness because it was given by other hands than her own? He had given her eight years of his life; he had been honest with her. Could she not bear to stand aside, and say “God speed”?
But the light was still flickering and uncertain; the black clouds hung overhead ready to engulf her in fresh storms; a chance word or sound would open up the wound with a piercing anguish of pain. Why dwell upon the picture of a soul in torment? Vanna struggled on as thousands have done before her; but it was not until five weeks had passed that her return letter was dispatched to Piers in India.
“You are right, and you are brave. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for sparing me from the doom of spoiling your life. Don’t pity me too much. You have given me more than you know, far more; something greater even than love—understanding! Now I can feel; now I can sympathise; now I can help. This is your doing, your gift to me, so be comforted! All my life long I shall be thankful for these eight years.
“No! I will not write; not yet! In time to come we may meet and be friends, but this is Her day, it belongs to her—to that young girl who will be your wife. I’m not perfect, dear; you know my faults. I should be jealous—that’s only natural, I think. It would hurt me to hear her praises, and perhaps (I’m very feminine!) I might in revenge put out all my wiles—and I know how to charm you, Piers!—to keep you a little longer to myself. I’m honest, you see; as you say, we have always been honest with each other—for all our sakes, we’ll leave letters alone. When it is settled—it will be settled, I feel that—you can write and let me know, and tell me her name, and send me her photograph. I’m so poor and mean a thing that I am glad she is not pretty; glad that for the last time you called me your ‘dearest love.’
“I am quite well, and Jean is good to me, and so—good-bye...!”