Her white, ringed fingers untied the laces, and pulled off one shoe after another so deftly and daintily that they hardly seemed to touch the surface. Then, bending still lower, she gave a deft little pull to the tip of each stocking, thereby altering its position, and giving a wonderful sense of comfort to the tired feet, Vanna Strangeways had sat silent and unresponsive till that moment, but something in the simple thoughtfulness of that last action melted the ice. She laid her hands on her friend’s shoulders and spoke in a quivering voice:
“Jean, I’ve had a blow.”
“Yes, dear,” said Jean softly. She knelt by Vanna’s side, caressing her face with her lovely eyes. “I saw. Would you rather tell me now, or wait till later on? You are tired, you know, and after a rest, and some tea. Later on—”
“Jean, it’s not what you expected—what I expected myself. I’m not going to die; I’m going to live. He thinks there is a good chance that I shall escape the curse. He wants me to lead a full, active life—the fuller the better. But—there is one thing forbidden. I may never marry!”
Jean’s lips quivered, but she said never a word. It seemed to her there was nothing to say. Few girls of the early seventies knew any desire for independent careers; and to Jean to love and to be loved seemed the stun and substance of life. She would marry, and her dear Vanna would marry also. Of course! They would be loved and won, whispering happy confidences into the other’s ear; they would bring up their children side by side, with motherly comparisons, consultations, planning for the future; they would grow old, and boast concerning their grandchildren. To be told that one could never marry seemed to Jean the crash of all things. She had no consolation to offer.
Vanna laughed feebly; a dreary-sounding little laugh.
“I don’t understand why I feel so quelled,” she said musingly. “Marriage has never entered definitely into my calculations. I have been content with the present, and have felt no need of it; but I suppose it lay all the time in the background of my mind, firmly settled, as a thing that was to be. I took for granted that I should enjoy my youth; fly about here and there as the mood took me, enjoying my liberty to the full, and then, when I’d had my fling, about twenty-six or seven, perhaps, marry some dear man and settle down to real, serious living. Now I can’t, and something has gone out of me and left a big gap. I feel like a surgeon who has lost his right arm. It’s my profession that has gone—my work in life. I shall have to begin again.”
Jean trembled, and drew nearer, leaning caressingly against her friend’s knee.
“Is he sure, dear? Why is he sure? Is there no chance?”
“No! He was not thinking of children. For my own sake it would be dangerous. I should have a worse chance. He said it would be a sin to put such a dread into a man’s life. That finishes it, you see, Jean! The more one loved the less it would be possible.”