At the very first meeting after the engagement the difference of relationship had made itself felt, for Jean had shown a distinct annoyance when Vanna referred to the prophecy of the rose.
“He had told you—you knew? He talked about it to you afterwards. You knew how he felt—” Her face flushed with resentment; there was a cool aloofness in her glance, as though a friend whom she had trusted had been discovered prying into hidden treasures. “Please don’t speak of it again; don’t let any one else know. Promise me never to mention it.” That was all, but her manner said as plainly as words, “It is our secret—Robert’s and mine. What right have you on our holy ground?”
Vanna was by nature just and reasonable, and she told herself that in Jean’s place she might have felt the same irritation, though perhaps she would have been more chary about showing it. She held herself in check, and was careful never again to refer to the forbidden topic.
On another occasion, when called to give her advice on a matter in consultation between the lovers, Robert had addressed his fiancée as “Rose” when Vanna, looking up quickly, surprised a swift glance of reproach on Jean’s face.
“You have forgotten,” said that look. “We are not alone. That name is not for the ears of a stranger. It is for use only between you and me, when we are alone in our own kingdom, with the world shut out.”
The lonely ones of the world smart under many darts planted by these wordless arrows.
And Piers Rendall? Vanna was perplexed and mystified by his reception of the news. She had dreaded to see him amazed, broken down, despairing, and when he arrived at the Cottage the day after the great event, had felt her heart throb with a sympathy that was painful in its intensity. They were seated in the hall drinking tea, a happy family group, the lovers side by side on an old oak settle, when the gate clicked, and Piers’s tall figure was seen walking up the path. He looked anxiously towards the open door, and Vanna felt convinced that he had noticed the absence of the couple the afternoon before, and had a premonition of the news which lay in store. She lowered her eyes, and braced herself, as if it had been upon her own shoulders that the blow were about to fall.
“Oh, it’s Piers! I must tell Piers!” cried Jean gaily. Now that the deed was done, her former reserve had given way to an abandon of light-hearted joy. She told the great news to every one she met; it was her great joy to tell it, her regret that there were so few to listen.
Now, at sight of her old friend, she sprang from her seat.
“Robert, come,” she cried, stretching out a beckoning hand, and standing proudly linked together, the lovers met the unconscious Piers on the threshold.