Across the trouble of her mind there had flashed the remembrance of the visits of Piers Rendall.
Chapter Twelve.
The Cottage on the Cliff.
For the next two years Vanna lived quietly in the cottage on the cliff, five miles from the nearest railway station, and as many more from anything in the shape of a town. The hamlet in which she had lived with her aunt had been quiet and uneventful, but in comparison with Seacliff it was a whirl of gaiety. During the summer months there was indeed a small influx of visitors, but Seacliff had not as yet sprung into popularity, and accommodation was limited to a few scattered houses along the sea-front and the big red hotel on the top of the cliff. The hotel was closed in the winter months, and the first day that Vanna looked across the bay and beheld the smoke rising from the chimneys, she knew a thrill of joy in the realisation that the long grey winter was at an end. Long and grey, yet not unhappy. Looking back over the monotonous record of the months, and remembering her own tranquillity and content, Vanna marvelled, as many of us have done in our time, at the unlooked for manner in which our prayers have met their response. She had asked for guidance; had pleaded, with a very passion of earnestness, for some miracle of grace to fill her empty life, but no miracle had happened, no flash of light had illumined the darkness; the heavens had appeared as brass to her cry—and yet, yet, had not the answer been vouchsafed? It would not have been her own choice to pass the best years of her youth in seclusion, with no other companion than a homely, unsophisticated old woman, over whom the shadow of death crept nearer and nearer. She had dreamt of romance and adventure, and not of a home bounded by two cliff walls; nevertheless, in this companionship and in this seclusion she had found peace, and as the time passed by a returning sense of joy and interest in life. She was loved, she was needed, she was understood; and the human creature of whom so much can be said is fortunate among his fellows. In addition to her sunny temperament, Miggles possessed the great gift of tact, and when the shadow of depression fell over the girl’s spirits she asked no questions, made no comment thereon, but ministered to her generously with the meed of appreciation. “What should I do without you, child?” “Ah, my dear, how I thank God for sending you to me these last years!” Such words as these, uttered with the good-night kiss, dried many a tear on the girl’s cheeks, and sent her to bed revived and peaceful.
As the weeks passed by Vanna found friends out of doors also, and was surprised to discover the importance of her presence to the community in the little village.
“Well, now, I tell you, I can’t think what we did without you all the dull old winters,” said Mrs Jones of the grocer’s emporium one day, as she scribbled down the weekly order with the much-battered stump of a lead pencil. “You’ve been a regular godsend, cheering us up, and giving us something to think of, instead of moping along from September to June. I’m sure we’ve cause to be grateful for all you’ve done.”
Vanna flushed, surprised and a trifle overwhelmed by so gushing a compliment.
“Really, Mrs Jones, I don’t feel that I deserve any thanks. I have been so much occupied with Miss Miggs that I have had no time to spare. I can’t think of anything I have done to help you.”