Chapter Thirteen.
The Sanest Woman.
During the remainder of the winter Piers Rendall paid frequent visits to Seacliff, appearing at unexpected moments, sometimes after but a week’s interval, sometimes but once in the month. The feeling that he might arrive at any moment brought an element of excitement into Vanna’s quiet life. It was delightful to awake in the morning and feel that there was something to which she could look forward—an object towards which to move. When he came there would be invigorating gallops across the downs, visits to the Happy Land, where each was bound to cast care to the winds; happy tea-parties in the dining-room; cosy chats round the fire, Miggles lying on her sofa, Vanna seated on the footstool by her side, Piers in his favourite position on the hearthrug, his long legs stretched out, his back resting against the wall. Sometimes he would recount the doings of the great city, and discuss politics up to date for the edification of the two women, who were keenly interested in the course of events. Sometimes he would read aloud from a book in which Miggles was interested; sometimes they would roast chestnuts, and laugh and jest and cap amusing anecdotes like a party of merry children. Looking at Piers’s face illumined by the firelight on one of these occasions, a sudden vision flashed before Vanna’s eyes of that face as she had seen it first. The tightly drawn skin, the down-turned lips, the hard brilliancy of the eyes, the nervous twitching of the features. This man smiling upon her looked strong, and happy, and glad. Whence had come the change?
At Whitsuntide Jean and Robert came down for a three days’ visit—the first since their marriage, and the little cottage was filled with the atmosphere of spring and joy. Two people more utterly content, more beautiful in their happiness, it would be impossible to conceive. Jean was in her gayest, least responsible mood, full of histories of her own failures as housekeeper, her difficulty with bills, her hopeless exceeding of the weekly allowance—the which she recounted with triumphant amusement, while Robert sat looking on with an air of penitence and guilt. That he should dare to inflict petty economies upon this goddess among women!
Towards her old friend Jean’s manner was composed of a mingling of tenderness and wonder.
“There’s no question about this place suiting you, Vanna,” she said the last evening, as the two girls enjoyed a short tête-à-tête in the garden. “I have never seen you look so well; nor so pretty. Robert says so, too. Somehow—I don’t know how it is, but you look different, I keep looking at you to see the cause. You have not changed your hair?”
“No; my hair is as you last saw it. It won’t ‘go’ any other way. There’s no difference that I know of. It exists only in your imagination.”
“No!” Jean was obstinate. “You look different. Dear old thing, it’s a comfort to see you so sweet and blooming. I was afraid I should find you all gone to pieces. I do admire you. When I think of your life, and mine! I should be such a beast. Miggles says you are an angel. So does Piers. Not in so many words, of course. Piers never says what he feels. He is such a silent, shut-up creature, but I could see that he was simply bursting with admiration of your life down here. Doesn’t he look well? I have never seen him so bright. Robert says he goes a great deal to the Van Dusens’. They have such a pretty daughter. I’ve wondered so often if he could be in love at last. That would account for it all. I hope he is—Old Piers! I should like him to be happy.”