From that day forward Vanna deliberately shut her eyes to the barriers which blocked her life, and gave herself up to the joy of the present. Piers knew her dread secret, and the knowledge would surely be sufficient to put any thought of her as a wife out of his mind, if indeed such a thought had existed. Her conscience being clear that he at least would not suffer through a continuance of their intimacy, she for her own part was ready to pay the price of future suffering for the rich joy of the present. The joy would not, could not last, but it was better, a thousand times better, to taste the full flavour of life, even if but for a few short months, than to drag on to old age ignorant of the deepest experiences which can stir the human soul. If suffering must come, knowledge would come with it—comprehension, sympathy, and to the end of time the memory of golden hours.
Piers’s visits increased in number, and he was unceasing in his efforts for all that concerned the welfare of the two inmates of the Cottage. In his presence Vanna expanded like a flower in the sun. Love, the magician, worked his spell upon mind and body, so that beholding her own likeness in the glass she would often blush again, as she had blushed on the afternoon of Piers’s first visit. Her pale cheeks were tinged with colour, her eyes shone, her very hair showed rich russet gleams as she wandered bare-headed in the sun. The sound of her own laugh, the aptness of her own words, astonished and delighted no one so much as herself: it was as if a hundred unsuspected beauties and charms, after lying latent all her life, had sprung suddenly to birth. There were moments when, from sheer pride and self-congratulation, she came near following Gwendoline Harleth’s historic example, and kissing her own reflection in the glass. “I am happy!” she told herself triumphantly. “This is happiness—the best I shall ever know. I must realise it, enjoy every moment, enjoy it to the full. I must guard it preciously, shut my eyes and ears to all the little jars and frets, and not allow them to interrupt. It is my golden time. In years to come, I must be able to look back and remember that I made the most of it when it was mine. It would be madness to waste an hour...”
Meanwhile the two old ladies looked on with silent understanding. Mrs Rendall had been in her own way an ardent admirer of Vanna in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but a mother looks with changed eyes upon a girl whom she suspects her son of honouring with his love. No one is worthy of that honour, and it is rarely indeed that an element of coolness and jealousy does not tinge the former affection. Mrs Rendall pursed her lips at the mention of Vanna Strangeways, and no longer pressed for repetitions of the weekly visits.
To Miggles it was unalloyed joy to behold the growing attachment between the two young people whom she loved so dearly. Never by word or deed did she hint at her desire; but as the months passed by and her health steadily declined, she hugged the thought that when her hour came the dear child who had comforted her last days would find another and a sweeter home. An ever-increasing feebleness warned her that her days were numbered, though so far she had been spared severe suffering. The local doctor confided in Vanna that such immunity could not be expected to the end, for in such cases violent paroxysms of pain were almost inevitable. Vanna shrank with fear from the prospect; but the God in whom Miggles so sweetly trusted had decreed an easier release for His child. Sitting beside an open window in the second spring of her sojourn at the Cottage, Miggles contracted a chill, which quickly developed into bronchitis. The attack did not appear serious to onlookers; but some premonition of the end seemed to visit the invalid herself, for she called Vanna to her bedside, and whispered an eager request:
“My keys, dear! On the ring! I want them here.”
Vanna brought the big, jingling bunch from its place in the work-basket with its red silk linings. Miggles had the slavish devotion to locking up which characterised her time, and it was seldom indeed that any of her possessions could be reached without the aid of at least two keys. Now with feeble fingers she separated two from the rest, and held them out for the girl’s inspection.
“This big one with the red thread, that’s for the cupboard in the spare room. This little one—the smallest but two—that’s for the bottom drawer inside. If I die this time—one can never tell—go at once and open that drawer. At once! To save you trouble.”
Vanna nodded, and put back the bunch in the basket. She herself had no fear that this illness would end fatally, until in the still hours of the night she crept to the bedside and beheld on her friend’s face the grey shadow which, once seen, can never be mistaken. The doctor was summoned, with Piers Rendall, who by good providence was staying at the Manor, and the dread sentence was pronounced in the little sitting-room in which so many peaceful hours had been spent.
“Slipping away! Heart failure! The heart is too weak to stand the extra strain caused by this oppression on the lungs. She will not last out the day. Don’t grieve, Miss Strangeways. It’s a merciful release. If she had lived she would have had great suffering. We must be thankful for her sake.”
Vanna and Piers sat together by the bedside during the long hours of that morning. A telegram of warning had been dispatched to Mr and Mrs Goring, but it was not possible that they could reach the secluded village before late in the afternoon. Miggles lay with closed eyes, breathing heavily, but without further sign of distress. For the most part she seemed to sleep, but once, when Piers bent over her, she opened her eyes and essayed to smile.