A Question of Marriage.

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE BAN.

The grey London sunlight shone on the face of the patient as she sat facing the long window of the consulting-room, on the finely cut features, sensitive lips, and clear, dilated eyes. The doctor sat in the shadow, leaning back in his chair, tapping softly with his fingers upon the desk.

"And you must not be afraid," he said, following a vigorous cross-questioning with his skilled advice. "That is the most important lesson which you have to learn. Banish fear. Live it down; if necessary, crowd it out. Don't allow yourself time to think and grow morbid. I tell you frankly that the chances are quite good that you may entirely _escape_ this curse of your family, but you must understand that the power is in your own hands to increase or diminish those chances. Anxiety, depression, loneliness--these will be your worst enemies. You say that you have sufficient means; that makes things easier all round. Cultivate interests; cultivate friends. Search for congenial occupation, and when you have found it--work! Work hard; hard enough to make rest grateful when the day is over, and sleep sound--_not_ hard enough to feel worn out. Avoid fatigue as carefully as you would idleness. Take a good holiday twice a year, and as many little breaks as possible. Be a hard task-mistress of your mind, but of your body a careful, even an indulgent, guardian. The two continually act and react on each other. A diseased mind imagines illness where there is none; a diseased body taints and demoralises the mind. Look after both. You must allow yourself to be somewhat self-indulgent as regards health. There will be other matters which will demand all your courage and self-denial..."

The girl did not speak, but her eyelashes flickered nervously over her dilated eyes. The doctor looked down at the tips of those tapping fingers.

"Marriage," he said slowly--"Marriage is not for you. It is better that you should face that fact at once. Such a family history as the one you have just related is a standing evidence of selfishness and cruelty.

Your parents, your grandparents, outraged a great moral law, and you and others are here to pay the price. You must not follow their example.

This handing on of disease must come to an end. You may think that in the case of your possible marriage there might not be children; I will not discuss that point to-day--it is not needful. You are my patient, and you yourself would run a more serious risk of developing the malady as a wife. Even the happiest of married lives has responsibilities, anxieties, physical and mental strains, which might easily prove too much for your mental balance. It would not be fair to a man to bring that dread into his life. Marriage for you would be a cruel and cowardly act. For the man's sake, for your own sake, you must put the idea out of your life."

There was a moment's silence in the room, then the girl spoke in a low, faint voice:

"Thank you!" she said softly. With a hand that moved in mechanical fashion she took a little paper packet from her m.u.f.f, laid it down on the corner of the desk, and rose to her feet.

"One moment!" cried the doctor hastily. In that room, seated in that chair, it had been his lot to speak many sentences of death, but he had not yet hardened himself to maim a life unmoved. Having dealt his blow, he was anxious to speak a word of comfort to the girl who had said "Thank you," in that quiet voice. His keen, hawk-like face wrinkled into a network of lines as he looked at her across the room.

"One moment! What I have said may appear hard; but before you allow yourself to grieve at a possible sorrow, look around at the women whom you know--married and unmarried--compare their lives, make what you can out of the contrast. There is a large, an increasing number of unmarried women who consider that their own is the fuller and easier lot; they refuse to give up their liberty to become what is called the 'slave of a household.' There are some unlovely features connected with their cult; but remember there is always a modic.u.m of truth behind such axioms. A married woman, if she is worth her salt, lives not for herself, but for her household. If she has wider possibilities of joy, she has also infinitely greater possibilities of pain. Even putting the husband apart--and he as a rule comes first of all--if she has ten children, she must needs suffer with each of the ten. Give her every ease and luxury in the world, and if one of the brood is in trouble, the poor soul must go down to the depths by his side. To be a wife and mother is the hardest profession in the world; some people also consider it the worst repaid. Don't allow yourself to be blinded by sentiment concerning the married life. Remember its drawbacks; exaggerate them if you will. Your best medicine is content; to secure that, cultivate, if needs be, a little intentional blindness. Never allow yourself to believe that your happiness is necessarily sacrificed!"

"Thank you," repeated the girl once more.

It was the great man's duty to exhort, and preach cheerfulness and resignation, but to-day his trained physiological eye gave the lie to his words. This was not a woman whom nature had framed to live alone.

Hers was a tender and appealing grace; long sweeping lashes lent a veiled softness to her eyes; her lips were red and curved; her figure, though slim, was gracefully rounded; an atmosphere of feminine charm enveloped her whole personality. Men would love her, children would love her; but she must turn from them and live alone. The doctor's thoughts over-leapt professional bounds, and took an intimate, personal tone.

"You say you are a comparative stranger in town," he said abruptly.

"You ought to have friends--plenty of friends. My wife is at home every Sunday afternoon. Will you come to see us sometimes, and let us do what we can to help your life?"

"Thank you," said the girl for the third time. After a moment's hesitation she added quickly, "You are very good. I should like to come."

"That's well. Come soon. We shall expect you next Sunday, or the one following. Good afternoon."

The door opened and shut, and the girl found herself once more in the big, grim entrance hall. A table of carved oak strewed with cards and letters occupied the centre position; plaster busts of well-known scientific men stood on brackets to right and left, a gla.s.s case containing stuffed birds and fish testified to the doctor's holiday recreation. At the girl's approach the butler rose from a bench near the door, his expression unconsciously sobering, to match her own.

All day long he ushered patients into that dull back room, and escorted them to the door after the all-important interview; he had grown skilful in divining the nature of the verdict which each one had received.

Occasionally a friend or a relation of the patient came out from that room in tears, but the patient himself rarely wept. He walked with mechanical steps; he stared before him with blank, unseeing eyes, as this young lady stared to-day. She was young, too, good-looking, nicely dressed; the butler was moved to a sigh of regret as he flung open the heavy oak door.

The girl who was never to marry walked out into the glare of the streets, and turned mechanically towards the west.

CHAPTER TWO.

FACING THE MUSIC.

Jean Goring sat in her boudoir, awaiting the return of her friend and guest, Sunblinds were drawn over the windows, the chairs and sofas were covered with linen, the cushions with dainty muslins; the carpet was a stretch of dull, moss-like green; the only bright notes of colour in the room were to be found in the ma.s.ses of freshly cut roses which adorned the various tables, and in that most radiant flower of all, Jean Goring's face.

The laces of the white peignoir, the muslin of the frilled cushion showed out in almost startling beauty the dark mist of hair; the exquisitely flushed cheeks, dark brows, and curling lashes gave a deepened shade to the violet blue of the eyes. The rich brunette colouring had a somewhat un-English aspect, yet there was not a drop of foreign blood in the girl's veins--she was Irish "all through, except my mother, who was Scotch," as she herself was accustomed to describe her lineage. The contour of her face was oval, the profile showed the delicate fineness of a cameo. Happy Jean! her beauty was no light gift to pa.s.s away with her loss of youth; beautiful she was now, beautiful she must always remain. Age, sorrow, suffering might do their worst; those who looked on would ever find her the perfection of her type. If she lived to be eighty she would be as essentially an artist's model as she was now at twenty-two.

The clock struck four. Jean put down her book and raised her head from the cushion to listen to the sound of an approaching footstep. The door opened, and she beheld Vanna Strangeways' white, strained face. The horrid doctor had given a depressing verdict. So much was evident at a glance; but Jean had too much tact to allow her knowledge to betray itself at this moment.

"Well, my dearie, back again! I was longing for you. Sit down in that nice low chair, and let me be lady's-maid. The streets must be a grill this afternoon, but you'll soon cool down up here. There; you'll feel better without that hat. Your hair looks charming--don't worry. It couldn't look untidy if it tried. Now your gloves. I shall peel them right off. It will be occupation for an idle hour to turn out the fingers. If I were a queen I'd never, never wear gloves a second time.

Now those dusty little shoes. Your slippers are here all ready. Sit still. I'm _going_ to undo them. I love to do it."

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."

"Yes," breathed Jean softly. Her woman's heart realised at once the finality of that argument; she saw the shutters descend over her friend's life, and knew too deep a sorrow for words. The pressure of her hands, the quiver of her lips, were the most eloquent signs of fellow feeling. Vanna went on speaking in quiet, level tones:

"I was in the house only half an hour, but when I came out the whole world seemed changed... The people who pa.s.sed me in the streets, the ordinary little groups that one sees every day, all launched a dart as they pa.s.sed. A husband and wife strolling along together--not young and romantic at all, just prosaic and middle-aged, and--_content_. They were not any happier than I, perhaps, but they had had their time--they had lived. They had not that restless, craving expression which one sees on so many faces. They were content... It hurt to see them, and a big schoolboy, too, walking with his mother. I'm not fond of boys, and Etons are the ugliest of clothes. He was a lanky, freckled, graceless thing; but--I wanted him! I wanted to be able to say, '_my son_'...

One always loves the tots in the Park--little white bundles with curly heads; but to-day I envied the nursemaids. I wanted to be tired, wheeling my bundle. I tried not to look at the people. I stared into the shop windows instead; but they hurt too. You know my craze for furniture? I've whiled away many hours mentally furnishing my home of the future. I had decided the colour for each room, and the scheme of decoration. When anything worried me in another house, I consoled myself that it would be different in mine; when I admired a thing, I made a mental note. Jean, I shall have _no_ home! A boarding-house, an apartment, perhaps a solitary cottage in the wilds, never, never a real warm home with some one to love, and to love me back... How should you feel if it were you; if any one had put a blank wall before _your_ life?"

"As you do, dear--dazed and broken; worse, perhaps, for I should not take it so calmly. I should storm and rage."

"Yes! You are _revoltee_. It doesn't help, Jean, or I would shriek with the best. There is only one thing which rouses my wrath--I ought to have known before. Aunt Mary thought it was kind to bring me up in ignorance. When I asked questions about my relations she put me off with generalities. I thought it was strange that so many of them had been invalids... I never could understand why I had not seen father for years before his death. When I was a child I took for granted that he had been abroad; later, I scented a mystery and was afraid to ask. I suffered tortures, Jean, puzzling over it at nights, trying to piece together scattered bits of information. I had terrible thoughts--the blackest thoughts. I had visions of him as a forger, shut up in a cell.

When the bell rang late at night I used to tremble, wondering if it were he escaped from prison, coming to us for shelter... Then at the end, as so often happens, it came out just by chance. Some people were sitting behind a screen at a reception, and they spoke of me--just a few words, and before I could move I had heard the great secret.

'Interesting-looking girl! It is to be hoped she won't go mad, too. So many of that family--' It was like a flashlight over the past. I looked back, and understood. All the bits fitted, and the mystery was solved.

I was not the daughter of a criminal--only of a maniac, who had been shut up for five years before his death. That was my grandmother's mysterious illness, and Aunt Bertha's too--pretty Aunt Bertha, who disappeared for a year at a time, for a 'cure,' and came back looking so worn and sad. That was the explanation of my boy cousin's violent temper, and of the misery of his father and mother after each explosion.

And I, arrogant young schoolgirl, used to criticise their weakness, and expatiate on the firmness with which I should bring up my own children, and Aunt Mary would look at me so wistfully over the top of her spectacles. Heigho! Well, then I _knew_, and after that I could not rest. I grew nervous about myself; I got into the habit of watching myself, as it were--waiting for danger-signals, for symptoms. I had sense enough left to know that that was the best way to develop all that I dreaded, and this last year I have been waiting for a chance to consult a specialist and thrash out the question, I could not leave Aunt Mary while she was so ill; after her death there was so much to be arranged; now at last I've had my interview, and this is the result, Jean, is it strange? I never once thought of this verdict. It seemed the right and the wise thing to take skilled advice, but what I expected was to be soothed and rea.s.sured. Aunt Mary always laid such emphasis on the fact that I was my mother's child. It delighted her so, poor soul, to see my quiet, level-headed ways. Whenever I had been particularly controlled and sensible, she would repeat, 'Yes, yes! You are a thorough Neale; there is not one sc.r.a.p of Strangeways in you.' I expected Dr Greatman to realise as much, and a.s.sure me that I had nothing to fear; that I was not the type; that some fortunate members of the family always escaped. I thought he would perhaps lay down certain rules, restrictions, cautions against over-excitement. Never, never for one moment did I expect this."

Jean was silent. She had feared. Ever since receiving her friend's confidence, her thoughts had hovered round this one absorbing question.

Would Vanna be justified in marrying? Now the greatest living authority had answered strongly in the negative, and there was no escaping his decree. She looked ahead, seeing her friend throughout the years, a charming girl, a more charming woman; later on losing her freshness and grace, and becoming faded and tired; later again, becoming old and infirm, the senses failing--and always alone, for ever alone. The slow tears welled to her eyes, a drop brimmed over and fell on her friend's hand.