"Robert, come," she cried, stretching out a beckoning hand, and standing proudly linked together, the lovers met the unconscious Piers on the threshold.

"Piers! Piers! I'm so glad you came. I did so want to see you. Guess what has happened! Guess--quick! We are so happy--so ridiculously happy. Guess!"

Piers stood still, looking from one to the other with a swift, questioning glance. Despite herself, despite her dread, Vanna felt it impossible to restrain from one look at his face. She turned shrinking eyes upon him, but what she saw was strangely, wonderfully different from what she had expected.

Piers stood looking from one to the other of the triumphant lovers, and for the first time since she had known him, Vanna saw his face illumined with happiness and content. It seemed incredible, but it was true. The dark eyes had lost their hard, irritable brilliance, and shone deep and soft; the discontent of the mouth was turned into a happy smile.

"You mean--you mean--" he stammered incredulously. "By Jove! you are engaged--you two! Is it really possible?"

"Yes! Yes!" Jean jumped on her feet, like a small excited child.

"You've guessed it; it's true. Congratulate us, Piers. We love to be congratulated."

"By Jove!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Piers once more. Jean's a.s.sumption of haughtiness had evidently put him off the scent, for the news appeared to take him completely by surprise. "By Jove, I _do_ congratulate you. You deserve congratulations. Gloucester, you are the luckiest man on earth. Jean, he is the only man I have ever met who is worthy of you. You're a wise girl; you've done the right thing. I do congratulate you with all my heart."

Jean jumped again, while Robert looked down at her, his soul in his eyes.

"Oh, you nice Piers! How nicely you say it. I knew you would be pleased. Come in, come in; we're having tea. Come and congratulate the family."

Piers duly went the round, repeating his congratulations in more formal manner to Mr and Mrs Goring; but it was not until tea was over and they had adjourned into the garden that he and Vanna had any conversation together. He was still overflowing with excitement and pleasure, and eager to discuss the great news with Jean's chosen friend.

"I saw that he admired her, of course--every one does; but she was so off-hand and casual that I never imagined that things were near a _denouement_. I've seen her more encouraging to half a dozen other fellows. But it's splendid; the best news I've heard for an age. Jean and Gloucester--those two together--it's poetry, romance, the ideal! He is a man in a thousand; she will be safe with him. Humanly speaking, her future is a.s.sured. You feel that, don't you--the absolute goodness and sincerity of the fellow?"

"Oh, yes! I told you so once before. It was of him that I spoke when we were discussing temperaments, and I told you of a man I had just met whose 'aura' was so radiantly attractive--that afternoon in the glen."

"The Happy Land," he corrected, looking down at her with a smile. "So that was Gloucester, and we agree in our estimate of his character.

That's good! Dear little Jean, I'm so glad of her happiness."

Vanna laughed, an inexplicable sense of relief sending her spirits racing upwards.

"And I'm so glad that _you're_ glad. I was so afraid that this would give you pain. I expected--I imagined--I thought you also were in love with Jean."

His face sobered swiftly.

"And so did I; but it was only imagination. It gave me no pain to hear this news, and if it had, I should deserve no pity. I've known her for years; I had my chance, but I never took it; was never even sure that I _wanted_ to take it; was contented to drift. Gloucester carried the camp in fourteen days." The old shadow of discontent was clouding his face once more; he was seeing in imagination Robert's face as he looked at Jean, and telling himself drearily: "Love is a gift, as much as other great powers. It is not in every nature to rise to a wonderful, transforming pa.s.sion. He can, that man. One can read it in his face.

He has not frittered away his gift; it was all there, unused, unsullied, waiting for Jean, until she should appear. He has a genius for loving, and like all geniuses he makes his power felt. Jean felt it. It is that that has drawn her to him. To gain Jean in a fortnight, while I, poor weakling, wavered for years, asking myself if I loved her! _Love_!

I don't understand the meaning of the word. I never shall. It's the same there as in everything else: I only half-way--never to the end..."

Vanna was doubly relieved to be a.s.sured of Piers's well-being when the family returned to town, and she saw Edith Morton's suffering behind her gallant a.s.sumption of content. Can anything be more pitiful than the position of a woman who loves, and finds herself pa.s.sed over in favour of a chosen friend? She cannot escape to distant scenes, as a man may do in a similar strait; her pride forbids her to withdraw from accustomed pursuits; day by day, night by night, she must smile while her heart is torn, while her eyes smart with the tears she dare not shed, while her soul cries out for the sympathy she may not ask.

Vanna's heart ached for Edith during those weeks, when every conversation turned upon preparations for the forthcoming wedding, and the lovers were blissfully engaged in the finding and furnishing of their home; but Jean herself exhibited a curious _volte-face_.

"We were quite mistaken about Edith," she informed Vanna casually one day. "Robert and she have been like brother and sister all their lives; there was never any question of sentiment on either side. I can't think why we imagined anything so foolish."

Vanna did not reply. She divined, what was indeed the truth, that Jean's disbelief was the result, not of conviction, but of deliberate intent. She simply did not choose to allow a painful thought to disturb the unclouded sunshine of her day. She was selfish--frankly, openly, designedly selfish, as young things are apt to be to whom love comes before suffering has taught it lessons; to whom it appears a right, a legitimate inheritance, rather than a gift to be received with awe, to be held with trembling.

And so the weeks pa.s.sed. Summer turned into autumn, and one October morning Jean and Robert stood side by side before the altar of a dim old church, and spoke the words which made them one for life, while Vanna Strangeways and Edith Morton stood among the group of white-robed bridesmaids, hiding the ache in their hearts behind smiling faces. To one was given the best gift of life; from the others was taken away, by the saddest of ironies, that which they had never possessed.

The church and the house were crowded with guests; the paraphernalia of a "smart wedding" was duly and ceremoniously enacted. The newly married pair stood backed against the drawing-room fireplace to receive their guests, who pa.s.sed by in a line, thence defiling into the library to regard a glittering display of gifts; thence again to the dining-room to partake of the formal, sit-down luncheon which was the fashion of the day. The bride and bridegroom sat at the top of the horseshoe table with the bridesmaids and their attendant groomsmen ranged on either side, Vanna and Piers Rendall, as foremost couple, occupying the place of honour. At the conclusion of the meal Jean stood up in her place, her gauze-like veil floating behind her, and cut the great white cake, while the spectators broke into cheers of applause. There were certain points at which it was the custom to cheer at these wedding feasts--this was one of them; another, perhaps the most popular, was when it came to the turn of the stammering bridegroom to return thanks for the speech in which his health had been proposed. It was at the point when the inevitable reference was made to the newly made partner that the laughter was timed to break out; but no one laughed when Robert Gloucester p.r.o.nounced for the first time those magic words "_My wife_!"

Down the length of the long tables more than one of the elder guests hurriedly glanced aside, or bit at the end of a moustache, hearing in that voice a magic note which wafted them back through the long years of prose and difficulty to the day when they, too, stood upon the glad threshold of life.

Later on Jean disappeared to died her bridal trappings, and came down half an hour later in hat and coat, to run the blockade of the a.s.sembled guests in the hall, _en route_ to the carriage at the door. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were shining; as each hand was stretched out she pressed it warmly in her own; to each good wish she returned a gracious acknowledgment; when a face was held forward expectantly she was ready with a kiss and a caress. Every one praised her graciousness, her affectionate remembrance of old friends. "She kissed me _so_ lovingly."

"She said goodbye to me _so_ sweetly." A buzz of appreciation followed her as she went; but in reality Jean had walked in a dream, seeing an indistinct blur of faces, hearing a meaningless babble of words, conscious only of Robert's figure waiting for her at the door.

Mr Goring had escaped from the crowd and bustle to stand bare-headed on the pavement, whence he could catch a last glimpse of his daughter as she drove away from the house which had been her home. His face looked pinched and worn in the keen autumn air; he smiled and joked with the men by his side, but his eyes were restless, and kept turning back to the door through which Jean would pa.s.s for the last time as a daughter of the house. Another moment and she was there; the crowd surged after her on to the pavement. He stood before her, and held out his hand.

She held up her cheek, smiled, and leapt lightly into the carriage, the door of which Robert was holding open. He sprang to his seat, there was a vision of two heads bent forward, of two radiant, illumined faces; the coachman flicked up his horses--they had pa.s.sed out of sight.

Mr Goring shivered, and turned back to the house.

"The happiest moment of my wedding day?" answered Jean to a question put to her some months later. "The happiest moment of all was when the carriage drove off from the door, and left you all behind!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CONTRASTED FATES.

While Jean was blissfully enjoying the first weeks of her married life, the friend who had been to her as a second mother was lying dangerously ill in her upper room. The bustle of the last few months, culminating in the excitement of the wedding, had proved too much for Miggles's weak heart; and having gallantly kept on her feet until the supreme need was past, she had the less strength left with which to fight the enemy.

"Don't tell Jean. Promise not to tell Jean!" That was her first and most insistent cry; and being satisfied on the point, she laid herself down, and spoke no more for many weary days and nights.

Once again Vanna found herself bound to the household, and had the consolation or feeling of help to the mistress and of comfort to the invalid, who seemed to cling pathetically to Jean's friend in the absence of her own dear nursling.

Hospital nurses were much rarer luxuries in the seventies than at the present day, and in this case the duty of nursing the invalid was undertaken by Mrs Goring, her maid, and Vanna, equally. The maid slept in the sick-room, ready to pay any attention which was required during the night; Mrs Goring was exact and punctilious in administering medicines and food at the right intervals, and in seeing that the sick-room was kept scrupulously in order; it devolved upon Vanna to ease the invalid by the innumerable, gentle little offices which seem to come by instinct to women of sympathetic natures, and later on as she grew stronger, to amuse her by reading aloud, talking, and--what in this case was even more welcome--lending an attentive ear while the other discoursed.

The sudden breakdown had called attention to the state of Miggles's heart, which had troubled her at times for some years back. The result was serious, so serious that the doctor had warned her that her days of active service were over. Henceforth she must be content to live an idle life, in some quiet country spot, where she would be free from the bustle and excitement of town life. Mr and Mrs Goring proposed that she should live in the Cottage at Seacliff, where the capable woman who acted as caretaker could wait upon her and do the work of the house, and Miggles, as usual, was full of grat.i.tude for the suggestion.

"A haven, my dear, opened out to me at the very moment I need it," she said ardently to Vanna. "It's been like that with me all my life.

Goodness and mercy! I've always loved that dear little house by the sea; there's no place on earth where I would rather end my days. The doctor says I shall go off quite suddenly. He didn't want to tell me, but I explained that I was not at all afraid. From battle, murder, and _lingering_ death, that's the way I've always said it--not that I wish to put myself above the Prayer Book, but one must be honest, and that's how I felt in my heart. I've no claim upon any one, and a long, expensive illness is a great drag. I'd be so ashamed! 'Our times are in His hand,' my dear; but if it's not presumptuous, I hope He'll take me soon. Next summer, perhaps, before the boys want to come down for the holidays. I should like to have the winter just to be quiet and prepare. June, now! June would be a sweet month to pa.s.s away in.

Would it not, my dear?"

"Miggles!" cried Vanna, half laughing, half in tears. "Miggles, how can you be so callous? I absolutely refuse to discuss the date of your death. It's not a cheerful subject for us, whatever it may be for you; and I hope you'll be spared for a long, long rest after your busy life.

How can you talk about dying in that matter-of-fact way, as if it were a removal from one house to another? Have you no dread, not of the mere act of death--that is often a real 'falling asleep,' but of the leap in the dark, the unknown change, the mystery behind?"

Miggles lay back against her pillow, a large, unwieldy figure, with thin bands of hair brushed back beneath an old-fashioned night-cap, her hands clasped peacefully on her knee.

"No, my dear," she said tranquilly; "the mystery doesn't trouble me.

I'm a poor, weak creature, and I was never clever at understanding. I only know that it's going to be a change for the better, so of course I'm ready to go. When I hear people talk of shrinking and trembling at the thought of death, I think they can't really believe what they profess, or why should they prefer to live on, lonely, and suffering, and poor, rather than make a little journey to gain peace and rest?

It's not reason, my dear, it's not reason."

Miggles was silent, blinking her little eyes, and panting after the exertion of talking. Gradually a pucker gathered on her forehead, and an expression of anxiety spread over her face.

"There is only one thing that troubles me--only one thing; but it's very serious. I can't"--she turned solemn, innocent eyes upon the girl's face--"I can't feel myself a sinner! That's a great secret, my dear, but you've been so kind to me this last week that I feel I can make the confidence. Of course I should not wish it repeated. No! isn't it sad?

I've tried my best, but I can't do it. It seems to me that I have done my best. I was a good daughter. My dear mother died blessing my name; and with the dear Gorings I've done my duty--for love, I've done it, far more than money. All through I've done my duty, and I have loved G.o.d and the people round me. I've never felt ill-will towards a living creature; and when I come to search for my sins, dear--really and truly--I tell you in confidence, _I can't find them_," cried Miggles sadly. She lowered her chin, glancing sideways at Vanna as a shamed child might do discovered in the perpetration of an infantile peccadillo, and Vanna smiled a tender, humorous response.

"Can't you, Miggles? Not if you try very hard? I can't help you, I'm afraid. My bad memory refuses to remind me of your crimes. It's a serious state of affairs."