Vanna laid the letter on the table once more, and raised a grey face, from which the lingering youth had been stricken at a blow. Her eyes stared through her window. The dull vista of chimney-tops stretched away into an illimitable distance. Dun banks of smoke hung pall-like over the city. The rain was falling.

How does one live through the first days of an intolerable grief?

Looking forward, looking back, it appears impossible that reason itself could remain, yet in reality the automaton with the broken heart eats and sleeps, clothes itself, speaks in an ordinary voice, performs its necessary work.

Throughout the hours of that tortured morning Vanna told herself repeatedly that she would go mad, she would certainly go mad. It was impossible that any human creature could endure such anguish. She, in whose blood ran the fatal taint, must surely succ.u.mb sooner than others.

She would go mad, and Piers would be justified. All the world would pity him. All the world would hail his escape.

But she did not go mad. She was not even ill. During the whole time of that awful soul-sickness there was not one hour when she was physically incapacitated. This extraordinary immunity of the flesh, over which each mourner marvels afresh, seemed at the time a fresh grievance. To be too ill to think, too ill to care, would have been heaven as compared with this h.e.l.l of bitter, rambling thoughts. Her hero had fallen; his protestations had been empty words; there was no faith, or truth in this world, or the next; no mercy, no justice! She shut her doors and would admit no one. Jean and Robert would grieve for, and with her. Jean would cry. Robert's face would cloud over with that pained, shrinking expression which it wore when any one dear to him was in grief, _but they would not be surprised_! In conclave one with another they would absolve Piers's conduct, and say it was "natural." Vanna laughed--a harsh, bitter laugh at the thought. So easy, so easy, when one had all the world could give, to be calm and judicial for others less fortunate!

She hated Jean. She hated Robert. She hated the whole world. She hated G.o.d Himself.

Days and nights of darkness, weeks of black anger and despair, then slowly, quietly, like the coming of the dawn, the clouds began to melt, and the struggling light to make itself felt. First shame, and a shuddering horror of evil thoughts; secondly, bitterness thrust aside, instead of welcomed; finally the search-light turned upon herself, instead of on others. At that moment healing began, though it would be long indeed before any comfort from the process could be sensibly felt.

To a just and generous nature it is impossible to cherish a heart-grudge where the head has p.r.o.nounced absolution; and when Vanna's first flame of anger had burnt itself out she had little blame in her heart for Piers Rendall. If he had fallen short of the ideal, was not she herself open to the same reproach? She who had always insisted upon the possibility of a spiritual love, was it consistent that she should wish to keep him sad and dissatisfied, or grudge him happiness because it was given by other hands than her own? He had given her eight years of his life; he had been honest with her. Could she not bear to stand aside, and say "G.o.d speed"?

But the light was still flickering and uncertain; the black clouds hung overhead ready to engulf her in fresh storms; a chance word or sound would open up the wound with a piercing anguish of pain. Why dwell upon the picture of a soul in torment? Vanna struggled on as thousands have done before her; but it was not until five weeks had pa.s.sed that her return letter was dispatched to Piers in India.

"You are right, and you are brave. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for sparing me from the doom of spoiling your life. Don't pity me too much. You have given me more than you know, far more; something greater even than love--understanding! Now I can feel; now I can sympathise; now I can help. This is your doing, your gift to me, so be comforted! All my life long I shall be thankful for these eight years.

"No! I will not write; not yet! In time to come we may meet and be friends, but this is Her day, it belongs to her--to that young girl who will be your wife. I'm not perfect, dear; you know my faults. I should be jealous--that's only natural, I think. It would hurt me to hear her praises, and perhaps (I'm very feminine!) I might in revenge put out all my wiles--and I know how to charm you, Piers!--to keep you a little longer to myself. I'm honest, you see; as you say, we have always been honest with each other--for all our sakes, we'll leave letters alone. When it is settled--it _will_ be settled, I feel that--you can write and let me know, and tell me her name, and send me her photograph. I'm so poor and mean a thing that I am glad she is not pretty; glad that for the last time you called me your 'dearest love.'

"I am quite well, and Jean is good to me, and so--good-bye...!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE SUPREME SECRET.

On the evening of her thirty-eighth birthday Vanna Strangeways said adieu to her last patient, and slowly traversed the streets leading towards Jean Gloucester's home. It was a dull and dreary evening, but her thoughts were not sad. The years which had pa.s.sed by since the receipt of Piers Rendall's farewell letter, and the subsequent news of his engagement and marriage, had marked the various stages which attend all great griefs. First the storm, with the roar of the wind, which threatens to destroy the very foundations of life; then the desert; loneliness; an outlook of flat, colourless sand; finally, slowly and surely, the inflowing calm. Hopeless, long-cherished grief is impossible to a soul who has tasted of love for G.o.d and its fellow-men.

However severely a tree has been pruned, its leaves shoot forth bravely at the call of the spring, and in a few years' time strength is gathered for another blossoming.

Vanna had put much good hard work into these last years. In the great metropolis of the world, a woman who is willing to work for others, and to work without pay, need never know a moment's idleness, and Dr Greatman had always a list of patients who were in dire need of help-- patients belonging to that section of humanity to whom in especial Vanna's sympathies went out. Every day of her life she was brought into contact with women compared with whom her own lot was unspeakably calm and happy--poor waifs on life's ocean, perishing not only for lack of physical help, but also for the want of love, and sympathy, and brightness; and Vanna, as a free agent, blessed with health and means, had it in her power to minister to mind as well as body. She was that rare thing, a voluntary worker on whom one might depend for regular, systematic service; and in her work she found her best and sweetest comfort.

Jean's old epithet, "Consolation Female," was truly descriptive of Vanna in these first years of her sorrow; but as time pa.s.sed by, and the inevitable healing began to make itself felt, there came moments of restlessness and rebellion--moments when a life of philanthropy no longer satisfied, when the inner Ego awoke, and clamoured for recognition. A duller woman might have looked upon these outbursts as backslidings, and have taken herself severely to task for faltering in the path, but Vanna, more clear-sighted, recognised in them a natural and healthy revival of her old spirit. She made no attempt to stifle the growth of this unrest, but rather welcomed it as a sign of recovered strength, and took a keen natural joy in ministering to herself, even as she had done to others. The first longing for a pretty new dress, the first time that a social gathering became a pleasure instead of a bore, the first interested planning for the future on her own behalf--she congratulated herself on each impulse as it came, and so far as might be, gratified it to the full.

"You are the sanest woman I ever met." Piers's words were echoed by more than one person who knew Vanna at this period of her life--by Dr Greatman himself, between a frown and a sigh. "Absolutely sane; no extremes--a perfectly balanced woman, sweet and capable, and humorous-- one in ten thousand! It seems as though she had inherited the extra share of ballast which her relations have lacked; and yet it is there, the danger, the shadow. I was right. If I were consulted again I should say the same. Even in the last year another cousin has developed symptoms. Such a family ought to be stamped out. But I'd give five years of my life to see that woman happy."

This evening as she paced the muddy streets, Vanna's thoughts were engaged with half a dozen details of her busy life. From ten o'clock in the morning she had been hurrying from house to house, yet had not been able to finish the list with which she had started the day. More people had been waiting for her, longing for her coming, than she had been able to visit; the memory of grateful words sounded in her ears. She was returning home to rest and ease, or, if she pleased, to go forth in search of amus.e.m.e.nt and distraction of mind. For the hundredth time she told herself that she was one of the fortunates of earth; and for the hundredth time "_But I am alone_" answered the woman's heart, and could find no solace to fill that void. Vanna threw back her head with the quick, defiant gesture which had grown habitual in years of struggle.

This was the direction in which thought could not be allowed to turn, the direction of earthquake and upheaval; the death of peace. Even as the pain cramped her heart she had decided on her medicine. "I will go to see my baby! There is still half an hour before her bedtime."

Little Vanna, Jean's youngest daughter, had been brought up by her parents to consider herself as equally the child of themselves and "Mother Wanna" and had shown herself delightfully eager to avail herself of the privilege.

"You've gotten only one mummie; I'se two!" was one of the earliest boasts by which she endeavoured to demonstrate her superiority over her sisters. She was a delightful little person, pretty, as were all Jean's children, with her mother's dark, cloud-like hair, and her father's hazel eyes; affectionate, strong-willed, and already, at five years old, amusingly conscious of the powers of a dimpled cheek and a beguiling lisp, to gain for her the ambition of the minute. Jean had faithfully kept her promise of allowing her friend to adopt the small Vanna financially as well as mentally; and if it was a delightful task to purchase her small garments, it was still more thrilling to plan for years ahead. Little Vanna must have an education to fit her for her place in life. Her talents from the beginning should receive the most skilful training; she should be taken abroad to learn languages in the only way in which they can be truly mastered; if her attainments justified she should go on to College; if she preferred a social life, she should enjoy it to the full. Privately Vanna cherished the hope that her fledgling might develop not into a grave student but into a natural, light-hearted girl, whose happiness might atone to her in some wise for her own blighted youth. All that love, and money, and the most careful forethought could do, should be done to secure for the second Vanna an unclouded girlhood. In imagination she pictured her in the various stages of growth; the schoolgirl coming home from school, to be taken for holiday trips abroad; the gayest, least responsible of companions, running short of pocket-money, mislaying her effects, full of wild, impractical plans; later on the debutante, a tall, dim maiden, reviving memories of her lovely mother at the same age, attiring herself in a filmy white gown, peeping with sparkling eyes inside a jeweller's case, showering sweet kisses as thanks. Later on, the coming of Prince Charming--a Prince Charming who could be welcomed without a pang, for, thank G.o.d, there were no dark pages in the history of this second Vanna.

Finally a marriage, with its happy bustle of preparation, trousseau buying, and furnishings, the interests of the young home; children of the third generation. The future could not be blank with such an interest as this in prospect!

The church clock at the corner of the street had just struck five as Vanna knocked at the door of Robert Gloucester's house. It was the children's hour, when Jean was sure to be found in the den striving to amuse her three little daughters, while each vied with each other in the effort to attract the largest share of attention.

They crowded into the hall at the sound of Vanna's patent knock, and drew her into the room in a clamour of welcome. Each one of the four had a budget of news to unfold, and was eager, for the privilege of first innings. Jean made several futile efforts to send the children back to their several games, but soon abandoned the effort and lay back comfortably in her chair, content to bide her time. As usual, she was beautifully dressed, though more simply than of old. In the shaded lamplight it was impossible to believe that her fortieth birthday was well in sight. Her soft dark hair was as abundant as ever, and the thinness of her face seemed but to show more plainly the exquisite moulding of her features. Vanna glanced at her with the old, never-dying admiration, as she held her G.o.dchild on her knee, and listened to the eager confidences of her sisters, and Jean smiled back with affectionate languor. Behind her in a recess of the wall stood a medley of photographs, large and small: Mr Goring, white-haired and spectacled, proudly holding his eldest grandchild on his knee; the two tall, handsome brothers; Robert, with uplifted head and happy, smiling eyes; baby faces nestled closely together. At her feet in front of the old bra.s.s fender lay Robert's dippers waiting his return, but Jean had no thought of any of these things. She had an air of s.n.a.t.c.hing the moment's leisure, as something precious which should not be wasted, and her eyes showed a dreamy indifference to the children's sallies--an abstraction which, with juvenile sharpness, they were quick to note.

Vanna was a newcomer, and could always be counted on as an interested audience; but no normal child can be satisfied for long if there remains one person in the room who is not paying the due meed of attention.

Before ten minutes were pa.s.sed the trio were once more swarming over their mother's chair, tugging at her gown to attract attention.

"Jean!" asked Vanna suddenly, "are you happy?"

Jean stared at her with stolid surprise.

"Of course I am happy," she said flatly. "What do you mean?"

"But are you blissfully, ecstatically, unspeakably happy--almost too happy to live?"

Jean's stare took on a tinge of affront.

"No! Of course not. Why should I be?"

"Why should you not? If such a thing is possible to any one on earth, it ought to be to you. You have everything that is worth having-- everything! Robert--his wonderful love; these children, interest in life, hope, expectation. You are so _rich_!"

Jean's face softened. She looked at the white-robed figures at her feet, and for a moment her eyes shone; for a moment, and then once more the shadow fell.

"Yes," she said. "Oh, yes, I know! I _am_ well off, but one can't live on the heights; and, oh, dear! oh, dear, there are such worries! Morton has given me notice. It's so difficult to find a decent cook for small wages. I shall have to begin the weary old hunt once more. And Lorna keeps complaining of her eyes. Robert says she must see an oculist, but I do so dread it. If _she_ has to wear spectacles it will break my heart. And you remember those dining-room curtains that I sent to be dyed? They came back to-day the wrong shade--simply shrieking at the walls. Ruined! Isn't it maddening--I feel so depressed--"

She looked across the room with a transparent appeal for sympathy, but with a quick, glad laugh Vanna leapt to her feet and swept towards the door.

"Good-bye. I'm going. Thank you so much!"

"_Going_!" Jean rushed after her in dismay.

"Vanna, you've just come. Thank me for _what_? You mad creature, what do you mean?"

"My lesson! Don't stop me, Jean, I'll come again--I must go."

She fled into the street, and the sound of her laughter floated back to Jean as she stood by the open door.

"_The dining-room curtains don't match_!" Jean, the beloved, had said these astounding words; had advanced them in all seriousness as a reason for unhappiness! In the midst of plenty, this infinitesimal crumb could mar her joy. And Jean was but a type of her cla.s.s. All over London while their lonely sisters were eating their hearts with envy, the women rich in home, husband, and children, were allowing pigmy trials to obstruct the sun, squandering their joy, wasting the precious days. And at the other end of the world that young girl who was Piers Rendall's wife, the mother of his child, she too, perchance, was vexing herself over many things, bemoaning her trials, so dulled by custom that she no longer appreciated her joys.

The great, the supreme secret of life, came home to Vanna with overwhelming force as she walked through the quiet streets. Not without, but within, must man look for happiness; in himself, the divine soul of him, or nowhere lies his joy. All outer possessions are as naught--the baubles, the playthings of a child, which, once gathered, grow tame and lose their gilt.

Vanna had known great grief, and had travelled on bleeding feet through the desert of loneliness, but from the rough journey she had reaped her spoil. Her eyes were opened; she saw the riches of this world at their true worth; her heart was filled with an immense, encompa.s.sing love. It was impossible that she should ever again be lonely. She thanked G.o.d, and took courage.