"Here's the tennis-lawn, and there's the fernery, and here's a prosaic gravel path dividing the two. You've seen fifty thousand other gardens like it before. Now shut your eyes--keep them shut, and let me guide you for the next two minutes. Then prepare for a surprise."

Vanna shut her eyes obediently, and surrendered herself to the guiding hand. For some yards the path stretched smooth and straight beneath her feet, then suddenly it curved and took a downward dope. At the same time the well-rolled smoothness disappeared, and her feet tripped against an occasional stone. The second time this happened a hand touched her shoulder with the lightest, most pa.s.sing of pressures--that was Piers Rendall, who had evidently crossed the path at the opposite side from Jean, to be a further security to her steps. Vanna flushed, and trod with increased care, but the path was momentarily becoming more difficult, and despite all her precautions she slipped again, more heavily than before. This time the hand grasped her arm without pretence, and at the same moment she stopped short, and cried quickly:

"Oh, it's too rough. I can't go on. I'm going to open my eyes."

"Open!" cried Jean's voice dramatically, and with a hand placed on each elbow twisted her round to face the west.

Vanna gave a cry of delight, and stood transfixed with admiration. The commonplace white house with its tennis-lawn and beds of geraniums had disappeared; she stood on a path looking across a narrow glen illuminated by sunshine, which streamed down through the delicate foliage of a grove of aspens. The dappled light danced to and fro over carpets of softest moss, through which peeped patches of violets and harebells. The trunks of the aspens shone silvery white; here and there on the crest of the hills stood a grave Scotch fir, grey-blue against the green. From below came the melodious splash of water; the faint hum and drone of insect life rose from the ground; from overhead floated down the sweet, shrill chorus of birds. Vanna gazed, her face illumined with admiration, and her companions in their turn gazed at her face. It also was good to look at at that moment, and eloquent as only a usually quiet face can be.

"Oh! how wonderful! It's a _dell_--a glade--a fairy glade! The unexpectedness of it! Only a few yards from those beds of geraniums!

One feels as if anything like a house or bedding-out plants must be at the other end of the world... And down there the little stream..." She lifted her head with a sudden glance of inquiry. "The stream grows wider surely--there are stepping-stones--at the end there's a lake. I am _sure_ there is a lake--!"

Before Piers had time to reply, Jean had interrupted with a quick exclamation:

"Vanna! How did you know? How did you guess? You have never been here before?"

"Perhaps Miss Strangeways thinks that she has. Have you visited our glen in another incarnation, Miss Strangeways, that you remember its details so distinctly?"

Vanna shook her head.

"No; I have never known that feeling. One hears of it, but it doesn't come to me. It's more like--_expectation_. I seemed for the moment to see ahead. It must really be a fairy glen, for there's enchantment in the air. Something--something is going to happen here. I feel it!

Something _good_! We are going to be happy!"

Piers looked at her curiously, but Jean remained charmingly matter-of-fact.

"Of course we are, and we are going to begin at once. Let's sit down and talk. It's cool tinder these trees, and I'm sleepy after lunch. So you don't remember being here before, Vanna? How stupid of you! You must have a very short memory. We've played here together scores of times, when there was no white house, and no smooth lawn, and the grandparents of these old trees were gay young saplings. I was a wood-nymph, and danced about with the other nymphs all day long, and flirted with the elves--elves are masculine, I'm sure! and feasted on nuts. (That habit lasts. I adore them still.) When winter came, I curled up into a tight little ball in the hollow of an oak, and slept till spring came back. Where is that old oak, I wonder? I long to meet it again. And all the long summer days we ate wild strawberries, and drank out of the stream, and played hide-and-seek among the trees. And one day, Piers, _you_ came along--do you remember? I peered out from behind the leaves, and saw you coming."

"I was not an elf then--one of the number who was honoured by your attentions?"

"Oh, dear me, no! Nothing so frivolous. You an elf! You were a woodcutter with a solemn face, and a long white beard, and a big strong axe, and you came trespa.s.sing into my glade with intent to kill my dear tree friends. But I circ.u.mvented you. When you took up your axe I swung on the branches till the sunshine danced on your eyes, and dazzled them so that you could not see."

"The same old trick! I seem to have no difficulty in remembering you in that guise. It has a flavour of to-day."

"Poof!" Jean blew disdain from pursed-up lips. "So much for you. If you are so clever at remembering, tell me something about Vanna as she was at that time. She was there that day--quite close to me. What was she like?"

Piers looked across to where Vanna sat, and, for the first time in the short history of their acquaintance, their eyes met with smiling ease and friendliness. Each felt a sense of relief to see the other in happier mood, and with it an increased appreciation of the other's charm. "If he were always happy, how handsome he would be!"

"She is charming when she smiles. She should always smile!"

"So we are old friends, Miss Strangeways. We have Jean's word for it, so it must be true. My memory is not very clear. Let me think. I was a woodcutter with a long grey beard. I must have looked rather striking in a beard. And I invaded Jean's glade with intent to kill, and made your acquaintance there. What can you have been? Not a nymph, I think; perhaps a flower--"

Vanna lifted a protesting hand. Whence came this sudden tide of happiness; this swift rush of blood through the veins? The last year's burden of sorrow had weighed heavily upon her shoulders; the Harley Street interview had seemed to put a definite end to youth and joy; but now suddenly, unreasonably, the mist lifted, she knew a feeling not only of mental but of actual physical lightness; hard-won composure gave place to the old gay impulse toward laughter and merriment.

"No--no. I guess what you are going to say; but spare me, I pray you!

I was _not_ 'a violet by a mossy dell.' It is the inevitable comparison, but it does _not_ apply. Whatever I was, I am sure I was never content to nestle in that mossy bed."

Piers Rendall looked at her reflectively, the smile still lingering round his mouth.

"No-o," he said slowly. "I should not think the violet was exactly your counterpart. We must leave it to Jean--"

"She was a Scotch fir," said Jean firmly. "She stood up straight and stiff against the sky, and there were little sharp spikes on her boughs, and if you ran against her, she p.r.i.c.ked; but when the storms came, and the aspens bent and swayed, she stood firm, and the little needles fell on the ground, and made a soft, soft bed, and we lay there sheltered, and slept till the storm pa.s.sed by. There! You never knew how poetic I could be. I'm quite exhausted with the effort, and so sleepy! I positively must have a nap. Run away, you two! Explore the glen for half an hour, and leave me in peace. If there's one thing in the world I adore, it's sleeping out-of-doors."

She curled up on the ground as she spoke, nestling her cheek in her hand, and yawning like a tired child, without disguise or apology.

Evidently there was no pretence about her statement, for already her eyelids had begun to droop, until dark lashes rested on the flushed cheeks; she moved her head to and fro seeking for greater comfort; peered upward, and exclaimed with added emphasis:

"Go away! I told you to go."

Jean was accustomed to issue queenly commands, and her friends were accustomed to obey. Piers and Vanna strolled down the sloping path, leaving her to her dreams. A day before Vanna would have felt unhappily that Piers was chafing at the change of companionship, and condoling with himself in advance on a half-hour's boredom; to-day she was troubled by no such doubts. Self-confidence had returned, and with it the old stimulating consciousness of charm.

Piers Rendall deserved no pity at her hands.

The path grew steeper, strewn with pebbles, interspersed with crawling roots of trees; the gentle trickle of water deepened in tone as it swirled in rapid flow round the mossy stones; banks of old-fashioned purple rhododendron framed the margin of the lake. A rustic bench stood at a corner, whence the most extensive view could be obtained; the two seated themselves thereon, and slid easily into conversation.

"So you have pleasant antic.i.p.ations concerning our glen? We are used to admiration, but I think that it is quite the most charming compliment it has received. If it had recalled a dim memory it would not have been half so interesting, for when the good things arrive we are bound to have a share in them, if only the pleasure of looking on while you enjoy. What form does it take--this presentiment of yours? Have you any definite idea of what is to happen--or when?"

Vanna shook her head.

"Nothing! I only know that the moment I opened my eyes and looked round I felt a throb of--not surprise, something bigger than surprise, and a quite extraordinary rush of happiness and hope. Things have not been cheery with me of late, so it is all the more striking. I feel about ten years younger than when I left the house."

He looked at her searchingly, and Vanna entered it to his credit that he spared her the obvious flattering retort. Instead, his own expression seemed to cloud; he leant his arms on his knees and, bending forward, stared gloomily into s.p.a.ce.

"What sports of circ.u.mstances we are! I was looking round the table at lunch to-day and puzzling for the hundredth time over the question of temperament. Does it interest you at all? Do you find it a difficulty?

Why are some of us born into the world handicapped with temperaments which hold us in chains all our days, and others with some natural charm or quality of mind which acts as an open sesame wherever they go? Look at Miggles! A plain, lonely old woman, without a sou. If she had been born with a 'difficult' temper, she might have worked, and slaved, and fought with evil pa.s.sions, and gone to bed every night of her life wearied out with the stress of battle, and when the need of her was past, her employers would have heaved a sigh of relief, and packed her off with a year's salary. Can't you hear her requiem? 'a good creature, most painstaking--what a relief to be alone!' But Miggles! No sane creature would willingly send her away. You would as soon brick up windows to keep out the sun. She radiates happiness and content, without--this is the point--without effort on her own part! The effort to her would be to grumble and be disagreeable, yet she receives all the credit and appreciation which she would have more truly deserved in the other case. And Jean! Look at Jean! Honestly--we are both her devoted slaves--but honestly, is it by any virtue of her own? Does she reign by merit or by chance?"

Vanna smiled.

"I know what you mean. Jean is charming, but it is easier for her to be charming than for most people. Every glance in the gla.s.s must be as reviving as a tonic. She has no difficulty in making friends, for people advance three quarters of the way to meet her; and if by chance she is in a bad mood--well, she is charming still. Of course, if she were plain--"

"Exactly! She reigns in a kingdom of chance, and by no merit of her own. Doesn't that seem rather hard on the unfortunates who start with a handicap--a restless, unsatisfied nature, for example--a nature which longs for the affection and appreciation which it seems fated never to receive; which suffers and struggles, and honestly sees no reason why life should be harder for it than for another? Yet there it is--the inequality, the handicap from the beginning. Jean has beauty and charm, but even these don't weigh so heavily in the balance as happiness; the aura of happiness and content which radiates from Miggles and her kind-- the Mark Tapleys of the world, who triumph over every sort of physical and material difficulty. You smile! Are you thinking of some one you know, some particular person who is included in this happy category?"

"Yes; of a man I met only the other day--a man over thirty, with eyes like a child; clear, and unclouded, and happy. Yet he had known many anxieties; in a worldly sense I suppose he would be counted a failure, but, as you say, one _felt_ it, the aura of radiant happiness and content."

"Lucky beggar! The world which counts him a failure would think me a success, because I have plenty of money, and was born to a decent position; but looking back over my life I can't remember one single occasion when I have been really _content_. There has always seemed something wanting, a final touch of completeness floating out of reach.

Yet I give you my word, if at this moment a wish would bring me anything I chose, I should not know what to ask!"

Vanna looked at him searchingly, noting the lean cheeks, the hollow brow, the deep lines around eyes and mouth.

"Isn't that partly physical, don't you think? You don't look strong.

The body affects the mind."

Her voice involuntarily took a softer tone, the feminine tribute to weakness in any form; but Piers Rendall would not accept the excuse.

"On the contrary, it's my mind that affects my body. I'm strong enough.

My body was born free of microbes--the poison was in my mind. That seems a hard theory, but it's true. Have you never noticed how one child in a family seems to have inherited all the weaknesses and failings, while the others get off scot free? He is plain, while they are handsome; sullen, where they are genial; underhand, while they are open. I know such cases where one can only look on and marvel--where there is no blame to be cast, where the parents have broken no law--are healthy, no relation--"

Vanna winced. A shadow pa.s.sed across her face, as if cast by a flickering bough.

"_Don't_ talk of it," she cried urgently. "Don't! It is too pitiful, here in this glen. I can't discuss such things here. Another time, perhaps, but let me be happy here. Talk of happy things. There is so much sorrow..."