A Question of Marriage

Mrs George de Horne Vaizey

"A Question of Marriage"

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 muff, 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 modicum 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 glass 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 masses 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 pass 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 passed me in the streets, the ordinary little groups that one sees every day, all launched a dart as they passed. 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 révoltée. 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 reassured. 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 scrap of Strangeways in you.’ I expected Dr Greatman to realise as much, and assure 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.

Vanna brushed it away with impatient fingers, straightened her back, and flung back her head.

“Oh, don’t cry—don’t cry over me, Jean. We are poor things, we women, if we can’t face the prospect of making our own lives. Put a man into my place. Would he pine? You know very well he would do nothing of the kind. A man never wants to marry until he meets the right woman, and even then he struggles before he succumbs. When he once loves it is different—he is all fire and impatience, but until that hour arrives he enjoys his liberty, pities the poor fellows who are handicapped with a wife and family, and privately determines to keep clear. Here am I—twenty-three, comfortably off, strong, intelligent, fancy-free. Why can’t I take a leaf out of his book and be content and happy? Why need I consider myself a martyr because I must live alone, rather than as the wife of some man unknown, who perhaps in even the ordinary course of events might have persistently evaded my path, or had the bad taste to prefer another woman when he was found? It is not as if I were already in love.”

Jean drew her brows together in wistful inquiry. The doubt in her mind was so transparently expressed that Vanna referred to it as to a spoken question.

“I know what you are thinking. Edward Verney! You think my regrets hover round him. It’s not true, Jean, it’s not true. I had forgotten his very existence until I saw your face. If I had cared, surely my thoughts would have flown to him first of all. He is only a ‘might-have-been.’ I had reached the length of noticing the way his hair grows on his forehead, and his nice, close ears—that was a danger-signal, I suppose; and I acknowledge that I have dressed with an eye to his taste, but it has gone no deeper. I shall be sorry, but it won’t hurt to end our friendship.”

“Then why need you—”

“Oh!” Vanna laughed lightly. “I think he admires my—ears also! If we saw more of each other we should grow nearer; I realise that, therefore we must separate with all speed. As things are, he won’t suffer any more than I. He is just a dear, simple, unimaginative Englishman, who needs to have things pushed very conspicuously before his eyes before he can see them. He knows that I have gone away for a long change after the strain of Aunt Mary’s illness. It will be some months before it dawns upon him that my holiday is exceeding its limit; and by that time my image will have lost its freshness. He will be sorry, but he won’t attempt to follow. He’ll say to his friends, ‘pity Miss Strangeways has left the place. She was a jolly girl.’ But if all had been well, I might have been his wife—”

There was silence for several minutes. Each girl was thinking deeply of the future; pondering over the difficulty of mapping out a life which seemed to have no settled direction, Vanna had many gifts, but no one outstanding talent. Until this moment she had never dreamt of taking up any work outside the domestic circle; but it would be impossible to fritter away life in the care of self alone. What could she do? She herself had announced her decision of leaving her native town. Where could she live? After puzzling the problem in a circle for several minutes, Jean ventured another timid question.

“Have you thought, dear; have you any idea what you will do?”

“I have thought. Yes! I know I must leave Coverley, but that is as far as I can get. I must wait until I have calmed down and can think it out quietly. But I should like to be near you, Jean. You are the person I care for most on earth, and failing a personal romance I must take you for my lifelong love. You won’t want me always. When you are happy you will be independent of my services; but you can’t always be happy. There must come times when you are ill, or anxious, or miserable, when I shall have my chance. You will need a woman then. When the babies are teething; when the boiler bursts on Christmas Eve, and the cook leaves at an hour’s notice; when you want to make jam, or re-cover the furniture, or to leave everything behind, and go off honeymooning with your husband, ‘send for Vanna’ must be a household word. I shall be your ‘Affliction Female,’ always ready to be called in in an emergency. Fancy me an ‘Affliction Female.’”

“A Consolation Female!” corrected Jean softly, and Vanna looked at her with a lightening eye.

“That’s better. Thank you, Jean. Well, that will be one object in life—to help you, when you need help. You will marry, of course. It is impossible to think that any man could refuse to love you if you wished it, and the time will come when you will wish. It will be a tremendous interest to know your home, and your husband, and children. Dr Greatman told me that I was to compare my life as a spinster with the life of married women... I’ll compare it with yours. There will be moments when I shall be gnawed with envy, but perhaps, who knows? there may be times when you may envy me in return. At any rate, you’ll be sweet to me, dear—I know that; and you must let me help you to entertain the dull bores, and keep the charming eligibles out of my way. I don’t want to be driven away by a second Edward Verney. It’s a mercy I am only ‘interesting,’ and not a beauty, like you.”

“Yes, it is,” sighed Jean, in unthinking agreement.

Vanna’s lips twitched, her eyes flashed a humorous glance at her own reflection in the glass at the opposite end of the room.

Chapter Three.

The Rose Waits.

The evening after her interview with the doctor, Vanna Strangeways accompanied her friend to a ball, and had her first experience of society under the altered mental conditions of her life. Her first impulse had been to excuse herself and stay at home, but she was an unusually reasoning creature for her twenty-three years, and a short mental cross-examination was sufficient to reject the idea, “Can I go to her and say, ‘Jean, I am sorry; it is impossible that I can marry any of the men at the ball, so I would rather not go’? What nonsense, what folly, what degradation!” She put on her prettiest frock, spent an extra ten minutes over her hair; and even beside the radiant beauty of Jean in her pale pink tarlatan, attracted notice as one of the most interesting and distinguished of the dancers.

The floor was good, the music inspiriting, her programme was filled from beginning to end. She tried bravely to enjoy the evening in her old, unthinking fashion, and was furious with herself because she failed. There was no use denying the fact: something had disappeared which had been there before, the absence of which strangely transformed the scene—an interest, a zest, a sense of mystery and uncertainty. They had lain so far in the background that she had not realised their presence, but they had been present all the same. Each strange man to whom she had been introduced held within his black-coated form a dazzling possibility; her young eyes searched his face even as his searched hers—alert, critical, inquiring; for the moment each represented to the other the mystery, the fascination of sex. After the dance, as they sat talking lightly in some cool shade the inner voice in each brain was holding a council of its own: “Who, and what are you, inside that smiling form; what sort of a man, what sort of a woman? Do you, can you, by any possible chance, belong to me?”

The modern young man and maiden may indignantly deny that such a feeling, conscious or unconscious, has any bearing on their social joys. Vanna belonged to an age far more frankly sentimental than to-day, but she also protested, and felt humiliated when convicted against her will. Yet what shame can there be in the acknowledgment of a natural magnetic force? Empty a ballroom of all except relations within the prescribed calendar, set a man to dance with his sisters and aunts, a girl with her brothers and uncles—would any one of the number dare to maintain that enjoyment continued in the same ratio?

Vanna was fond of dancing, but not to the same extent as Jean, who often declared that she would waltz with a clothes-prop sooner than not waltz at all. With Vanna the enjoyment of movement was always subservient to the mental pleasure of meeting and talking to new partners. She preferred a good conversationalist to a good waltzer, but this evening the ordinary topics of the ballroom seemed painfully lacking in savour; she could feel in them no interest, no merriment, no curiosity; her partner’s words seemed to float past, a dull, wearisome echo that had no meaning in her ears. She was as one who had returned home after long wandering in a foreign land, to find herself helplessly out of her element. She looked at the gay stream of dancers as across a gulf. Two days ago she had been one of themselves, as carelessly happy, as confidently gay; now, after the passage of a few short hours, she stood apart, conscious through all her nature that she had outgrown a stage; had passed on, and left her friends behind.

Vanna’s partners were at a loss to understand her dullness and lack of response, for she had the reputation of wit and charm. Failing in their efforts to excite her interest, they shortened the time of waiting between the dances, by leading her back to the ballroom, and hastening off in search of a livelier companion. She saw through their devices, and smiled to herself with dreary amusement. “This is no place for you, my dear. You must give up these frivolities. You have to fill a gap and discover a solace. You’ll never find it in a ballroom.”

At twelve o’clock supper was in full swing in the big dining-room of the house. In the seventies, hosts had not acquired the present-day convenient, if less hospitable habit of entertaining their friends in a hotel. They contentedly suffered days of discomfort, and turned out every room in the house to gain the desired effect. In the present case the floors of the two great drawing-rooms, which ran the entire length of the house, were covered with a white waxed cloth, while the walls, with their treasures of water-colours, miniatures in cases, and old brass sconces, made a picturesque background to the scene. Leading out of the second drawing-room was a spacious conservatory, in which seats were placed, on which the guests could rest in comparative coolness and quiet between the dances, while the conservatory itself gave access to a balcony hung with coloured lanterns.

Vanna sat beside the door of the first dancing-room, and saw with a sigh of relief that the hands of a clock near at hand pointed to half-past twelve o’clock. Only half an hour more and the evening would be over, for Jean, with her usual tact, had suggested an early return, and at one o’clock the two friends had agreed to meet and make their adieux together.

Thank Heaven for that! But the half-hour that remained promised to be unusually long, for, mindful of her early departure, Vanna had refused to fill her programme beyond a certain point, and now supper arrangements had upset the sequence of dances, substituting for the printed items a number of extras, for which she had made no engagements. She had all a normal girl’s hatred of the part of wallflower, and was contemplating a retreat upstairs, when the daughter of the house suddenly approached and addressed her by name:

“Miss Strangeways, is it possible that you have a dance to spare? I have a truant here who has just made his appearance, and expects me to find partners at this hour of the night. He doesn’t deserve any mercy, but if you could take pity upon him, it would be very noble.”

Vanna looked past the speaker and beheld a tall, spare man, with a sunburnt face, out of which a pair of brown eyes smiled at her with the frankness of a lifelong friend, rather than a complete stranger. It was impossible not to smile back, and it was with a reviving thrill of interest that she held out her programme, saying laughingly:

“My partners for the regular dances are busy eating boned turkey, while I am left lamenting. I am not engaged for the extras.”

“Ah! that is fortunate! Let me introduce you, then, in due form. Mr Gloucester—Miss Strangeways... You are a lucky man, Rob, to find Miss Strangeways disengaged.”

She rustled away, and the tall man seated himself by Vanna’s side with a sigh of content. He did not ask for dances, however, and it was she who made the first move towards conversation.

“Have you really just arrived, or is that merely a figure of speech? You have not been dancing at all?”

He shook his head.

“I have not been in the room five minutes. I am an even worse offender than you suppose, for I am staying in the house. I did not intend to come down at all. I was going to bed, but there was such a confounded noise going on that there seemed no chance of sleep—”

For the first time that evening Vanna found herself surprised into a bright, natural laugh. The man’s utter unconsciousness redeemed his remark from any hint of rudeness; and she felt nothing but pure refreshment in so unusual a point of view. She leant back in her chair, looking at him over the top of a waving fan, with a scrutiny as frankly unembarrassed as his own. The deep tan of his skin spoke of a sojourn under eastern skies, as did also the lines round the eyes—the result of constant puckerings to avoid the sun’s glare. His hair was brushed in a straight line across his forehead, the chin itself was slightly square, but the line of the jaw was finely, even delicately rounded; he was clean shaven, and his mouth was good to look at, the lips well shaped, and fitting closely together. His age might have been anything from thirty to thirty-five, but there was something inherently boyish in manner and expression.

“You evidently don’t care for dancing.”

“No! I’m out of practice. I have been abroad for the last ten years, in out-of-the-way places for the most part, where balls don’t come into the programme. I’m afraid I’m not much of a partner, but if you will be good enough to try—”

“But I am not anxious to dance any more. I am tired and hot. If you are contented to talk—”

“You mean it? Really? That is jolly!” he cried eagerly. “Then, what do you say—shall we go to the balcony? It’s quieter there, and we may get a breath of air. There are some comfortable chairs, I know, for I helped to arrange them.”

Vanna rose, nothing loath. The evening was closing more pleasantly than she had anticipated, for this Mr Gloucester was a distinct change from the ordinary habitué of the ballroom, and his conversation promised to afford some interest. She seated herself in a corner of the balcony and put a leading question:

“You say you have lived abroad. Where does that mean? India?”

“India mostly; but I have done a lot of wandering about.”

“Are you by any chance a soldier?”

“Thank Heaven, no!”

She was both startled and amused by the vehemence of his denial, and looked at him curiously with her wide, grey eyes.

“Why this fervour? Most men would consider it a compliment to be asked such a question. Do you despise soldiers so heartily?”

“No, I don’t. As the times go, they are a necessary evil, and there are fine fellows among them—splendid fellows, one ought to be grateful to them for their self-sacrifice; but for my own part I’m unspeakably thankful to have escaped. Think of spending all one’s life preparing for, playing at, a need which may never arise—which one hopes may never arise. I couldn’t endure it. Give me active service the whole time—the more active the better.”

“Service in what capacity? As a—”

“Oh, I have no profession. I am just an ordinary business man—buying and selling, and watching the markets, like the rest.”

“Humph!” Vanna pursed her lips with a militant air. “I think a very good case might be made for the soldier versus the merchant. He works, or waits, for the good of his country. There is precious little to be made out of it from a personal point of view. A merchant’s aim is entirely selfish. He is absorbed in piling up his own fortune.”

Mr Gloucester laughed.

“Oh, you are too down on the poor merchants, Miss Strangeways. They have their own share in helping on the country, and it’s not every man who can get a fortune to pile. I can’t, for one. The faculty of gaining money is as inherent as the writing of poetry. Some fellows like myself can never attain to it.” He held out his right hand, pointing smilingly at the hollow palm. “Look at that. Palmists would tell you that with that hand I shall never ‘hold money.’ The day may come when I should be thankful to exchange my fortune for the soldier’s shilling a day.”

Vanna did not reply. She was looking at that hollowed palm with puckered, thoughtful glance. “Palmist!” she repeated slowly, “fortune-telling! It’s not often one hears a man quoting such an authority; but you have lived in the East. I suppose that unconsciously alters the point of view. India is the land of—what should one call it?—superstition, mysticism, the occult. It is a subject which fascinates me intensely. I know very little about it; I’m not at all sure that it is good to know more; but—it beckons. Tell me, have you seen anything, had any extraordinary experiences? Are the stories true, for instance, that one hears of these native jugglers?”

“Snake-charming, you mean, the boy in the basket, the mango trick? Oh, yes. I’ve seen them often, on the deck of a ship, as well as on the open plain. People say it is hypnotism, that the fellow doesn’t really do it, only makes you think he does; but that’s rubbish. It’s sleight-of-hand, uncommonly clever, of course, but pure and simple conjuring. The mango is chosen because he can get dried-up specimens, several specimens, of different sizes, to which he attaches false roots, and it is a plant which will quickly expand beneath the water with which he deluges the ground. All that sort of tricks can be explained, but there are other things more mysterious: the transmission of news from station to station, so that it is known in the bazaars before the post can bring the letters, the power of reading others’ minds, of seeing into the future.”

“But you don’t believe, you can’t seriously believe that that is possible?”

Robert Gloucester bent forward, his elbows crossed on his knees, his brown, extraordinarily clear eyes fixed on her face.

“Why not? How shall one dare to put a limit to what is possible even in material things? Look at this new electricity, for instance. One cannot imagine all that it may mean in improved facilities for the world. Its power seems immense—illimitable. If we live to grow old, Miss Strangeways, we shall see things as everyday occurrences which would seem fairy-tale impossibilities to-day. The most conservative man would hardly deny that; then why should he be presumptuous enough to suppose that in the spiritual plane we have reached the limits of our powers? It is unthinkable. There are forces—binding forces, electric forces—hidden away in the most commonplace human soul, only awaiting development, powers which may revolutionise our lives, even as this new electricity will revolutionise the world.”

Vanna stared out into the night with rapt, unseeing eyes. Life, which a few minutes ago had seemed so dreary in the flat barrenness of outlook, became suddenly illumined with interest. She felt the stirrings within of new life, new powers, and reached out eagerly to meet them.

“You have had experiences yourself—personal experiences—which prove to you the existence of such powers. Can you tell me about them? I don’t ask out of curiosity alone; but if it is too sacred, too private, I shall quite understand.”

He smiled at her with an utter absence of embarrassment.

“Oh, there is nothing private. My convictions are not founded on any definite occurrence; but as it happens, I have had one experience which defies explanation. Not in India, but by all that is mal à propos and out of place, in the most modern and material of cities—New York. I’ll tell it to you with pleasure. It’s an uncommonly good tale, and it has the merit of being first-hand, and capable of proof. It came about like this. A man asked me to dine in a private room at a hotel with two or three other men, bachelors—mutual friends. While we were sitting over dessert, he said, ‘I’ve got a little excitement for you fellows this evening. I’ve engaged a conjurer—thought-reading sort of fellow, to come in and give you an exhibition. He’s quite the most uncanny thing in that line that I’ve ever met. I never believed in second-sight before, but it makes one think. He’ll give you a new sensation; I can promise you that.’

“Well, he came about half an hour after that. An ordinary-looking fellow—a white man; nothing in the least unusual about him except his eyes—light, colourless-looking eyes, extraordinarily wide and clear—eyes that gave one an uncanny sort of thrill when they were fixed upon you. You felt that those eyes could see a lot more than would ever fall to your own vision. Well, he told us to sit against the wall at the far end of the room, and each to write something as personal as possible on slips of paper, which were afterwards to be shuffled and handed round. While we were writing he would leave the room. When we had finished, we were to ring a bell and he would return. We ranged our chairs as he said. There were no windows on that side, only the bare papered wall. I couldn’t think what to write. It puzzles one when one is suddenly told to do a thing like that. Eventually I put my mother’s maiden name, ‘Mary Winifred Fielding,’ and the date of her marriage, 1822. The fellow next me showed me his slip, ‘I don’t believe in any of this trickery.’ We chuckled together while I read it. We folded up the papers, put them in a bowl, and drew out the first that came. Then we rang the bell, and the fellow came back. He first shut the door and leant back against it. There were a good eight or ten yards between him and the end of the room where we sat. He looked across at me, and we all laughed together.

“‘The words written on the paper in your hand are: “Burmah! To the memory of a good old time!” You did not write it yourself—you have never been in Burmah; it was the gentleman to your left who wrote it—the gentleman with the grey hair. Am I not right, sir?’

“‘You are,’ said my friend, gasping. We did not laugh any more. He pointed to another fellow, and read out what I had written.

“‘That was written by the gentleman with the brown eyes. It is his mother’s name,’ he said; and I felt cold all down my spine. The man who had showed me his paper had drawn his own slip when they were shuffled together in the bowl. The conjurer knew that too. He pointed at him and said: ‘You have written your own opinion of me in the paper you hold. “I don’t believe in any of this trickery.”’ He paused for a moment, and then said quietly: ‘You are prejudiced, sir; but you will learn wisdom. A year from to-day you will understand my secrets.’ He drew himself up, and his eyes flashed; he turned to us, each in turn, and said a few, short, prophetic words. There was a poor barrister among us, a clever fellow, but he had no luck; he was in a very tight place at that time. He said to him: ‘on the 2nd of February, 1862, you will put your foot on the first step of the ladder which leads to fortune.’ That was five years later on. The poor fellow smiled and said: ‘can’t you hurry it on a bit?’ The man who was dining us came next. He didn’t like his share. It sounded cryptic enough to the rest of us, but he understood. You could see that by his face. My own message—”

He stopped short, laughing softly, but with an utter absence of embarrassment, and Vanna’s eager glance bespoke her curiosity.

“My own message was equally cryptic, but I did not understand. I don’t understand it now. I have not been too fortunate in money matters, and it refers to that, no doubt. He said: ‘you will seek fortune, and find it not. Where the rose blooms beneath the palm, there awaits your treasure.’”

“‘Where the rose blooms beneath the palm!’” Vanna repeated the words in a breathless whisper. “But how thrilling—how exciting! What could he mean? Aren’t you anxious; aren’t you curious? Don’t you go about daily waiting to see what will happen?”

Mr Gloucester laughed with boyish abandon.

“Rather not! It is a good eight years ago, and it has less chance of being fulfilled at this moment than it has ever had before, for I have said goodbye to the land of palms. I should never think of it again but for the fact,”—his face sobered swiftly—“that two out of those five prophecies did, as a matter of fact, come true. Three out of the six men who were there that evening I have never seen again. I can’t tell you what happened in their cases, but by the most absolute chance I ran up against the barrister fellow two years ago. We talked about our last meeting, and he said:

“‘You remember what that fellow said to me? It came true to the very hour. I had to speak in my first good brief that morning. I made a hit, carried the case, got a heap of kudos, and have never looked back from that hour.’ The second man was the one who had said he did not believe in such trickery. He—”

“Yes?”

“He died. Within a year from our meeting.”

Vanna shivered, and drew her scarf more closely round her shoulders. There was silence for several minutes, while the beating of invisible wings seemed to throb in the air around. Her thoughts strayed away on a long, rambling excursion, from which a sudden crash of music from the band awoke her with a shock of remembrance.

“You look quite scared. I hope I haven’t depressed you with my reminiscences. It was an uncanny experience, but you said you were interested.”

“And I am. Immensely. Thank you so much for telling me. I only hope your fulfilment, when it comes, may be as satisfactory as your barrister friend’s. Are you sorry to leave India and settle at home? Most men seem to find it difficult to get back into the old ways.”

Mr Gloucester shrugged carelessly.

“Oh, I don’t mind. It doesn’t trouble me. One does one’s work; one is tired; one rests. What does it matter what country one does it in? They both have their points. I can be happy in either.”

A glance at his face proved the truth of his words. His was one of the unexacting, sweet-tempered natures, which was content to take life as it was; enjoying each good which came, and troubling nothing for sorrows ahead.

“If he were in my place he would not be sad! His life has not gone too smoothly; he has not found success, but he is content. I must learn his lesson,” Vanna told herself mentally.

“Go on talking!” she said dreamily. “Do you mind? Tell me about things that have happened. I have lived all my life in a little English hamlet, and it’s so good to hear. I could listen for hours.”

He gave her a bright, pleased look, and without question or protest went on talking easily and pleasantly about Indian customs, peculiarities, and rites. He had lived in the great cities and in the wilds; had worked and played, hunted elephants and climbed Himalayan peaks; had come through hair-breadth dangers, had drunk Bass’s beer on a steaming plain, and, as he himself expressed it, “come out smiling every time.”

“I’m as strong as a horse,” he added. “A fellow has no right to grumble when he doesn’t know the meaning of pain.”

“I should not think you ever grumbled,” replied Vanna, smiling. The next moment she started as the chime of a distant clock struck on her ear. “What time was that? The half-hour, wasn’t it—half-past one? Have we been here nearly an hour? It seems impossible. It is a great compliment to your powers of conversation, Mr Gloucester, for before we met I was feeling terribly tired and bored; but I am afraid I must run away now. I arranged to leave at one o’clock, and I must be already in disgrace.”

“I’m awfully grateful to you for having listened to me so kindly. I hope we shall meet again, and continue the conversation. I am staying with these people for a few weeks. They are old family friends. It’s the nearest approach to a home I have left.”

“Thank you. I hope we may meet. I am only a guest in town like yourself, but I am making a longish stay.” Vanna led the way through the conservatory, walking with somewhat rapid footsteps, her eyes looking forward through the door leading into the ballroom. She had reached the centre of the floor when she was arrested by the sound of a laugh, and a light, flute-like voice breaking across the crash and clatter of the band.

“Well!” cried the voice. “Have you come at last? I am waiting for you. How long must I wait?”

Vanna wheeled round. Beneath the shade of a great palm tree, whose leaves swept the glass roof, stood Jean in her rose draperies, a wreath of roses crowning her dark head.

“I am waiting!” she said once more, and her eyes, passing by Vanna, rested on Robert Gloucester’s face. Vanna looking at him, saw his teeth clench, and his cheeks pale beneath their tan.

Chapter Four.

Rival Interests.

That night Vanna lay awake long after lying down, living over again the dramatic happening of the last few days.

“‘It’s a mad world, my masters,’” she said to herself between a smile and a sigh. “No sooner do I receive a sentence of celibacy for life than I am promptly introduced to a new and interesting personality, a nice man, a superlatively nice man, a man, moreover, who shows every sign of returning the compliment and thinking me a superlatively nice girl into the bargain—when, presto! he discovers himself in the light of Jean’s future husband. I know it, and she doesn’t. The drollness of the situation! At this moment she is sleeping in placid innocence, while I am a-thrill at the dawning of her romance. She will marry him—oh, yes! She will marry him; as certainly as she stood under that palm tree waiting to-night. What a lovely rose she made, and how his eyes glowed as he looked at her! Superstition or no superstition, that big, simple heart has accepted her as his wife as unquestionably as if a trumpet blast from heaven had proclaimed her name. It’s such an easy thing to tumble into love with Jean; the trouble is for any masculine thing to keep steady on his feet. He will worship her, and she must love him in return, as the perfect complement of herself. He so calm, and trustful, and serene; she, airy, impulsive, rebellious; but even in her naughtiest moods so lovable and feminine a thing. Well! as I am never to have a romance of my own, I must needs find double interest in Jean’s and enjoy myself vicariously through her. It will be quick work. That dramatic meeting carried him in a flash past all the initial stage of wonder and uncertainty. It’s rather a pity, I should have loved to watch it grow; but it has sprung into life full-grown. Oh, Jean, Jean, how little you know—how little you guess!”

Then Vanna’s thoughts flew back to the moment when, on the way through the ballroom, she had found herself alone with Robert Gloucester after the dramatic encounter in the conservatory. Their eyes had met, and she had spoken a few words on the flood of an overwhelming impulse.

“I won’t tell her. I promise not to tell.”

“Thank you,” he had replied warmly. “It will be better. I would rather—”

He paused at that, but there was about him a transparency of candour which made it easy to divine what he had been about to say, “I’ll would rather tell her myself!”

Vanna’s heart knew a little cramp of envy at all which that sentence implied.

Next morning, over a late and leisurely breakfast, Jean had much to say on the subject of her last night’s experiences.

“I danced a hole in my slippers—a little one, and quite a big one in Captain Gregson’s heart. He is, like all sailors, absurdly susceptible. I made only my second-best eyes at him. Like this! In my best effort I look up helplessly, appealingly, and then, down, quite a long time down, because curling dark eyelashes look so well when one’s cheeks are flushed. I just opened them rather widely at the Captain once or twice as we sat out after a dance, and he fell down flat. Dear, big, stupid thing, he can’t take care of himself one bit. He asked if he might call, but I shan’t be at home. I always stop short of the danger-point, as you know quite well, so don’t make faces at me, my dear, and, above all things, don’t preach. If you preached, I might be capable of seeing him, and showing my eyelashes. Opposition always drives me hard the other way. You looked tired, dear. Were you bored? Three separate men asked me who you were. I dissembled, and said you were ‘a Miss Strangeways,’ and listened with all my ears to what they would say next. One said, ‘she is not exactly pretty, but one notices her. She has an air.’ Another said, ‘I do like to see a girl well groomed. It’s refreshing to look at her head.’ The third said, ‘that girl would be worth knowing. It’s a fine face.’”

Vanna’s smile was a somewhat laboured effort.

“You mustn’t repeat masculine compliments, Jean. They are forbidden sweets. I shall never settle down into a steady-going ‘Affliction Female’ if you dangle worldly gauds before my eyes. I’m not going to any more balls. My capacity for frivol has died a violent death, and I feel all ‘out of the picture’ in a ballroom. I must find more serious occupations for my life.”

“Vanna, what rubbish! You are only twenty-three; you have your whole long life ahead. If it’s going to be dull, that’s all the more reason why you should enjoy yourself now. I thought you would live in town, and we should do everything together. Can’t you forget the future, dear, and enjoy the hour—buying pretty things and wearing them, and music, and flowers, and dancing, and talking things over afterwards? That has always been one of the best bits—comparing notes after the fray; making fun of other people, and ourselves! Don’t fall out, Vanna, and leave me to go on alone!”

“You won’t be alone!” The words were spoken instinctively, but Vanna drew herself up with instant compunction. “You have so many other friends, Jean, and I shall fall out for the festivities only. In all other respects we shall be as much together as before. Perhaps in time to come I may be festive once more, but for the moment I’m knocked out of time, and must hide my head like the ostrich. I made myself go to the ball last night, but it was not a success. I shan’t try it again.”

Jean lifted her chin, with the slightly obstinate expression in which she took refuge when her will was questioned.

“Oh-h! Well, you know best—or at least, you imagine you do. I should have thought, however, being of a simple and credulous nature, that you were enjoying yourself excessively when you walked through that conservatory last night. If you wished to hide your head at that moment you were a remarkably modest ostrich, for it looked most animated and attractive. Who was your partner, by the way? He looked quite nice.”

“Quite nice!” Vanna lifted her coffee-cup to hide a twitching lip. Behold the historic moment, and the heroine’s romantic impression of her future spouse. “I must remember this,” was the mental resolve, as she answered tranquilly:

“He was more than nice, he was a delightful man. I was not introduced to him until after twelve o’clock, but our talk together was the best part of the evening. His name is Gloucester.”

Jean dropped her fork with a little clatter of surprise.

“Gloucester? Not Robert Gloucester? Surely not! He could not possibly have been there.”

“He was, though. Very much there, for he is staying in the house. He naïvely observed that he had intended to go to bed, but as the ‘confounded noise’ had kept him awake, he came downstairs in desperation, and Miss Morton introduced him to me. You did not look as if you recognised each other.”

“We didn’t! I have never seen him before, but I have heard—oh, my dear, libraries about him! He is the Mortons’ theme. We all have themes, on which we fall back on every possible pause of the conversation. My theme, poor butterfly, is fun and clothes; yours, my angel, has been the same, plus a tinge of duty and maiden aunt; the Mortons’ is Robert Gloucester, his words, deeds, thoughts, looks, ideas. He’s been abroad for years and years, chiefly occupied in losing his money, so far as I can understand. He seems to have a specialty for losing money, but their infatuation is such that it is counted to him as an added charm. The boring times I have had listening to prosy accounts of his trials and adventures, when I have wanted to discuss a hat! And then at last he was coming home, the ball was arranged so that he should be there, I expected him to dance half the night with me: it was the least he could do, considering how I had suffered for him; and behold he hides upstairs, and creeps down to sit on balconies with another girl! Wretch! Why on earth could they not have introduced him to me, instead of to you?”

“You were not sitting by your lone, a dejected wallflower, while your partners gorged in the supper-room. I was. We took pity on one another, and determined to talk, not dance.”

“And pray, what did you talk about?”

Again Vanna’s lip gave a quick, involuntary twitch.

“Different things. He told me that he had just returned to England, and spoke of foreign countries—his adventures—”

“Oh, but this must be stopped!” Jean shook her head with would-be solemnity. “The Mortons have advertised him sufficiently in advance; he really cannot be allowed to be egotistical on his own account. I shall take him in hand. I shall say to him gently but firmly, ‘My excellent youth, your biography has already run through many editions. Let it rest. Variety is refreshing for mind as well as body. Allow your thoughts to stray for a moment to some one besides your wonderful self. Think, for example, of Me!’”

She waved her hand in dramatic fashion as she spoke, flashing a mischievous glance at her friend, her face a-sparkle with mischief. Jean’s vivid young beauty seemed ever to be asserting itself in fresh phases, so that even those who lived in the same house and looked upon her every day of their lives were continually evoked to fresh admiration. As in watching the movements of an exquisite child, moments of satiety seemed impossibly remote.

Vanna thought with a leaping pulse: “How he will love her!” and smiled back tenderly into the glowing face.

How soon, and in what fashion would the dramatic meeting take place? She was possessed with an immense curiosity to forecast the events of the next few days. Robert Gloucester would not, she was convinced, be content to wait upon chance, but having been vouchsafed a glimpse of his treasure, would not rest until he had furthered the acquaintance. In a light, unsuspicious manner it was evident that Jean’s expectation had also been aroused, for as the visiting hour of the afternoon drew near she displayed an unwillingness to leave the house, donned her prettiest dress, and seated herself in the drawing-room, in what was evidently a waiting mood.

“Put a rose in your belt, Jean. You ought always to wear a rose,” Vanna said, holding out a bowl of fragrant blooms for approval, and Jean obeyed, casting the while a smilingly defiant glance at the angular woman who sat knitting near at hand. If ever the word spinster was written large over a human creature, it was written over Mrs Goring, wife of the genial Philip, and stepmother to his daughter Jean. Yet she was not only a wife, but a mother, and her husband and the two growing schoolboys regarded her with a sincere if somewhat prosaic affection. Jean’s mental position with regard to her stepmother was somewhat more complicated. “I love her with my head, with my judgment, with my conscience; on Sundays, when the sermon is extra good; when she has asthma, and gasps for breath; when the boys are ill, and she looks white and trembly; at other times—no! with my heart—never! We are miles apart, and no bridge is long enough to bring us together. I am her husband’s daughter, so it is her duty to feel an affection for me; she never shirks a duty, so she tries hard morning and evening to love me as she should, and asks forgiveness every night because she can’t manage to do it. I don’t try—because I’m bad, you’ll say; really, because I’m too wise. It’s no use trying to love; but I’m far more obedient and docile than I should be if she were my own dear mother. I should have teased her, and argued, and been cross and perverse—every naughty thing in turn, as the mood took me; and then I should have been sorry, and cried, and she would have forgiven me, and we’d have loved each other harder than ever. But the mater and I never quarrel. That ought to score a great big mark to our credit.”

On the present occasion Mrs Goring justified her character for keeping her temper, for, trying as it was to her practical nature to behold her stepdaughter decking herself with flowers in the afternoon, and idling over a piece of useless crewel work, she made no spoken protest, but contented herself with pursing her thin lips, and clicked her knitting-needles together as she worked.

Presently a visitor was announced, and then another; tea was served, and it was after five o’clock when at last the announcement came for which both girls had been impatiently waiting.

“Miss Morton, Mr Gloucester.”

The girl swept in with the assurance of an intimate friend. Robert Gloucester followed slowly, his spare figure towering above hers, his face set and strained. Vanna saw at a glance that he was consumed with nervousness, and during the first ten minutes of his stay he hardly allowed himself a glance in Jean’s direction. When she handed tea he took it with eyes fixed on the cup, and promptly sought the corner by Vanna’s side to mumble platitudes about the weather, and listen absently to her replies.

How long would Jean allow so unsatisfactory a state of affairs? “I’ll give her five minutes,” was Vanna’s verdict; but before that time had elapsed Jean had so cleverly manipulated the conversation that Vanna was being questioned across the length of the drawing-room, so that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest a change of seats.

“Come over here, Vanna, dear, and tell them all about it! I’ll talk to Mr Gloucester!” Jean floated across the room in her white dress, and laid a caressing hand on her friend’s shoulder. It was a pure impulse of coquetry which made her take the rose from her belt as she seated herself in the discarded corner of the sofa. One could make such pretty by-play with a flower, twirling it to and fro, stroking the petals, daintily drinking in its fragrance. To the woman that rose gave an added consciousness of power; from the man the sight of it took away what little composure he retained. His hand shook until the teaspoon rattled against the cup; and he placed it unemptied on the table by his side. He stammered; he was unhinged, tongue-tied. Jean, who had been prepared to rebuke self-confidence, adopted an instant change of tactics. Her little airs and graces died a rapid death; the tilt of the head was replaced by a gentle droop, her complacent smile changed to an artless appeal. The poor, dear man must be encouraged. He had been buried in the wilds, with lions and elephants for companions; he was all unnerved to find himself in an English drawing-room, face to face with a pretty girl.

“I’ve waited such a long time to see you,” said Jean softly. “Edith and I are great friends and she has told me so much about you. I could stand quite a stiff examination on your doings and goings of the last few years. Some day you shall cross-question me and see. When I’ve been particularly good I’ve even heard extracts from your letters. I can’t possibly treat you as a stranger!”

“I—I ought to apologise. I hope you have not been bored.”

He looked up as he spoke, and for the first time met the full gaze of Jean’s eyes—those eyes which were a revelation of beauty even to dull elderly members of her own sex. Gloucester’s gaze lingered with an intensity which held her bound in return; but mingling with his eagerness was an expression of humility, almost of awe, which Jean found strangely disconcerting. She lowered her lids at his glance, forgetful for once of the effect of fringed ladies, and made her reply with a little tremble of nervousness in her voice.

“Not at all bored, but very interested. Are you glad to be back in England; and how does it look to you after your long absence? Are you going to stay at home?”

“I’m glad—immensely glad! Yes, I shall stay,” he said with abrupt, almost violent emphasis. Then more quietly, “The country looks—neat! Such neat little fields on either side the line. I should grow impatient in the country, but London enthrals. I love the dull old roar, and the smoke, and the misty light of this weak little sun. A man who has lived long abroad seldom cares for rural England, but he never loses his love of London. It is the best of its kind—there’s something in that; but the country is tame.”

Jean mused, a smile twitching her lips.

“I have always said that if I could choose an exact site for my home of the future I’d have the front windows facing west over a range of mountains, the bigger the better—the Himalayas for choice—and the back windows over Piccadilly! Our tastes agree, it appears; but for pity’s sake don’t let our sun hear you speaking in such disrespectful tones. It is so touchy and difficile that it is capable of sulking and hiding for weeks together, and we have been paying it such compliments these last days. ‘Blazing!’ We preferred to stay indoors this afternoon because it was ‘blazing.’ Soon we shall declare that it is impossible to stay in town, and shall fly away to the country. In a couple of weeks London will be emptied of every one who is not chained to a desk.”

“Where shall you go?” he asked directly.

Jean glanced at him, and discovered to her surprise that the question was no idle inquiry put to help in a lagging conversation, but a request for information seriously desired. She was not offended, but a feminine impulse prompted her to prevaricate.

“Oh, to the sea, I suppose. I possess two small brothers who insist upon the sea for their holidays. I suppose you will be going to Hampshire with the Mortons. The Moat will seem a haven of rest and green after the East. The gardens are more entrancing than ever. Such flowers!” She lifted the rose to her face as if reminded of its presence, stroked her cheek with its velvety petals, and let it drop into her lap. A heightened voice sounded from the end of the room, and the quick movement of interest with which she turned to see what was happening sent the rose spray rolling softly to the ground. She bent forward to regain it, but Gloucester was quicker than she; he held it firmly in his big brown hand, not offering a return, but looking down at it with an expression which Jean found strangely eloquent.

“It is a long time since you have seen English flowers. To an Englishman nothing can ever be quite so beautiful. You must be glad you came home in the time of roses!”

The intentionally soft tone of the girl’s voice threw into greater contrast the man’s hoarse accents.

“Will you give it to me? May I keep it?”

Jean stared, her delicate brows arched in dignified surprise. Certainly she would not give a flower which she had been wearing to a perfect stranger, and that in the presence of three pairs of watching eyes. This Robert Gloucester was disconcertingly direct, and must be kept in his place—gently, however, for he had other points in his favour, such as being young and handsome, and transparently impressed by herself.

“Not this one, I think. It is too faded and tired. I am cruel to flowers when I wear them. I can’t leave them alone. Please take your choice from any in that bowl. They are all quite fresh!”

She held out her hand, gently imperious, and Gloucester mutely returned the rose. He could do no less; but his air was so discouraged, so out of all proportion abashed, that the girl felt a swift remorse. It was like disappointing an eager child, and watching the shadowing of the happy face. Now it was not her own wish, but simply the presence of onlookers which prevented the refusal from being changed into consent. She laid the recovered flower on the table beside the fragrant bowl of roses, almost disliking it for having been the cause of this check in the conversation. Her eyes softened, she smiled into Gloucester’s troubled face with her sweetest, most childlike expression, and prattled dainty nonsense, unchecked by his lack of response. Presently he began to smile; it was impossible to resist Jean when she set herself to charm, but once and again the murmured answers missed the point, and she was conscious that, though his thoughts were absorbed in herself, he was paying scant heed to her words. The mysterious nervousness which had affected her at his first gaze returned to Jean once more in the process of this one-sided conversation; she turned her head to where the three ladies were sitting, and met Edith Morton’s eyes fixed upon herself with an intensity of scrutiny which aroused a quick suspicion.

Edith did not care to see her guest monopolised; she was not content to be banished to the end of the room. Jean smiled and raised her voice, addressing her directly by name, so as to show her desire for a general conversation.

“I have been telling Mr Gloucester, Edith, that when I was very good you used to read me extracts from his letters, and thrill me by repeating his adventures. They were such nice, full, detaily letters. I think you would get a prize in a foreign correspondence competition, Mr Gloucester. Most men write such scrappy notes.”

“Ah, I should have been ungrateful if I had done that, for Edith sent me such splendid letters from home. No one knows how a fellow appreciates letters when he is abroad—a blank mail is a blighting experience. Edith has been a brick to me in that way; as good as any sister.”

He smiled at the girl as he spoke, and Edith Morton smiled bravely back. Gloucester saw nothing strained or unnatural in that smile, but the three women divined its secret with lightning intuition. Poor Edith who had watched and waited all these years, counting each day as it passed, enduring a grey present in the hope of a golden future which would surely begin when the Prince returned to his own. And now her long wish was fulfilled—her hero was restored to her side, not unconscious of her care, but full of gratitude and affection. He smiled at her with kindly eyes, he paid her public thanks, he compared her to a sister, and Edith’s heart cramped with despair.

She was a tall, slight girl, with dark hair, a dull complexion, and pretty eyes. She dressed tastefully, though without style, and spoke with a delightfully clear, musical intonation. When addressed she had a trick of drooping her head, which gave her a somewhat timid and shrinking air, and her hands were small and white. Women admired and loved her, and constantly asked of each other, “Why is she not married?” Men passed her by as if unconscious of her presence. The mysterious quality which attracts masculine approval was lacking in her case, and until the present she had not regretted its absence.

The while Gloucester continued an easy flow of conversation, the same thought passed through the mind of each feminine hearer. If Edith wished to appropriate this man for herself, why had she so hastened to bring him into the temptation of Jean Goring’s presence? Jean, with her characteristic impulsiveness made a dozen impossible resolutions to keep out of Robert’s path; to be cold to him, to refuse to speak. Vanna sighed over the hardness of fate which ever advances to its festivals over the corpses of the slain. Mrs Goring, with tightened lips, sneered at the blindness of men whose vision was blinded by a pretty face. Edith, with a sad pride, told herself that above all things sincerity was the most precious, and that if Gloucester were to be hers, it must be of his own unbiased will. If he loved her—if he were even beginning to love her—Jean’s beauty would leave him untouched. Every day one beheld ordinary-looking women wooed by men who had passed by others infinitely more favoured, to seek them out. Beauty meant much, but it was not all. The mystic tie of affinity in no way depended on its presence. Robert and Jean were bound to meet during the next few weeks; her own influence should be used to make those meetings more frequent, rather than less. She would condescend to no scheming to attain what was worth having only if it came as a free-will gift.

When she spoke again it was to invite Jean and her friend to dinner the next evening.

“We are expecting some of Robert’s old friends, and we need you two girls to balance numbers. You must come!”

Jean hesitated. She had just decided to refuse all invitations; but this was put in the light of a favour, which it would seem discourteous to refuse. Besides, Vanna had seemed interested in Robert Gloucester. She must consider poor, dear Vanna!

“You are sure you want us? Really? It seems so soon to come again. If any of the men drop out, be sure to let us know. We shall quite understand,” she replied, assuaging her conscience with this loophole of escape, and Edith rose to say good-bye, smiling another difficult smile.

It was Jean’s usual custom to accompany her friend downstairs at the end of each visit, linking arms, and standing long in the hall as one item of news after another presented itself for discussion; but to-day she rang the bell for a maid, and made her adieux at the drawing-room door; the most careless and perfunctory of adieux to the man, to the girl a kiss, and an eloquent grip of the hand. Edith was her friend, a friend of years’ standing; and Jean, for all her flirtatious nature, was loyal to her sex. The last thing she would wish to do would be to annex another girl’s lover. Nevertheless it was with a sigh and an unusual sense of depression that she re-entered the drawing-room. Vanna was standing by the sofa in the corner, looking down on the carved oak table. Jean’s eyes followed hers, and her heart gave a sudden, startling leap. The bowl of roses was untouched, but the table was bare, the faded bud had disappeared!

Chapter Five.

Jean Runs Away.

The next day Jean displayed an inexplicable unwillingness to accept Edith Morton’s invitation to dinner. All morning she affected to expect a letter announcing a cancelling of the plan. When afternoon came and no letter arrived, she fell back upon the usual feminine subterfuge.

“I think,” she announced thoughtfully, “I’m almost sure, I have a headache!”

The two girls were seated alone in the upstairs boudoir, and anything less suffering than Jean’s appearance would have been difficult to imagine. Vanna smiled, and put an incredulous question:

“Poor, puzzled darling. It is trying for you. How do you manage to decide these knotty points?”

For answer Jean ducked her head, and shook it violently from side to side. This singular process over, she raised a flushed, sparkling face, and pronounced slowly:

“Yes, it does; I can feel it. I can always tell when I do that.”

Vanna’s clear laugh rang out mockingly. To one who knew what it was to suffer from prostrating headache, which made it impossible to move, to speak, almost to breathe, the sight of Jean’s ducked, shaking head was irresistibly comic. She brushed aside the frail pretence.

“My dear, it’s no use. I see through you. Better confess at once. You don’t want to go. Why?”

Jean looked at her in silence. Her eyes dilated, the colour paled on the rounded cheeks. It was pretence no longer, but real unaffected earnest.

“Vanna, he frightens me—that Robert Gloucester! He behaved like, like they do, you know—at the end. It’s absurd, at the very first meeting. He couldn’t possibly—care! I don’t want to meet him again.”

“You didn’t like him, then?”

“Oh, yes, I did. Dreadfully. That’s just why—”

“Enigma! Will you graciously explain?”

“Edith!” said Jean, in a low voice, almost a whisper. It seemed treacherous to speak of Edith’s secret, but Vanna was as another self, to whom so far every thought had been confessed, and she was the most loyal of confidantes. Besides, if Robert Gloucester were to be successfully avoided, Vanna’s co-operation would be needed.

“I am sure Edith cares for him, and if she does, she has had such a long, long wait. Imagine how it would feel, to love a man with those eyes, and wait alone at the other end of the world for six long years! It would make me wretched to spoil Edith’s happiness; but if he came often, and looked at me like that, I—I should look back, Vanna, I know I should. I might make all the resolutions in the world, but they wouldn’t last. I’m a born flirt. It’s shocking, but it’s true; therefore you perceive there’s only one thing for it—to avoid temptation. You must go alone to-night, and say that I’m ill.”

“Which would bring Edith round post-haste to-morrow morning, accompanied by her guest. You must think of a better excuse than that if you really wish to avoid him, my dear,” replied Vanna derisively.

There was no contradicting this statement, for Jean was one of those rare and blessed mortals who did not know the meaning of illness. As a child she had romped gaily through the list of juvenile ailments, thereafter for a dozen years she had bloomed in radiant flower-like health, without a single day’s illness, or a nearer approach to pain than a headache whose reality had to be diagnosed in the novel manner already described. To announce herself too unwell to keep a social engagement would indeed arouse alarmed attention. She mused in silence for several moments then said slowly:

“Yes! quite true! I should have to stay in bed, and that would be too boring. I couldn’t immolate myself to that extent even for Edith. Vanna, what do you say to running off to the country to-morrow—you and I? Miggles is there already, getting ready the house. Theoretically she would chaperone us, practically we would bully her, and make her do whatever we liked. You are not keen on festivities just now, and the season will soon be over. I shouldn’t mind giving up the few things that remain. We’d have lovely times together, and lead the simple life, and drink milk, and go to bed early, and give our poor tired hair a rest. It would be fun, wouldn’t it, dear? Say you would like it too!”

Vanna looked thoughtfully at the lovely face. Jean was in earnest; and to one of her warmhearted, impulsive nature to be in earnest meant to be content with no half measures, but to insist upon wholesale surrender. It would be useless to protest, and indeed she had no wish to do so. Jean’s flight would not avail; the fates had decreed that she and Robert Gloucester should meet, and would not be coerced from their plan—of that she was quietly convinced; at the same time, she felt a keen sympathy with the shattering of Edith’s romance, and was content that Jean should put herself beyond the reach of blame.

“Oh, yes, I’d love to go,” she replied. “It will be delightful to have you all to myself, and I’m in no mood for functions. But are you quite sure you won’t be bored? You won’t find it too lonely?”

“Oh, well!” replied Jean, laughing. “Incidentally, there is Piers Rendall! He went down last week to fish, and to cheer his mother. He shall cheer us, too. Well, then, it’s all settled. You’ll go alone to-night, and to-morrow morning bright and early we’ll set off for the sea. I wish I had not bought that white dress...”

So it was arranged, and at eight o’clock that evening, Vanna entered Mrs Morton’s drawing-room alone, and saw a shadow fall over Robert Gloucester’s face, while Edith listened to the offered explanations with a surprise from which she loyally strove to banish any trace of relief. A shy girl of sixteen was summoned from the schoolroom to fill the vacant place at the table, and, putting aside his own disappointment, Gloucester insisted upon claiming her as his own partner, and kept her happy and amused throughout the meal. In the drawing-room his laugh was as cheery and content as if he had never known a care, and Vanna noticed that in a tactful, unobtrusive fashion he performed many of the duties overlooked by the host of the evening. It was he who observed that the draught from an open window was too strong for a delicate guest; he who turned aside from a laughing group to speak to the solitary occupant of a sofa; he who started an interesting topic of conversation, when the old showed signs of wearing thin; and the Mortons, old and young, regarded him with glowing eyes and punctuated their sentences with “Robert says,” “Robert thinks,” as though his opinion was sufficient to settle the most knotty point.

It was towards the end of the evening, when Vanna had her first quiet word with the hero of the occasion.

“What does it mean?” he asked at once. “Is it serious?” And when she queried blankly, “Her headache?” he replied, with such a transparency of distress, that she was ashamed to confess the unreality of the excuse.

“Oh, no—no. Nothing serious. A very passing thing.”

“Then why is she leaving town so suddenly?”

Vanna looked at him, and the impulse came to speak the unvarnished truth, unconventional though it might be.

“To avoid you! You should not be so precipitate. It is disconcerting, to put it mildly, to have a man make violent love to one at a first meeting.”

“I did not make love.”

“Not in so many words, perhaps.”

Gloucester blushed, remembering the rosebud at that moment pressed between the leaves of his pocket-book. For a few moments he was silent, gazing before him in puzzled fashion, then suddenly the shadow passed, he turned towards her with a smile, his eyes clear and untroubled.

“And so she is going to run away, a make-believe little journey of two or three hours? Does she imagine that she can hide herself so easily? There is no corner of the earth where I would not follow to find her at the end. She belongs to me. Do you imagine I shall give her up?”

Vanna was silent. In her heart of hearts she had no doubt on the point, and believed Jean’s fate already settled; but she saw Edith’s eyes fixed upon her from across the room, and felt a keen sympathy with the disappointment in store. Edith was no longer young; Edith had waited; for Edith the chances of life might be few and far between, while Jean held the open sesame of charm and beauty.

“May I give you some advice?” she said quickly. “You will probably refuse to take it, but it’s on my mind to give it all the same. Don’t be in a hurry. Let Jean go; don’t try to see her. Stay behind, and think things over. She is beautiful, and your meeting was dramatic. Even I felt carried away. But marriage!—that is terribly serious. One ought to be so sure. You have her happiness to remember, as well as your own. Jean is impetuous and romantic. If she knew what we know, she would feel that all was settled, and that she had no choice. You don’t want that. If she is to be your wife, it ought to be because she chooses you of her own deliberate will. Wait quietly for a few weeks and—drift! You may find in a few weeks’ time that the impression fades—that there are other possibilities, other attractions.”

Gloucester looked her in the face, and laughed, a full-throated, derisive laugh.

“You don’t believe one word that you are saying. You are talking because you think you ought. Don’t! What is the use of keeping up pretences—you and I? We have seen behind the scenes. Can’t we stick to the truth?”

“You won’t take my advice?”

“No, I won’t.”

“You refuse to be prudent in regard to the most important happening of your life?”

“I do. It’s not a matter for prudence. It belongs to another sphere. I am thirty-five. I have waited long enough. Why should I squander more weeks to satisfy a convention? She shan’t be hurried—she shall feel no obligation. I will not breathe a word about that old prophecy unless, until she consents of her own will; but she must know what I want. I would tell her to-day if I had the chance.”

“Which you shall not, if I can prevent it. It’s not fair; it’s not kind. What is Jean to think? That you are attracted by her face, and her face alone? That’s a poor compliment. If she is worth winning she is worth knowing; and she has plenty of character. So far as I can judge, her nature and yours are quite unlike. Are you quite sure that you can make her happy? In fairness to her, you ought to give her a chance of knowing you before she takes the plunge.”

“I can make her happy. I have no shadow of doubt about that. I’ll tell you something more, if you like, Miss Strangeways—I am the only man who can! She belongs to me, and I am not going to stand aside for any man—or woman—on the face of the earth!”

Vanna shrugged her shoulders, half laughing, half annoyed.

“Very well, then, now we know where we are. For the moment please understand that I have joined the opposition. I shall run off with Jean and hide her, and instil principles of prudence and caution into her ear, coupled with a due suspicion of men who make up their minds in a hurry. Don’t count upon my good offices.”

“I shan’t need them, thank you,” he returned calmly.

Vanna reflected that it would be as easy to attempt to depress an india-rubber ball.

Chapter Six.

Enter Miggles.

Three days later the two girls were ensconced in their country quarters, and Jean was beginning to suffer from the effects of reaction. Her impressionable nature was capable of generous impulses, which found vent in such actions of self-abnegation as the present flight from town, but long-continued effort was too heavy a trial. Once settled down in the quiet house by the sea, and past the excitement of the first arrival, she began to droop and to fret, and to demand of herself and every one with whom she came in contact why she had been so foolish as to abandon her last weeks in town.

“To-night is the Listers’ ball. I was going to wear the new white. At this very moment I should have been preening before the glass. I feel a horrid conviction that it would have suited me to distraction, that I should have had the night of my life. I can’t think what you were dreaming about, Vanna, to let me rush off in that undignified way. I’m impulsive; but a word from you would have kept me straight. And you never spoke it. I don’t think I can ever forgive you. If you hadn’t any consideration for me, you might have thought of Edith. For her sake I should have stayed in town and been as nice as possible to Robert Gloucester. If a man can’t run the gauntlet of other women, he would make a poor sort of husband. When I fall in love, I shall make a point of introducing the man to the most charming women of my acquaintance, and if he shows any sign of being attracted by a special one, I’ll throw them together. I will! You see if I don’t! If he didn’t like me better than them all put together, I should be glad, thankful, delighted to let him go. Any girl would, who had a spirit. I feel that I have behaved very meanly and unkindly to poor dear Edith. Why don’t you speak? What’s the good of sitting there like a mummy? Can’t you hear?”

“Perfectly, thank you. I am listening with great interest and attention. Being of a generous nature, I refrain from repeating the remarks which you made when I did venture to expostulate, but if you will cast back your thoughts—”

“Oh, well,” interrupted Jean naughtily, “I shall just flirt with Piers. I deserve some distraction after being such a monument of virtue, and I’ll have it, or know the reason why. I wrote to tell him we were here, so he’ll come over this afternoon, and we’ll go for a walk by the sad sea waves. You might twist your ankle on the pebbles, a little innocent twist, you know, just enough to make it wise to sit down and rest while we have our tête-à-tête. Since you’ve brought me here against my will, it’s the least you can do. Piers shall have tea with us before we start. Miggles adores Piers.”

“Miggles,” formally known as Miss Miggs, was a well-known character in the Goring ménage, having been in succession, governess to Jean, housekeeper during the period of Mr Goring’s widowerhood, and afterwards governess to the two sons of the second marriage. After so many years of faithful service it seemed impossible to dispense with Miggles’s services, and in truth no one wished to do so, for she was one of the cheery souls who carry sunshine as an atmosphere. According to ordinary ideas, Miggles might have grumbled with the best, and demanded a universal toll of sympathy, for she was the most solitary of units—a woman who could not claim relationship with a angle soul in her own hemisphere. She had passed her sixtieth birthday, and despite rigid economies, possessed only a few hundred pounds between herself and want; her health, never strong, showed signs of growing more precarious, and an affection of the eyes shut her off from her loved pastimes of reading and needlework. Nevertheless, Miggles was so far from being depressed by such circumstances, that it had not even occurred to her that she deserved to be pitied. This blessed state of mind had been achieved by no conflict and struggle of the soul—no noble effort of will; religion itself had contributed little towards it. Miggles’s disposition was a birthright for which she was seemingly as little responsible as for the colour of her hair. As a child, when circumstances had offered a choice between smiles and tears, she had instinctively elected to smile; as a girl, the mere facts of life and movement had seemed sufficient to ensure complete happiness; while later on she had been so much occupied with being thankful for silver linings that the clouds themselves flitted by attracting but scanty attention. In cheery, non-consequent fashion, she would discourse of her blessings by the hour together.

“Now, would you believe it, my dear, not a soul belonging to me nearer than Australia—my nephew Henry, dear boy, but rash—such a pity! always was, from a child. Thomas now—the elder brother—he would always save. My mother was so particular about bringing us up to save. ‘Instil good principles from the beginning’ she would say. But however—what was I talking about? Ah, yes! not a soul nearer than Australia, and three letters by this morning’s post. Isn’t it wonderful? People are so kind. Really, except Monday, when there was a fashion-book from a shop—I do like seeing the fashions—there’s been something on my plate every morning. That’s so cheering to begin the day. You know some one has been thinking of you, and caring enough to sit down and write.”

Jean cast a twinkling glance across the table at Vanna.

“What did they want this time, Miggles? I bet anything you like, that every second letter was to beg for something that you have no business to give, and that you were weak enough to say yes all round. Can you deny it?”

“Why should I, dear child? Such a privilege. Most kind of them to have given me the opportunity. Old clothes! I don’t suppose you ever have old clothes, Miss Vanna—they always look so fresh and new. I like to see a girl in pretty clothes. When I was young, shallis were in fashion. I don’t suppose you ever saw shallis—very stiff, not nearly so graceful as your delaines. A dear lady gave me a brown shalli, trimmed with pipings. Brown was never my colour, but it wore for years—so very kind. Nowadays I have to wear wool for my poor bones. Wool always did irritate my skin. It took me weeks to get accustomed to sleep in blankets. I used to lie awake at nights tossing from side to side, and thinking of all the poor creatures who had no warm coverings—and mine the very best Whitney, the ones from the spare room, Jean, with the blue stripes. Mrs Goring said I was to have them. I’m sure if I’d been the Queen—”

“Oh, it’s wonderful to think of. Real Whitney blankets with blue stripes, on which to toss about and groan! What luck you have, Miggles, and how thankful you ought to be that you have bones to ache. If you hadn’t had that bad feverish attack, you might have been left stranded with your own bedding. It is piteous to think of.”

Miggles shook her large, ugly head with elephantine playfulness.

“Naughty child! naughty child! You are laughing at me, I can see. It is very painful, especially during the night, and I used to be so proud of my hands. I’ve had to give up wearing my turquoise ring, the knuckles are so enlarged. That really was a trial; but when you think what other people have to bear... There’s that poor man at Oxford Circus, who wheels about on a board. I always wonder if there are any legs inside his trousers, they lie so very flat; but of course one couldn’t ask. How monotonous it would be, my dear, to sit on a board from morning till night. When I thought of that, it seemed so foolish to fret about a ring... Your dear mother gave it to me one Christmas, because I had such a desire to possess a ring. It was the only one I ever had.”

“Dear Miggles,” cried Jean fondly, “I wonder you didn’t have a dozen. I wonder that every man you met didn’t press one upon you. They would have done so, if they had known what was good for them. You would have made the dearest wife!”

Miggles smiled appreciatively.

“Well, dear, I should, though I say it myself. I should have made him very comfortable. I have such a sympathy with men, poor dears, working all day long, and banks failing, and upsetting their plans, and all the bills to pay. They do deserve a little comfort at home. My nephew’s wife—Henry’s—I can’t help feeling she’s been a little to blame. Of course there’s no denying that Henry is rash, but he could have been guided, and Florence is hasty. A nice girl, too—very nice. I wouldn’t say a word against her, but you can’t help thinking sometimes, and I’m sorry for Henry. Yes! I’ve always regretted that I never had an offer. I was never pretty, like you, my dears; but personable, quite personable. A gentleman once passed the remark that if he had been young he would have wished nothing better than that nice, wholesome-looking girl; but he was quite old—a colonel, home from India, with a liver. When they are like that they admire a fresh complexion. And of course he had a wife already. It would have been pleasant to look back and remember that some one had wished to make me his wife.” Miggles gazed at the coffeepot with an air of placid regret, which quickly melted into smiles. “But, however—he mightn’t have turned out well. One never knows, and I read a sweet little poem in a magazine which might have been written to meet my case. She said (a lady wrote it; I should think she had had a disappointment), ‘If I never have a child of my own, with its little hands, and pattering feet, still all the children of the world are mine, to love and to mother.’ Such a beautiful thought, was it not?”

“Beautiful, indeed, and so original. She was a great poet, my Miggles. Talking of suitors, Piers Rendall is coming to tea. We’ll have it here, please. Piers likes a nursery tea set out on the table, with plenty of apricot jam, and thick sensible bread-and-butter; no shavings. Plum-cake; not plain—he detests caraway seeds, and two lumps of sugar in his tea.”

“I know. I’ve poured out tea for him since he was so high,” cried Miggles, waving her hand indefinitely in the air. “He had it with me here two days before you came. It’s not many young men who would care to walk three miles to see an old woman, but I can’t say he looks well. Thin—worried! A man ought to be full of life at that age.”

“Fretting for me, dear! He’ll be all right this afternoon. You’ll see,” announced Miss Jean confidently. She would have said the same of any other young man of her acquaintance, nevertheless Vanna waited with some anxiety for the events of the afternoon. Strive as she might, she could not divest her mind of a feeling of responsibility towards Robert Gloucester; of the conviction that Jean was his by right, and that separation could end only in disaster.

At three o’clock that afternoon Piers Rendall walked up the garden path, and Jean rushed out to meet him. Vanna, from her seat in the hall, could hear the merry exchange of greetings.

“Halloa, Princess!”

“Halloa, Slave! How are you feeling?”

“Hugging my chains! This is a piece of luck, your coming down so soon. What brought you away from the gay capital before the end of the season?”

“The train, sir! People who ask personal questions must expect to be snubbed. I ran away, but not alone. I’ve a friend with me—Miss Strangeways. Come and be introduced.”

They had entered the hall while Jean was speaking, and Vanna caught the quick frown of annoyance on the man’s face. He had a strong, well-knit figure, and a thin, nervous face. His hair was dark, his features were sharply aquiline, the whole effect was handsome and distinguished, but not altogether agreeable. The dark blue eyes had a somewhat irritable expression, and the features were subject to an occasional nervous twitching. They twitched at sight of Vanna seated in the deep cane chair facing the door, and his lips straightened themselves eloquently. Vanna knew that he was mentally wishing her at Jericho, and seeing his hoped-for tête-à-tête turned into a dull trio. But the revelation was but momentary, and nothing could have been more courteous than his greeting.

“How do you do, Miss Strangeways? I have heard so constantly about you from Jean that it is a double pleasure to find you here.”

Vanna murmured a conventional acknowledgment and felt mentally antagonistic. To feel oneself de trop is never an agreeable experience, and unreasonable though it might be, she resented both Mr Rendall’s attitude and his courteous disguise of the same. During the meal which followed she remained stiff and silent, while her three companions chatted and laughed with the ease of old friendship. Jean sparkled, her depression dispersed by the presence of a companion of the opposite sex, Miggles beamed from behind the tea-tray, and indulged in reminiscent anecdotes, to which the young man lent the most flattering attention. His bright eyes softened in genuine kindliness as he looked into her large, good-natured face, and he waited upon her with the utmost solicitude. Evidently there was a real bond of affection between the homely old woman and the handsome man. Towards Jean his attitude was more complex. Vanna, watching with jealous, anxious eyes—jealous on behalf of that other suitor whose claims she had denied—could not decide how much or how little his feelings were involved. He admired her, of course—what man would not admire Jean? They bandied words together, joked, teased, protested, without a suspicion of self-consciousness; at times they smiled at each other with undisguised affection; at other times some light word uttered by the girl seemed to strike a false note, and the irritable expression in the man’s eyes flamed into sudden anger.

“He has a passionate nature; he could feel very deeply. I think he is not happy.” Such was Vanna’s diagnosis of Piers Rendall’s character as she drank her tea and ate her plum-cake in almost uninterrupted silence. Her companions had endeavoured to draw her into the conversation. Jean had grimaced eloquently across the table, but Vanna made only a feeble response. It seemed as though Jean’s depression had been suddenly shifted on to her own shoulders; the peaceful content of the last few days had disappeared; she felt solitary, wounded, jarred. When the meal was over and the three young people started out on their walk, these feelings deepened. Had she not already received her instructions—that she was to feign an accident as an excuse for obliterating herself for the others’ benefit? Vanna set her lips with an obstinate little resolve to do nothing of the kind. She would not obtrude her society where it was not desired, but she would stoop to no pretence by way of excuse. When they had walked about a mile along the sea-front, she quietly announced her intention of sitting down.

“I don’t think I shall go any farther. I’ve brought a book. I shall sit here and rest, and you can pick me up as you come back.”

“Oh, Vanna! Why? Are you tired, dear? Aren’t you well?” demanded naughty Jean.

“Perfectly well, thank you,” replied Vanna coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Piers Rendall thought her exceedingly disagreeable for her pains.

The two figures crossed the belt of pebbly stones, and walked over the sunny sands to the water’s side. Hitherto they had kept to the levelled promenade, and to Vanna’s irritated senses it appeared an added offence that, once released from her presence, they should at once hasten into solitude. She turned her eyes away and stared drearily into space. Revolt surged in her heart. It was not fair. Jean had everything—home, parents, beauty, strength, the right to be wooed and won. The world was cruel—unjust. Why should such differences exist? Her own lot was too hard. She had not deserved it. She had done her best. Circumstances had not been too easy—always there had hung a shadow; life in the little country hamlet with Aunt Mary, delicate and sad, had been by no means ideal for a young girl. Without conceit she knew herself to have been dutiful, affectionate, kind. She had put her own wishes in the background, content to minister to an old woman’s declining years. Her own turn would come. Life lay ahead, crowded with golden possibilities; when they came they would be all the sweeter for the consciousness of duty well done. And now? Ah, well, in converse with one’s nearest friend one might affect to be brave and independent, but in the solitude of one’s own woman’s heart it seemed as if those possibilities had been wiped away, and left nothing behind.

In times of trouble and upheaval the sufferer is constantly exhorted by sympathetic friends to turn resolutely away from the sad past, and look ahead. Onward! they are told—press onward! Life lies not in the past, but in the future. Despair comes of looking back, courage with expectation. Poor Vanna recalled these axioms with a weary heart. That was just what she dared not do. What could the future hold for her?

She sat very still, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes shut against the glare. The sun seemed cruel to-day; the dance of golden light across the sands, the sight of those two light-stepping figures in the distance. She would help Jean, help others, who were in need. There was no lack of work in the world for hands which were willing and free. She could make other people happy; could live a noble, selfless life. Even so, and at the thought, the lips of three-and-twenty quivered, and the salt tears flowed. She wanted to be happy herself—longed to be happy. The selfless life sounded barren and cold; it roused no flicker of joy. “How shall I bear it?” asked Vanna of herself. “How can I live, looking on, always looking on, having no part? Even to-day with Jean—my darling Jean—and that strange man, I felt sore and angry and—bad! He thought me a cross, ungracious girl. His opinion does not matter, but other people will think so too if I behave in the same way; and that would be terrible. I could not exist if people did not care for me. In self-defence I must overcome. But how to do it?”

Vanna leant her head on her hands and sent up a wordless prayer. In her own fashion she was deeply religious, but it was not the fashion of her day. Her aunt had been shocked and distressed by her heterodox sentiments, and had spent many hours in prayer for her niece’s conversion, while Vanna, in her turn, had been fully as shocked at the old woman’s conventional ideas.

Aunt Mary had been the most tender and forgiving of mortals. Her memory, tenacious till death of the smallest kindness shown towards her, was absolutely incapable of retaining an injury. If any one offended, her own anxiety was to find for them a means of reform; to her charity there seemed literally no end.

When a trusted servant repaid endless kindnesses by a flagrant theft, Aunt Mary was bowed down with penitence for occasional carelessness on her own part which might possibly have led the sinner into temptation. “I remember distinctly one Sunday night when I left my purse in the dining-room, and was too lazy to go downstairs to fetch it, and at other times I have left change lying about. It was wrong of me—terribly wrong. One never knows what need there may be—what pressing need—and to see the money lying there before her eyes!”

To the scandal of the neighbourhood, instead of giving the offender in charge, or at least dismissing her in shame and ignominy, Aunt Mary tearfully apologised for her own share in the crime, and proposed a future partnership in which both should endeavour to amend their ways. Jane was sullen and unresponsive, too much overcome by surprise perhaps to be able to express any gratitude. That she felt it all the same was testified by her dog-like devotion to her mistress. All went well until another year had passed, when in a sudden burst of emotion the maid confessed to a fresh peccadillo. Now, indeed, any sane person would have realised the folly of keeping such a sinner in the house, and, hurling reproaches on her head, would have promptly ejected her from the threshold; but Aunt Mary was once more content to play the part of comforter. “I have my own besetting sins, Jane,” she said gently, “and I fear I have given way to them many times during this past year. You have kept straight until the last week, and you have confessed your fault. Have courage! You have made a good start. I shall treat you exactly as before, and trust you more fully!”

That was the end of Jane’s offences. Henceforth to the day of her mistress’s death she remained the most faithful and loyal of handmaids. Such was Aunt Mary, who devoutly worshipped a God whom she believed capable of torturing for eternity a sinner who had transgressed during a few short years of life, or a helpless infant who had chanced to die unbaptised! She was likewise convinced that the whole non-Protestant world was irrevocably damned, and harboured serious doubts with regard to Dissenters and the High Church party. She accepted as final and irrefutable every doctrine which she had been taught as a child, and would have been as ready to believe that Jonah swallowed the whale as the accepted version of the story, if it had been so inscribed in the Bible. To think for oneself on matters religious she considered profane; to expect fuller light with fuller knowledge—a blasphemy. To her mind the whole duty of man was comprised in attending his parish church, supporting his vicar, and subscribing to the creeds—Athanasian included. Aunt and niece had had the nearest approach to a quarrel which they had ever known one day when the girl’s intolerance had broken forth into words:

“Aunt Mary,” she had cried, “your religion is wicked! You are good in spite of it. You don’t really believe it. You only think you do. You subscribe ten and sixpence a year to the South American mission, and lie down in peace and sleep, believing the whole continent to be damned, while if one poor dog were suffering outside your gate you could not rest until you had rescued it. Can ten and sixpence buy peace, while a continent perishes? Your creed is unworthy of you!”

“My dear, you forget yourself. You shock me deeply. Such words from a young girl’s lips are terrible to hear. Profane! Rebellious! The poor, dear vicar! I must ask you never again to allow yourself to speak in this way. If the wicked thoughts arise, at least let them not find vent in words.”

After this Vanna was careful to avoid religious discussions with her aunt, but she noted with amusement that next year the good lady’s South American subscription had been increased by half a crown.

Now Aunt Mary had been moved up to a higher class, and the scales of ignorance had fallen from her eyes. The puzzles of life were solved for her, but her niece was still struggling with her tasks, and they were hard to learn. She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, the sea breeze blowing back the hair from the set, white face. Aunt Mary would have said that this trouble was God’s will—His direct dispensation; but Vanna could not accept this explanation. It was surely not God’s will that in past generations two people had put their own happiness before duty. Aunt Mary would have said again that as regards herself this punishment for the sins of others was “permitted,” and intended to be. Well!—one had only to look around the world, at everyday happenings, to realise that the Almighty did not interfere with natural laws. Thrust an arm into the fire, and that arm burns; infect your child with disease, and that child suffers, despite your prayers and entreaties. It is inevitable; but the sufferings were surely of men’s causing, “The thing of all others which, according to my light, must most ‘grieve’ the Spirit of God is the way in which His own children misjudge Him,” Vanna told herself slowly. “Dear, sweet Aunt Mary, who believed Him capable of things to which she herself would never condescend—all the good people who look out upon a sky full of worlds, and believe that their own particular tiny sect hold the monopoly of truth, and that every one who differs from them must inevitably be lost. Perhaps—who knows? it is misjudging Him just as cruelly to believe that the ghastly happenings of our life are of His choice. He has given us free-will; we make mistakes and suffer for them, and make others suffer too; but that’s our own doing, and—reverently speaking—outside His power. He is sorry for us—infinitely sorry, waiting and longing to send help, when our eyes are open to receive it. Perhaps I’m wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s the belief that helps me most, and removes the sting. I have such a big trouble for a woman to face—a lonely life; such a big effort to make—to look at happiness through the eyes of others, and keep sweet, and generous, and ungrudging. I need so much help...”

The minutes passed, while Vanna sat motionless, buried in thought. Passers-by cast curious glances at the still figure seated upon the pebbly beach above the fringed line of seaweed—her scarlet cloak gathered round her shoulders, her dark hair blown back from her face. It was not a beautiful nor even a pretty face in the usual acceptance of the words: the features were neither good enough to be noticeable, nor bad enough to jar. The only beauties were found in the dark, finely arched eyebrows, the oval shape of the face, and the stag-like setting of the small head, to which characteristics Vanna owed that air of distinction which redeemed her from the commonplace. Piers Rendall had paid little attention to the quiet girl who had sat beside him at the tea-table, and afterwards made an unwelcome third in the walk along the sea-front; but as he and Jean retraced their steps across the sands an hour later, his eyes turning towards the waiting figure fastened on the pale face, and lingered there.

We all own a mental picture-gallery which we carry about with us till death. Some of the pictures are ours by deliberate choice, printed on memory by loving intent; others, pain has stamped in undying lines; a few have gained their place as it were by accident. We had no intention of yielding them a place, no interest in the purchase; quietly and all uninvited they ranged themselves against the walls, and refused to be dislodged. Piers Rendall’s glance had been turned in indifference, almost dislike; but to the end of his life the picture of Vanna remained with him, as she sat on the grey stones, above the belt of seaweed, with the scarlet cloak round her shoulders, and the hair blown back from her face. Jean’s merry banter fell on deaf ears; he was not listening; had for the moment forgotten her existence. Her eye followed his, divining the explanation; she smiled expectantly, waiting until he should speak.

“What is the matter with that girl?”

“Tiredness, I should say. Bored! Sick of waiting so long. It was your fault. You would go on.”