Part 25 (2/2)
”I wanted a boy, a little son to make up... It seems so hard--”
Vanna pressed the downy head to her heart.
”Poor little superfluous woman! You are not wanted, it seems. Give her to me, Jean--she'd be worth the whole world. I mean it, you know! Say the word and I'll take her home this moment, and adopt her for life.”
But at this Jean opened wide, protesting eyes.
”As if I would! My own little child! She _isn't_ superfluous. I shall adore her as much as the others, but just at first it _is_ a disappointment. But I'll call her after you this time, Vanna, say what you will, and you shall be her second mother.”
”Yes! I'd like this one to have my name, and she _is_ mine, for I wanted her, and you didn't. Remember that, if you please. No one pays one penny piece for anything this baby wears, or wants, or learns, but her Mother Vanna. I'm going to have a _real_ claim, not only sentiment.
She's going to mean a great, great deal in my life!”
Jean smiled, well content. For herself it would be a relief to be freed from extra expense; and she realised that in giving her consent she was enriching rather than impoveris.h.i.+ng her friend's life. And so little Vanna adopted a second mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
THE INDIAN MAIL.
Two years had pa.s.sed since Piers Rendall had left England, and still there came no word of his return. Vanna heard from him regularly every mail, letters as long, as intimate, as tender as during the first month after his sailing, yet gradually there dawned in them a difference which made itself surely, increasingly felt. What was it? In the depths of her own heart, where alone the change was admitted, Vanna pondered the question, but could find no reply. The first zest of interest and occupation in a new world had died an inevitable death; that was natural enough and could raise no surprise. The effects of a hot climate were beginning to make themselves felt, he had been overworked, overstrained--natural again; but in this case the remedy lay in his own hands. Why did he not use it? Vanna had never allowed herself to ask one questioning word on the subject of Piers's return; but she could not avoid knowing that the junior partner whose place he had taken was entirely recovered, and most anxious to return to his post. Old Mrs Rendall, too, was growing sadly impatient, and, on the rare occasions when they met, treated Vanna with frigid disapproval. It was this girl's doing that her son was homeless and exiled--deprived of the joys of manhood. There was some mystery about this long, dragging engagement--a mystery which had been purposely concealed, a mystery which in some inexplicable fas.h.i.+on referred to Vanna herself. What could it be? The consciousness of this underlying curiosity had been one of Vanna's greatest trials in her social intercourse during the last few years, and its presence heightened the ever-growing longing for Piers's return. The evening of mail-day often found her depressed rather than cheered, though the three closely written sheets had arrived as usual; for weary and disconsolate as was Piers's mood, there was still no reference to a return; but during the week hope would again lift up its head and whisper encouragement concerning ”next time.” So elastic a thing is the human heart, that a bracing wind, a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne through the fog, will send the spirits racing upwards, and open out possibilities where the road has appeared hopelessly barred.
It was in such a mood that Vanna greeted her weekly letter one grey morning in February. The night before she had spent a particularly happy evening with Jean and Robert, who had appeared in better spirits than since the beginning of their trouble. Little Vanna had developed a fresh set of baby charms, and had allowed herself to be nursed with bland complacence, and on returning to her own house Robert had spoken a few memorable words when saying good-bye: ”Every day of my life I thank G.o.d for you, Vanna! Such a friend is a big gift. You have been a good angel to us this last year.” The memory of those words had been a good sleeping-draught; the warmth of them remained to cheer her as she dressed in the morning, and when her eye fell on the well-known envelope on the breakfast table, a little leap of the heart prophesied good news.
To-day it seemed fitting that her waiting should come to an end.
It was a thin envelope. One sheet of paper replaced the usual three.
So much the better. Four words would be sufficient to say all that she wanted to know. Vanna seated herself at the table, and bent eagerly over the sheet.
”My Dearest and Best--
”I have your last letter beside me, and have been reading it over and over, wondering how to answer all that is written between the lines.
I can read it, Vanna; I have read it for a long time, but have not had courage to reply. You are too sweet and unselfish to allow yourself to write what is really in your thoughts, but I know you so well--you are no calm, equable, cold-blooded saint; you must have known many moments of bitterness, of anger, of resentment. I know it; I understand; I bless you for your patience. _Why have I not come home to you_? That is the question you are asking me across the world; the question I can almost hear spoken in my ear. You know by my letters that I am miserable and alone; you must have heard by this time that Brentford is anxious to get back. He wrote to me last mail. It is for me as senior partner to make my choice, and I have made it. I wrote to-day to say that I preferred to stay on--”
The paper trembled in Vanna's hand; her lips lost their curves and straightened into a thin red line. She shut her eyes for a moment before she could see clearly to continue her reading:
”There! it is out. It is terrible to write it. I feel as if with the writing I have cut myself off from the best and happiest years of my life. For that is what it means, Vanna--the end! I have suffered tortures this last year, fighting it out, arguing it over and over again in my heart. I could not have borne it if it had not been for your letters, and yet in a fas.h.i.+on they have added to my suffering.
If ever a man loved a woman, with his soul and strength, I have loved you. I have waited eight years, and it would have seemed as a day if there had been hope at the end. I would wait twenty years to gain you in the end. But, Vanna, when hope is dead!... I am very sad, very lonely; I miss you every hour, but I dare not come home to endure a worse pain. The years are pa.s.sing; my youth is over; I cannot face a solitary age. Vanna, dearest, I promised you to be honest. I swore it. I must keep my word. If the best is denied me, I must be content with what I can have. There is a girl here--”
Vanna's arm dropped on to the table, the fluttering sheet fell from her fingers, the dull, heavy thuds with which her heart had been beating for the last few minutes seemed suddenly to cease. She lifted her hand to her head, and brushed back her hair.
”A _girl_!” For one moment the room seemed to swim; consciousness appeared about to desert her, the next _she_ was tinglingly alert, devouring the remaining words with hot, smarting eyes.
”--The daughter of our Colonel. I have seen a good deal of her these last months. She is not pretty, but she is sweet and kind, and has an echo of _your_ charm. If I tried, I think I could love that girl.
_Vanna, I am going to try_!... Do you despise me? Do you think me a faithless hound? Can you understand in the faintest degree that it is just because you have shown me what love can mean that I cannot live my life alone? Will you care to write to me still? I don't know; I can't tell. I dare not think how you may feel. I, who longed above all else in life to s.h.i.+eld and guard you, to have to deal you this blow!... Forgive me, Vanna--my dearest, dearest love...”
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