A Question of Marriage Part 11

"But that's all I want," said Jean, trembling.

They sat for an hour by the side of an old oak, the suns.h.i.+ne flickering through the branches on the illumined loveliness of Jean's face, on Robert's rapturous joy. Even to a cold, outside eye they would have appeared an ideal couple: what wonder that to each the other seemed the crowning miracle of the world! The perfect moment was theirs; the ineffable content, the amazement of joy which G.o.d in His mercy vouchsafes to all true lovers. The love lasts, but the glory wanes; of necessity it must wane in a material world, but the memory of it can never die. It lives to sweeten life, to be a memory of perfect union, a foretaste of the life beyond!

They talked in the tongue of angels, in such words as can never be transcribed in print; they marvelled and soared, and then at last came down to facts. A shadow flitted across Robert's face; his voice took an anxious note.

"I am a poor man, Jean. Until now I have not cared, but I'm grieved for your sake. I should like to have kept you like a queen, but I am poor, and I fear shall never be otherwise. We shall have to live in a small house with a couple of servants, and think twice of every sovereign we spend."

"Shall we?" asked Jean absently. She was occupied in measuring her small white hand against Robert's sunburnt palm, and had no attention to spare for such minor details. Her own dress allowance of a hundred a year had invariably to be supplemented by an indulgent father, but it seemed to her a matter of supreme unimportance whether Robert were rich or poor. At that moment she would have received with equanimity the news that he was a huckster of goods, and that she would be expected to follow his barrow through the streets. Monetary conditions simply did not exist; but on another point there was no end to her exactions.

"_How_ much do you love me?"

"Beyond all words, and all measures, beyond the capacity of mortal man.

That is why I feel a giant at this moment--a G.o.d! There's no room for my love in a man's poor frame."

Jean dimpled deliriously. This was just as it should be, and such good hearing that it could bear endless repet.i.tion.

"And am I the first? Have you never loved any one before?"

"Not for a moment. The thought of marriage never entered my head. I thought I was far better off as I was. Oh, Jean, imagine it!"

Jean smiled at him with shy, lovely eyes.

"And never flirted, nor run after a pretty girl?"

"Goodness, _yes_!" The emphasis of Robert's affirmative was a trifle disconcerting to Jean's complacence. "What do you take me for, Jean? I adore pretty girls. I should be a fool if I didn't. At b.a.l.l.s and picnics it's part of the programme to get up a pa.s.sing flirtation. I wish I had a sovereign for every one I've enjoyed in the last ten years.

Half a dozen dances and supper, and forget all about her next day--you know the sort of thing! It doesn't enter into _our_ calculations."

Jean stared, considered, and finally laughed.

"No, it doesn't! Thank goodness I am not jealous. I have dozens of faults, as you will find out to your cost, poor boy; but that's not one.

I don't mind how many pretty girls you admire. We'll admire them together. You are mine; we belong to each other. As you say, that sort of thing doesn't _enter_." She sat silent, musing with parted lips. A bird hopped lightly across the gra.s.s, peered at them for a moment with bright, curious eyes, and soared up to the blue. The air was sweet with the fresh, pungent scent of the earth.

"What _is_ it?" questioned Jean, as every lover has questioned since the days of Eve. "What is it that makes the difference, the yawning, illimitable difference between just one person and all the rest of the world? Why do we love each other like this? You have seen hundreds of girls, but you have never wished to marry one. Men have loved me, and I hated them the moment they began to make love. But you--if _you_ hadn't!--Robert, what should I have done? I should have lived on--I am so strong, but my heart would have died; there would have been nothing left. And a fortnight ago we had not met! People will say that it is madness, that we cannot know our own minds; but the marvel of it is--we knew at once! I was frightened, and ran away, but I knew; deep down in my heart I knew that you would follow. Tell me when _you_ began to know--the very first moment!"

And then Robert retold the story to which Vanna had listened on the night of the ball, with the thrilling addition of the encounter in the conservatory, and Jean listened, thrilled, and trembling with agitation.

"Yes, it is true. I was waiting for you. It was meant to be. We were made to meet and love each other."

"From the beginning of the world, my Rose, my Treasure!" said Robert Gloucester.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE WEDDING DAY.

Jean Goring and Robert Gloucester were married in the early days of October, after a bare three months' engagement. They themselves found the period one of ideal happiness, but, as is usually the case, it was somewhat trying to their relations and friends. Jean, in her gay young beauty, had filled the centre of the stage for many friends, who were bound to suffer when the light shone no more upon them, and Jean had neither eyes, ears, nor heart for any one but her _fiance_. Mr Goring gave his consent to the engagement with a readiness which was largely based upon the affection which his prospective son-in-law had already awakened.

"He's a splendid fellow--a man in a thousand. Thank Heaven you've chosen a man who won't bore me to death hanging about the house. It's a poor match in a worldly sense, but that's your affair. You had chances of rich men before now, and wouldn't look at them. I believe in letting people live their own lives, in their own way. I'll give you a good trousseau, and allow you two hundred a year; but I can't do more.

There's the boys' education coming on."

"Oh, thank you, father. That's sweet of you. I never expected so much.

We shall be poor, of course, but I shan't mind. It will be rather fun living in a small house and playing at housekeeping. I never cared much for money."

Mr Goring grimaced expressively. Jean had not cared for money, simply because she had never realised its value. Every want had been supplied, and there had been a comfortable certainty of a lenient parent in the background when her own generous allowance ran short. Graceless mortals never realise the value of the blessings which are theirs in abundance.

Jean had enjoyed easy means and perfect health all her life, and took them as much for granted as light and air.

"Hadn't you better take some cooking lessons, or something?" asked her father uneasily. It crossed his mind at that moment that he had not done his duty by the man whom Jean was about to marry, in allowing his girl to grow up in absolute ignorance of her work in the world.

"Gloucester doesn't strike me as a man likely to make money, and you ought to be trained. Talk to Miggles. Ask her. She has about as good an idea of running a house as any woman I know. It's a good thing you are going to live within reach of home. I'm thankful Gloucester thinks of settling in town."

"Yes, oh, yes! Of course, if they gave him a really good offer for India--I should rather like to live in India!"

Jean smiled into s.p.a.ce, blissfully unconscious of the pain on her father's face. He was not a demonstrative man, and no one but himself knew how he had loved and cherished this child of his youth--the daughter who had inherited the beauty and charm of the girl-wife with whom he had spent the golden year of his life. To his own heart he acknowledged that Jean was his dearest possession--dearer than wife, dearer than sons, dearer than life itself, and Jean could leave him without a pang--would "rather like" to put the width of the world between them!

"India's a long way off, Jean. I should miss you if you went."

"But we'd come home, father. We'd have a long holiday every five years."

Well! well! Mr Goring reminded himself that in his own youth he had been equally callous. He recalled the day of his first marriage, and saw again the twisted face of his mother as she bade him adieu at the door. He had known a pang of regret at the sight, regret for _her_ suffering, her loss; not for his own. For himself, the moment had been one of unalloyed triumph; he had heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage bore him away and he was alone with his bride. It was natural that it should be so--natural and right; but when one came to stand in the parent's place, how it hurt! He set his teeth in endurance.

Mrs Goring regarded the engagement and prospective marriage primarily as a disagreeable upset to domestic routine, and did not rest until she had secured Vanna's consent to prolong her visit until the bride had departed.

"There will be so much to arrange, endless letters to write, and people to see. Jean will be worse than useless, and poor dear Miss Miggs is not fit to rush about. If you _would_ stay and help, my dear, I should be unutterably grateful. When you undertake a thing it is always well done."

"I should like to stay," replied Vanna simply. The first days of Jean's rapturous happiness had been hard for her friend. It was not in human nature to avoid a feeling of loss, of loneliness, of hopeless longing for such happiness for herself, but it was a comfort to know that she could be of real practical help. Jean, of course, had declared in words that nothing, no, nothing, could ever lessen the warmth of her friends.h.i.+p, and Vanna had faith to believe that in the years to come the love between them would increase rather than diminish. In the meantime, however, she must needs stand aside, and be content to be neglected, ignored, regarded at times as an unwelcome intruder--a difficult lesson to learn.

At the very first meeting after the engagement the difference of relations.h.i.+p had made itself felt, for Jean had shown a distinct annoyance when Vanna referred to the prophecy of the rose.

"He had told you--you knew? He talked about it to you afterwards. You knew how he felt--" Her face flushed with resentment; there was a cool aloofness in her glance, as though a friend whom she had trusted had been discovered prying into hidden treasures. "Please don't speak of it again; don't let any one else know. Promise me never to mention it."

That was all, but her manner said as plainly as words, "It is our secret--Robert's and mine. What right have you on our holy ground?"

Vanna was by nature just and reasonable, and she told herself that in Jean's place she might have felt the same irritation, though perhaps she would have been more chary about showing it. She held herself in check, and was careful never again to refer to the forbidden topic.

On another occasion, when called to give her advice on a matter in consultation between the lovers, Robert had addressed his _fiancee_ as "Rose" when Vanna, looking up quickly, surprised a swift glance of reproach on Jean's face.

"You have forgotten," said that look. "We are not alone. That name is not for the ears of a stranger. It is for use only between you and me, when we are alone in our own kingdom, with the world shut out."

The lonely ones of the world smart under many darts planted by these wordless arrows.

And Piers Rendall? Vanna was perplexed and mystified by his reception of the news. She had dreaded to see him amazed, broken down, despairing, and when he arrived at the Cottage the day after the great event, had felt her heart throb with a sympathy that was painful in its intensity. They were seated in the hall drinking tea, a happy family group, the lovers side by side on an old oak settle, when the gate clicked, and Piers's tall figure was seen walking up the path. He looked anxiously towards the open door, and Vanna felt convinced that he had noticed the absence of the couple the afternoon before, and had a premonition of the news which lay in store. She lowered her eyes, and braced herself, as if it had been upon her own shoulders that the blow were about to fall.

"Oh, it's Piers! I must tell Piers!" cried Jean gaily. Now that the deed was done, her former reserve had given way to an abandon of light-hearted joy. She told the great news to every one she met; it was her great joy to tell it, her regret that there were so few to listen.

Now, at sight of her old friend, she sprang from her seat.