A Question of Marriage Part 19

But he did not congratulate her, and the lack smote on Vanna's heart.

"Thank you, Robert," she said wistfully. "That's like you. I am very grateful, but, but can't you say you are _glad_? Piers and I love each other very much, and we have been very lonely. Robert, you, of all people, ought to be able to understand the possibility of a spiritual love!"

But Robert only flushed, and looked distressed.

"We are not spiritual beings yet, Vanna. That's the trouble. I understand the temptation. I don't presume to judge. Piers is a better man than I. He may be able to rise where I should sink."

"What would _you_ do if you were in our place? If Jean were like me, and you loved her, but could not marry?"

Robert's eyes craved pardon, but his lips did not hesitate:

"I should take a pa.s.sage in the first boat, and put the width of the world between us."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE REAPER.

Robert and Jean made no further remonstrance, but the consciousness of their disapproval was a weight from which Vanna could only escape in the company of Piers himself. Alone with him in the shelter of the den she tasted content, all the more perfect from the contrast with darker hours. Encircled by Piers's arms, with Piers's eyes looking into hers, the world itself had no power to touch her, and she found herself translated into that woman's kingdom where everything that _she_ did was right and beautiful.

"Jean does not approve of me, Piers. She thinks I am acting unfairly by you."

"My Heart, why worry about Jean? She is a child--the most charming and lovable of children, but still a child. You have more brains in your little finger than she has in her whole head. She is incapable of understanding your sentiments."

"Robert doesn't approve!"

"Robert doesn't count. He is an echo of Jean. He judges you from her standpoint."

"If you get tired of me, Piers, you have promised to speak!"

"I've sworn it. I'll swear it again, ten thousand times over. Does one grow tired of the sun?"

Then Vanna would abandon argument and talk delicious nonsense, and tell herself a hundred times over that, come what might, she was the happiest, the most blessed of women, to have gained the heaven of Piers Rendall's love.

The days drifted past, quiet and peaceful except for the growing fear about Jean. The doctor shook his head, p.r.o.nounced her condition "not normal," and Robert, though invariably cheerful in his wife's presence, grew haggard with suspense. And then suddenly, some weeks before it was expected, came the end--a ghastly day, a day of hasty comings and goings, of urgent summons for further help, of anguish of body for Jean, and for those who loved her, the mental anguish of sitting still hour after hour waiting with trembling for the verdict of life or death.

It was four o'clock in the morning, the soft grey dawn of a summer's day, when at last the waiting ended. The doctor opened the door of the den, and faced Robert's hungry eyes.

"It is all over, Mr Gloucester. Your wife is coming round. She is young, and has a good const.i.tution. I think she will pull through. She is very low--that is only to be expected; but we have nature on our side, and must hope for the best. Unfortunately, circ.u.mstances are not so favourable for her recovery as one could wish. I regret to say that in spite of all our care we could not save the child. A fine boy! I deeply regret; but you will be thankful that your wife is spared."

The tears flooded Robert's eyes, but they were tears of joy, not grief.

At that moment he had no room in his mind for the little son whom he had never seen. After the blackness of those hours when he had seen a vision of life without Jean, he could do nothing but rejoice and thank G.o.d.

But Vanna's heart contracted with a spasm of sympathy. Poor Jean! Poor Jean! What a bitter awakening would be hers!

And Jean lay on her bed, bruised, aching, incredibly fatigued. She asked no questions, displayed no interest; with eyelids closed over sunken eyes, pale lips apart, she lay like a broken flower, indifferent to everything in heaven or earth. At intervals of a few hours the doctor came and felt her pulse; at times some one put the tube of a feeding-cup to her mouth, and she swallowed, shuddering with distaste; at intervals it was dark, at intervals it was light. Once an urgent voice spoke in her ear telling of Robert's presence, and she opened her eyes and tried to smile. All her life long Jean remembered that smile.

An effort was required of her; she realised as much, and with all the force of her feeble will endeavoured to twist her lips into the looked-for greeting. They were stiff as iron, heavy as lead; she struggled wearily--was it for hours she struggled?--and at last mechanically felt them part. She smiled, and Robert cried! It seemed a poor reward, and she shut her eyes in weary despair. At times she slept, to awake with a gasp and a cry. Always she was falling--falling from the high gallery of a cathedral, from the top of a pile of scaffolding, from the topmost crag of a precipice. Then some one wiped her brow, and spoke soothing words, and she cried, weakly, without cause.

Four days of nightmare, then at last rest--a real sleep, without dreams or fear; peace in the troubled frame, appet.i.te instead of nausea. The fire burned brightly on the hearth, the curtains were drawn, nurse was drinking tea comfortably beside the fire. The old homely, everyday life, how good and natural it looked after the black, nightmare dreams.

"Nurse!" whispered Jean weakly, "where is my baby?"

The white-capped nurse leapt to her feet; it must be uncomfortable, thought Jean, to feel those stiff, white bows for ever pinned beneath one's chin. She came to the bedside, and looked down at her patient with an expression of mingled anxiety and relief.

"Ah, you look better! You have had a deep. You will be ready for some food--"

"My baby--I want my baby! Why is it not in the room?"

"You have been too ill. We had to keep you quiet. You are getting on nicely now, but you must still be careful. Be good now, and drink this milk, and try to sleep again."

"Is it a girl or a boy?"

"A boy."

"Oh!" Jean's voice thrilled with joy. "I knew it. I knew it. I _said_ it could not be a girl. A boy--a son! Oh, bring him to me, nurse; bring him! I can't wait a moment longer."

"You have waited four days; you can wait a few more minutes. Drink your milk, and I will call your husband. Poor man, he has been so wretched!

You would like to see him _first_."

Nurse was masterful, and Jean was weak. She swallowed the milk, and impatiently waited for Robert's arrival, hugging the thought of the burden in his arms. Surely he would bring him to her--the hard-won treasure, the tiny, precious son for whose sake she had gone down to the gates of death!

The door opened, and Robert entered. His face was drawn and aged, his hazel eyes haggard with suffering; but for once Jean had no thought for him--her eyes saw only his empty arms.

"Where is he?"

Robert went down on his knees by the bedside.

"Jean, darling, speak to me! I have been hungering all these days...

Thank G.o.d you are better. Oh, Jean, nothing matters in all the world if I have you."

Jean smiled, and her fingers feebly returned his caress.

"Poor lad! poor lad! You have suffered, too, but he will comfort us.

Bring him to me! put him here, between us on the bed. Let us look at him together."

"Jean, sweetheart! We have been happy together; sufficient for each other all these months. Am I not more to thee than ten sons?"

Then in a flash fear dawned on Jean's heart; her great eyes widened, her lips fell apart.

"My baby! Don't torture me. Where is my baby?"

"With G.o.d," said Robert softly.

The nurse had cleared away the tea things. After a due interval she had returned to the room, and been relieved to find the patient lying quietly on her pillow. Mr Gloucester sitting by her side looked more agitated and distressed than she did. His face wore the pitiful, baffled expression of a child whose overtures have been rejected. It was with an air of absolute timidity that he bent forward to kiss his wife's cheek when bidden to depart by the autocrat of the situation.