A Question of Marriage Part 7

Vanna spoke with a headlong impetuosity which surprised herself. She did not understand why she shrank from the idea of Piers Rendall listening to an account of her family history; but the prospect stung, and she could not control her impatience. Jean looked at her with quiet reproach.

"I should not dream of such a thing. I shall _never_ speak of it, never--except at your express request."

"I'm sorry, dear. I'm very irritable these days. Write your acceptance, and I'll do my utmost to behave. What is she like--this mamma? A female Piers?"

"Not one bit. A little shrinking creature, very proper, very dull--in a gentle fas.h.i.+on, appallingly obstinate. She and Miggles together are as good as a play. You'll hear. They'll get entangled in a dual conversation, and all I ask is--don't look at me! Mrs Rendall would never forgive me if I laughed. She's a trying little person, and Piers is sweet to her; never loses his patience. He deserves a halo for that."

Vanna raised protesting eyebrows.

"Well, I hardly knew my parents, but I have realised the want of them so badly all my life that I can't screw myself up to an access of admiration for a son who is decently polite to his mother. Suppose she does try his patience at times--that's inevitable, I should say, between a young man and an old woman--how many times has she borne and forborne with him; what mountains of patience has she expended on his training?

It's not a virtue, it's mere common decency that he should be kind to her now. He would be despicable if he failed."

"Quite true, every word true. You are theorising, dear, and there's not an argument against you. But leave theories alone for a moment and look at facts. How many parents and children--grown-up children--do you find who live together in sympathy and understanding? Precious few.

Sometimes there's an open feud; that's rare, and can't go on in the nature of things; sometimes there's an armed truce; sometimes there are successions of jars; almost always there's a gulf. They see with different eyes, and hear with different ears, and each side thinks the other blind and deaf. One side lacks sympathy, the other imagination.

It seems the most difficult thing in the world to 'put yourself in his place.'"

"I don't know. If I'd had my own mother, it seems to me we would have been _friends_. It wouldn't have needed a great exercise of sympathy to realise that she was old and tired, tired with looking after _me_; and if I had made a friend of her and talked to her, and--_told_ her things, she would have sympathised with me in return. I _know_ she would. I feel it!"

"Did you, 'tell things' to Aunt Mary?"

"No, of course not. That was different."

"Ah, you think so; but it is not. It's the generation that's the bar, not the person," cried Jean with one of her quick flashes of intuition.

"Youth wants youth and looks for it, and finds it easier to confide in a girl after a week's acquaintance than in her very own mother, I've seen it not once, but dozens of times. It doesn't mean that she loves her more, or a tenth part as much, but in a curious, inexplicable way she's _nearer_. It's hard on the parents. Every age has its own trials: love troubles when you are young; weakness when you are old; when you are middle-aged it must be just this, to yearn after your children, to long to help and comfort, and to see them prefer some one else! I'm sorry for parents; but why do they grow so old? If I have a daughter, I shall keep young for her sake. At least I shall remember that I _was_ young.

I shall never say: 'the rain is coming down in sheets, the wind is in the east. I can't think why you can't be content by your own fireside, instead of racing half over the town,' I shan't be overcome with surprise when she forgets to order the fish on the eve of a proposal, or expect her to look a fright in mackintosh and goloshes when she goes out with men friends. I shall remember how I preferred to look nice, even if my feet _were_ soaked!"

"You may also remember that you suffered from rheumatism thereby, and wish her to profit from your experience."

"No use, my dear. Her rheumatism's her own, and if it comes she will bear it, but never my goloshes! A parent can be wise and prosy, and expound the law; but he can't do more. If he tries, he loses instead of gains. I shall school myself to the fact that my little girl is bound to err, and that we are bound to suffer in consequence, she in deed, and I in looking on. That's the price of being a mother. Then when she's had her own way and been buffeted, she'll come to me and I'll help her.

Dear little girl!"

The lovely face was aglow with tenderness: it was easy to see that the maternal instinct was strong in Jean's heart, and that she would rise to her fullest height as wife and mother. The next moment she raised herself, flashed an anxious look at Vanna's face, and deftly turned the conversation.

"Well, anyway you'll see for yourself that Mrs Rendall's a trial. When she and Miggles get started, don't interrupt--let them have it out by themselves. Piers loves to listen, and so do I."

The next day an old-fas.h.i.+oned barouche bore the three ladies over several miles of hilly roads to the square white mansion where the widowed Mrs Rendall lived in peaceful seclusion from the world. After the style of old-fas.h.i.+oned houses, it was situated in a hollow, sheltered from the wind, but also cut off from a view of the surrounding country. The entrance hall was bleak and uninteresting, the rooms, so many big square boxes, furnished with Early Victorian heaviness, and an astonis.h.i.+ng absence of individuality. Vanna counted eleven little tables in the drawing-room, each bearing a weight of senseless ornaments. On the marble chimney-piece a pair of red gla.s.s "l.u.s.tres," a pair of Parian marble figures, male and female, were mathematically arranged on each side of a Bohemian gla.s.s centre-piece, bearing a medallion portrait of a simpering brunette. A bannerette of crimson cross-st.i.tch, on which was worked a cl.u.s.ter of steel-bead roses, hung pendant from a bra.s.s rod; the water-colour paintings on the walls were encircled by large white mounts; the drab carpet was garlanded with flowers; in the air was the sweet, somewhat musty flavour of potpourri.

Mrs Rendall wore a large widow's cap on the top of a small grey head, and was the sort of woman who is instinctively connected with a shoulder-shawl and mittens. It was difficult to imagine her the mother of the handsome man with the bright, irritable-looking eyes, who stood by her side to welcome the guests on their arrival.

The dining-room was a distinct improvement on the drawing-room, as is invariably the case when the mistress of the house is devoid of taste.

The mahogany furniture was solid and purposeful, and the family portraits on the red flock walls added an air of richness to the prevailing comfort. The table itself was beautifully spread with the finest of napery and some treasured pieces of old family silver. Six specimen gla.s.ses were set at equal distances, each bearing a head of geranium and a spray of maidenhair fern; two white-capped maids stood stiffly at attention.

"Piers, my dear," said Mrs Rendall primly, "will you ask a blessing?"

During the progress of the first course the conversation was general and futile. The party was too small to allow of separate conversations: the young people seemed inclined to allow their elders to lead the way, and as one old lady seemed determined to cling tenaciously to one subject, and the other to dash continually to pastures new, the result was something confusing. Vanna felt the pressure of Jean's foot on her own, and received a twinkling glance of amus.e.m.e.nt. "Now!" said the glance as plainly as words could speak. "The fun's beginning. Let them have it to themselves."

"No! I never disturb my borders," announced Mrs Rendall firmly.

"Neither bulbs nor perennials. My gardener says--"

"But you remember the Totteridges!" Miggles interrupted, insistently smiling. "Emily Mackintosh. She married the son of the old man, Rev Totteridge, Vicar of Newley. My sister Susan was bridesmaid. Pink taffetas. All the go. He went out to India and was killed by a tiger.

Poor Emily! You know their garden. That border by the church wall--"

"_My_ gardener says--"

"Emily always divided the bulbs. Some people leave them for three years. Our old landlord over at Sutton--did you know the Dixons?

_Charming_ family! They used to come over and play croquet with us at my old home. The second son was a dear fellow, but stuttered. So sad when a man stutters. What was I saying, dear? I _do_ wander! Oh, yes!

Old Mr Dixon moved them every autumn--"

"My gardener says--"

"But they grew so matted. You know! _Matted_! Jungles! I always say take a middle course. When I was spending my holiday in Devons.h.i.+re I had tea in a lovely old garden. Clotted cream. Did you ever try it with marmalade? De-licious! All the lilies in one bed, and a stream running through. 'Cool Siloam.' Couldn't help thinking of it, you know, but not in an irreverent spirit. Wouldn't be irreverent for the world. It's the spirit that matters, isn't it, dear--the spirit, not the letter? The scent of those lilies--"

"My gardener says--"

"Yes, dear, and of course he _has_ experience, but we must judge by results--judge by results. Stands to reason, as I say, and you had so few blooms. What can you expect if they never get any attention? Poor things. We all like attention. I do, I'm sure. And if they're matted, _can_ they bloom? Now try it one year! You're mistress. I don't approve of being overruled. Consideration, but not concession. Hear all that other people have to say, and take your own way afterwards, as my dear mother used to say. Jean, you are laughing! Naughty girl!

What is so funny about bulbs?"

"My gardener says that well-established bulbs bloom better than those which are continually removed," said Mrs Rendall firmly. "I intend to follow his advice."

"Certainly, dear. Why not, if you wish it? The garden's your own.

Hope he appreciates his place. People always say gardeners are despotic; my dear father would have no interference. Discharged three men in succession for giving advice, and when the fourth came for orders the first morning--I remember it so well; I was a girl at the time, about fourteen--'d'ye see that row of gooseberry bushes?' he said. 'Dig 'em all up, and plant 'em back again head downward.' 'Very good, sir,'

said the man. At lunch time there they were--poor things! roots sticking up in the air--you never saw such a sight--obliged to laugh, you know, obliged to laugh, though daren't show it. 'You're the man for me,' said my father. 'There's a s.h.i.+lling for you; go and get a drink.'

My mother was an abstainer, but he would never join. A pity, but men, my dear, men, can't be coerced--!"

"Piers," said Mrs Rendall coldly, "return thanks."

In the face of such an interruption Miggles was perforce reduced to silence, and the luncheon party broke up. Coffee was served in the drawing-room, and Vanna mentally resolved to plead fatigue as an excuse for spending the next two hours with the old ladies; but she was not allowed to carry her plan into execution.

"I want to take you the round of our little estate, Miss Strangeways,"

Piers announced when the coffee-cups had been put aside. "Jean knows it of old, but we always seize the opportunity of showing it to strangers.

I won't ask you to come with us, Miggles, for the paths are distinctly rough, and you will be more comfortable sitting quietly on the verandah with mother. What sort of heels are you wearing this afternoon, Jean?"

"Flat, ugly, Englis.h.!.+ I have too much sense of fitness to sport 'Louis quinze' in country roads; but why do English bootmakers set their faces so sternly against insteps? I'm never comfortable out of a French shoe," said Jean with a sigh.

She slid her hand through Vanna's arm with an affectionate pressure which was intended to show her agreement in Piers's invitation, and the three young people walked across the lawn, leaving the old ladies seated in their low cane chairs.

"Sleep sweetly--and dream of bulbs!" quoth Jean, peering at them over her shoulder. "Piers, I don't want to grow old. It doesn't seem possible that a time can _ever_ come when I shall be content to wear cashmere boots and sleep on a verandah while other people play in the sun. Do you believe that I shall really grow old?"

Piers Rendall looked at her and his lips twitched, but his eyes did not soften--the hard brilliancy, which was their chief characteristic, became if anything a trifle more accentuated. It was a curious look for a man to cast at a girl with whom he was in love. _Was_ he in love with Jean? Vanna asked herself curiously for the hundredth time in the course of the last few days. If she had but known it, Rendall was engaged in asking himself the same question, and finding it almost as difficult to answer.

At times, yes! He would have been less than a man if he had not been occasionally swept off his feet by the vivid beauty of that upturned face. Jean present--laughing, teasing, cajoling--could hold him captive. Ear and eye alike were busy in her presence, busy and charmed; haunting, everyday cares were thrust into the background, and discontent transformed into joy. For the hour it would seem as if the whole happiness of life were to laugh, and dance, and to rejoice in the suns.h.i.+ne. So far so good, but--Jean absent, the spell dissolved. The thought of her had no power to hold him; he could live tranquilly for months together, indifferent to, almost forgetful of, her existence.

Here there was surely something wrong. This could be no real pa.s.sion, which was so lightly dispelled. If he really loved as a man should love, the thought of her should be as chains drawing him to her side.

Piers Rendall sighed. "Perhaps," he told himself with weary self-depredation--"perhaps I am incapable of real pa.s.sion. It is the same story all round. I never get far enough. Nature made me in a mocking mood, cursing me with high aims and poor achievements. What I long for is never accomplished, what I attain never satisfies. If I am to find any happiness from life, I must adjust the balance and be satisfied with smaller things. It's time I married. Most men can live alone, but I'm sick of solitude. Ten years of life in chambers is enough for any man. Jean is a darling, a delight to the eyes; she's only a child, but she's sweet all through, and she'll grow. She'll be a dear woman. I am always happy in her company--it's only when we are apart that I have doubts. If she would have me, we should always be together. _Would_ she have me, I wonder?"

He looked down at the girl as she walked by his side, critically, questioningly, with a certain wistfulness of expression, yet without a throb of the desperate, death-and-life tension which another man might have felt, which he himself understood enough to miss and to covet.

"Shall I _never_ feel?" he asked himself, and his thin face twitched and twitched again.

"You don't speak," cried Jean lightly. "Poor Piers! he thinks it a silly question, but he is too kind to speak the truth. Does the girl expect to be immortal? he is saying to himself, and trying to conjure up a picture--the picture of Jean Goring, _old_! Ah, well, it will be only my husk that alters; and even when it's withered and dry there'll be _this_ comfort; you'll be withered, too! We shall all grow old together, and we'll be friends still, and cling together, and sympathise, and think the young so--crude!" She laughed, and pointed forward with an outstretched hand.