A Question of Marriage. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ