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, pronounced 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 constitution. 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, circumstances 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 God.

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, appetite 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 God 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 God," 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.

"I must go, darling. I'll come back soon."

Jean's head moved slightly on the pillow, but the movement was away from him, not nearer. She spoke no word.

Nurse Emma moved about the room, performing necessary duties in the deft, noiseless manner of her kind. From time to time she cast a curious glance at the still face on the pillow. "Poor thing! Too weak, no doubt, to take it in! Yet she had seemed excited at the thought of the boy. A pity, after such a hard time, but there would be plenty more."

She shook out some dainty, lace-frilled garments before the fire, and approached the bed, judiciously cheerful.

"Now, it is six o'clock! You are so much better this afternoon--what do you say? Could you fancy a nice cup of tea?"

Jean opened her eyes, and looked at her. It was not a look, it was a glare; the grey eyes were dry, tearless, blazing. At the sight Nurse Emma was positively shaken with surprise.

"Oh, my dear, don't look at me like that! It was not my fault. We did our best for you--more than our best. I never saw Dr Erroll so anxious. You owe your life to him. It's sad, of course; a great disappointment, but you are so young, and you have your good husband. You mustn't fret."

"I am not fretting."

"Not? What then? You look--"

"Furious! I'm furious. I have been cheated. It's not fair."

"Oh, my dear! Don't talk like that. These things happen, you know. You're not the first. We all have our troubles, and you are pulling round so nicely. There was a time when we feared for you, too. You must be thankful that your life was spared for your poor husband's sake. It's been most trying for him, with your weakness, and the funeral, and all. Come now, have a little cry. It will do you good. Then you shall have some tea."

Jean glared at her again--glared with an intensity that was almost hatred.

"You are a foolish woman," she said coldly. "You have no right to be a nurse. Go away!"

Nurse Emma bit her lip and went back to her seat by the fire. Really! But it was her duty to ignore the outbursts of irritable patients, and preserve an unruffled calm, and she honestly strove to live up to her creed. Half an hour later she renewed her offer of tea. When her second and third attempt alike failed to produce any response, she determined once more to summon the husband to second her efforts.

Outside the bedroom door was a small square landing, the sort of landing, unworthy the name of hall, which one finds in most small, middle-class houses. The gas was not yet lighted, and it had a dreary, depressing air. Before the window, gazing blankly into the street, stood Robert Gloucester, every line of his body eloquent of fatigue and depression. Nurse Emma looked at him sympathetically; but her first thought was for her patient.

"I think you had better go to Mrs Gloucester, sir. I can't get her to eat. The food is ready on the table. Perhaps she will take it for you."

Robert passed her without a word, shutting the door behind him. Jean stared at him across the room.

"Darling! Nurse is distressed that you won't eat. She has sent me to persuade you."

"She is a stupid woman--stupid and heartless. She has no right to be a nurse."

"Don't say that, dear. She has nursed you well--been most devoted. For three nights she has not had off her clothes."

Jean's upper lip curled in scorn. A strong, self-contained woman, who had lost three nights' rest in performance of her paid duty. Three nights! For how many weary months had she herself missed her sleep, dreading the night, dreading the day, travelling wearily nearer and nearer a martyrdom of pain, and now--nothing! Hungry arms, hungry heart, incredible disappointment! She pushed aside the offered cup with impatient hand.

"I don't want it. It would choke me."

"But you are so weak; you will be worse again. For my sake, sweetheart!"

"No! I am better. You can see for yourself. I feel really stronger." And strange as it appeared, Jean spoke the truth. In some mysterious fashion the flood of anger coursing through her body seemed to have brought with it fresh life and energy. The tone of her voice was clearer, a tinge of colour showed on her cheeks. She looked her husband in the face with cold, challenging eyes.

"You took away my baby--my baby, and hid him for ever, without letting me have one sight of his face! Was that just? Was that fair? Does a woman wait all those months to be cheated at the end? It was a cruel thing to do."

"But you were ill. Your own life was in danger. It would have killed you to be roused to hear that news. If you think it over, dear, you will understand."

"It's easy to talk. You saw him. You can remember. I can't."

Robert's face twitched. Yes! he remembered. All his life he would remember the small, dank face of his first-born--that pitiful image, so cruelly unlike the cherub of Jean's dreams. He had another memory also--the memory of a grey, rainy morning when he stood by his son's grave in the dreary city cemetery, while his wife lay unconscious at home, grudging each moment in his longing to be back beside her-- dreading to return to hear a worse report. Jean had been spared more than she knew--more than she would ever guess, for no word of his would enlighten her. It was not Robert Gloucester's custom to speak of his own woes.

He sat by the bed holding Jean's slack hand, gazing at her with wistful, puzzled eyes. He loved her as surely no man had loved a woman before, but he could not comfort her. That was the tragic, the inexplicable fact. In the first great sorrow of life she thrust him aside. It was terribly hard for her, poor darling; a crushing blow, _but_ there was still so much for which to be thankful. Her own life was spared; they were given back to each other's love. Could she not realise, and be consoled?

Poor Robert! As well expect the dead child to rise from its grave as Jean to develop patience in the crash of her first great grief. If she had fallen from one deep faint to another, if she had hysterically cried and sobbed, he could have understood and sympathised; but this bitter cry of rebellion was beyond his comprehension. At the moment when he most longed to draw near, the great barrier of temperament shut him out from his wife's heart.

The darkness deepened in the room; the face of Jean on the pillow became dim and blurred, her hand lay slack and unresponsive in his grasp. Robert sat silent, his whole being expended in a prayer for strength and wisdom--for the power to say the right word to meet his wife's needs.

"Beloved," he whispered softly. "Be patient! Be content with me a little longer. There will be others..."

But what woman fresh from her fiery trial can take comfort in that thought? With a cry of pain Jean wrenched away her hand.

"Oh, you don't, you _don't_ understand! I want Vanna--I want a woman. Send Vanna to me."

So once again he had said the wrong thing.

Vanna crept in through the doorway, and knelt down by Jean's side. The gas was lighted now, turned up just high enough to make visible the various objects in the room, without dazzling the patient's eyes. Those eyes were raised with strained appeal to the other girl's face, as if mutely asking help.

Here was another woman, a woman who loved her, a woman who would never have a child of her own. Would she understand? What words of comfort would she offer in her turn?

But Vanna said no words. She laid her face down on Jean's hand, and the hot tears poured from her eyes. The trembling of her form shook the bed, and Jean trembled in response. A spasm of weakness threatened her, but she would not succumb. She pressed her lips together, and stared fixedly with burning eyes. Was this the "little cry" which was to act as the prelude to the "nice cup of tea"? What comfort had Vanna to offer?

"Well!" she said in that cold, faint voice which sounded so poor an echo of her usual full, musical tones. "Well! what have you to say? I sent for you, you know. My baby is dead. He is _dead_. I have no baby. It has been all useless, for nothing! Nothing is left--"

"Jean! Jean! My poor little Jean!"

"Is that all you have to say? You ought to tell me to be brave, to be brave and not fret. I am not the first person!... Can you believe it, Vanna; _can_ you? That little chest of drawers is full of his things. I've stitched at them for months, and dreamt of him with every stitch. I've turned them over a hundred times, waiting, looking forward to to-day. There's his cot in the corner, and his little bath. It's all ready--but he is not here. My baby is dead. They took him away, and hid him where I can never see. Think of it, Vanna! all those months, and never even to see his face. To have had a little son, and never to have touched him, given him one kiss--"

"Poor little mother! Poor little hungry mother. Oh, my poor Jean."

Jean shut her eyes, and pressed her head against the pillow.

"Vanna, Vanna! How shall I bear it? I was so happy, so content; I wanted nothing but Robert, and then _this_ came. I had never been ill before--it was dreadful to be ill, but I looked forward: you know how I looked forward. I thought and thought; it seemed at last as if one thought of nothing else. It grew so real, so near; it filled one's heart, and then--_nothing_! nothing but pain and loss. You don't understand; you can't guess the horror of it--the baffled, incredible horror. You'll never know it, Vanna. Thank God for that! When you grieve because you can never marry, remember this day, and what you have escaped. My little son, that I shall never see! What can you say to me, Vanna? What can you say to comfort me?"

"Nothing!" said Vanna. "Nothing!" She raised her tear-stained face, and laid it beside Jean's on the pillow, and at that touch, at the sound of the broken voice, the hard composure broke down. Jean trembled, gasped, and clinging tightly to the outstretched arms, sobbed out her heart in a paroxysm of grief.

An hour later Robert was again summoned to the sick-room; but this time it was by Jean's request, and when he entered she stretched out her hand towards him, and pitifully endeavoured to smile.

"Poor darling! I'm sorry I was unkind. I will try, I _will_ try to be good! I am calmer now."

"Vanna helped you?"

Jean nodded. Robert sat gazing at her, his eyes wistful, like his voice. It was not jealousy which he felt, nor anger, nor impatience-- but simplest, saddest humiliation. He had failed and Vanna had succeeded. With all his soul he longed to find the secret of her power.

"How did she help you, dear? What did she say?"

"Nothing! She cried. The tears rolled down her face."

Robert sat silent, holding his wife's hand, and striving, hopelessly, pitifully, to understand.