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Days and nights of darkness, weeks of black anger and despair, then
slowly, quietly, like the coming of the dawn, the clouds began to melt,
and the struggling light to make itself felt. First shame, and a
shuddering horror of evil thoughts; secondly, bitterness thrust aside,
instead of welcomed; finally the search-light turned upon herself,
instead of on others. At that moment healing began, though it would be
long indeed before any comfort from the process could be sensibly felt.
To a just and generous nature it is impossible to cherish a heart-grudge
where the head has pronounced absolution; and when Vanna's first flame
of anger had burnt itself out she had little blame in her heart for
Piers Rendall. If he had fallen short of the ideal, was not she herself
open to the same reproach? She who had always insisted upon the
possibility of a spiritual love, was it consistent that she should wish
to keep him sad and dissatisfied, or grudge him happiness because it was
given by other hands than her own? He had given her eight years of his
life; he had been honest with her. Could she not bear to stand aside,
and say "God speed"?

But the light was still flickering and uncertain; the black clouds hung
overhead ready to engulf her in fresh storms; a chance word or sound
would open up the wound with a piercing anguish of pain. Why dwell upon
the picture of a soul in torment? Vanna struggled on as thousands have
done before her; but it was not until five weeks had passed that her
return letter was dispatched to Piers in India.

"You are right, and you are brave. Thank you for being brave. Thank
you for sparing me from the doom of spoiling your life. Don't pity me
too much. You have given me more than you know, far more; something
greater even than love--understanding! Now I can feel; now I can
sympathise; now I can help. This is your doing, your gift to me, so
be comforted! All my life long I shall be thankful for these eight
years.

"No! I will not write; not yet! In time to come we may meet and be
friends, but this is Her day, it belongs to her--to that young girl
who will be your wife. I'm not perfect, dear; you know my faults. I
should be jealous--that's only natural, I think. It would hurt me to
hear her praises, and perhaps (I'm very feminine!) I might in revenge
put out all my wiles--and I know how to charm you, Piers!--to keep you
a littl