_June 15th._
To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at the
Moat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in the
old haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money and
mother's beautiful taste can make them. I felt a sort of rush of
happiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehow
or other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and write
the history of the year.
It has been a long, long winter. We spent three months in Bournemouth
for Vere's sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our way
home. He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles were
slow affairs, that it was a great thing to keep up the general health,
that he was glad we had been to Bournemouth, and that no doubt the
change home would also be beneficial. Fresh air, fresh air--live as
much in the fresh open air as possible during the summer-- Then he
stopped, and Vere looked at him steadily, and said--
"You mean that I am worse?"
"My dear young lady, you must not be despondent. Hope on, hope ever!
You can do more for yourself than any doctor. These things take time.
One never knows when the turn may come," he said, reeling off the old
phrases which we all knew so well--oh, so drearily well--by this time.
Vere closed her eyes and turned her head aside with the saddest, most
pitiful little smile. She has been very good on the whole, poor dear,
during the winter--less cynical and hard in manner, though she still
refuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anything
like pity.
The night after that doctor's visit I heard a muffled sound from her
room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She was
sobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound of
which haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead of
shaking me off, she clung to me with the energy of despair.
"What is it, darling?" I asked, and she panted out broken sentences.
"The doctor! I have been longing to see him; I thought I was better,
that he would be pleased with my progress, but it's no use--I can see it
is no use! He has no hope. I shall be like this all my life. Babs,
_think_ of it! I am twenty-three, and I may live until I am seventy--
upon this couch! Oh, I shall go mad--I am going mad--I can't bear it a
moment longer. The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but if
it goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old--an
old, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with no
one to care for me! Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but father
and mother will be dead, and you will be married in a home of your own,
and Spencer very likely at the other end of the world, and--"
"And Jim?" I asked quietly.
"Ah, poor Jim! He must marry, too; it isn't fair to let him wreck his
life. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Men
don't like invalids. They are sorry for them, and pity them. Will
Dudley, for instance--he only comes to see me as a charity--because I am
ill, and need amusing--"
"He is engaged to another girl, Vere. Surely you don't want him to come
for love?"
She flushed a little, but her face set in the old defiant fashion, and
she said obstinately--
"He would have loved me if I had been well! Rachel Greaves will never
satisfy him. He cares for her as a sister rather than as a wife. If I
were well again, and gay and bright as I used to be--"
"He would care for you less than he does now. You don't understand,
Vere; but I am certain that Mr Dudley will never desert Rachel for
another girl. He may not be passionately in love with her, perhaps it
is not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admiration
for her character, and would rather die than disappoint her in any way."
"You seem to know a great deal about it. How can you be sure that you
understand him better than I do?" she asked sharply, and I could only
say in reply--
"I don't know; but I _am_ sure! I think one understands some people by
instinct, and he and I were friends from the moment we met. Besides, I
know Rachel better than you do, and had more opportunity of watching her
life at home. I say her life, but she has practically no life of her
own--it is entirely given up for others. Think what she gives up, Vere!
She could have been married years ago, and had a happy home of her own,
but she won't leave her father, though he is so cross and disagreeable
that most people would be thankful to get away. She has the dullest,
most monotonous time one can imagine, and hardly ever sees Will alone;
but she is quite happy--not resigned, not forbearing nor any pretence
like that, but really and truly and honestly happy. I call it splendid!
There are lots of people in the world who have hard things to bear, and
who bear them bravely enough, but they are not _happy_ in doing it.
Rachel is--that's the wonderful thing about her!"
"I wonder if she could make me happy. I wonder if she could tell me how
to like lying here!" said poor Vere with a sob, and the idea must have
grown in her mind, for a week after our return home she said suddenly,
"I want to see Rachel Greaves!" and nothing would satisfy her but that
she must be invited forthwith.
Rachel came. I had not seen her for some months, and I thought she
looked thin and pale.
As we went upstairs together our two figures were reflected in the big
mirror on the first landing--one all grey and brown, the other all
white, and pink, and gold. I felt ashamed and uncomfortable at the
contrast in our appearance, but Rachel didn't; not a bit! She just
looked round at me, and beamed in the sweetest way, and said--
"You are more like a flower than ever, Una! It _is_ nice to see you
again!" and she meant it, every word. She really is too good to live!
I took her to Vere's room, and was going to leave them alone, but Vere
called me back, and made me stay. She said afterwards that she wanted
me to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything which
she forgot. There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost no
time in stupid trivialities.
"I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularly
to ask you a question. I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get no
better. I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to be
like this all my life. I have lain here with that thought to keep me
company until I can bear it no longer. I feel sometimes as if I am
going out of my senses. I must find something to help me, or it may
really come to that in the end. I keep up pretty well during the day,
for I hate being pitied, and that keeps me from breaking down in public;
but the nights--the long, long endless nights! Nobody knows what I
endure in the nights! You are so good--everyone says you are so good--
tell me how to bear it and not mind! Tell me what I am to do to grow
patient and resigned!"
"Dear Vere, I have never been tried as you are. I have had only one or
two short illnesses in my life--I have never known the weariness and
disappointment--"
"No, but you have other trials. You have so much to bear, and it is so
dull and wretched for you all the time," interrupted Vere quickly, too
much engrossed in her own affairs to realise that it was not the most
polite thing in the world to denounce another girl's surroundings. As
for Rachel, she opened her eyes in purest amazement that anyone should
imagine she needed pity.
"I? Oh, you are mistaken--quite, quite mistaken. I have the most happy
home. Everyone is good and kind to me; I have no troubles, except
seeing dear father's sufferings; and so many blessings--so much to be
thankful for!"
"You mean your engagement? Mr Dudley is charming, and I am sure you
are fond of him, but you can't be married while your father lives, and--
and--one never knows what may happen. Suppose--changes came--"
Vere stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and, by a curious
impulse, Rachel turned suddenly and looked at me. Our eyes met, and the
expression in hers--the piteous, shrinking look--made me rush hotly into
the breach.
"You are talking nonsense, Vere! You don't know Mr Dudley as Rachel
does. You don't understand his character."
"No," said Rachel proudly, "you don't understand. It is quite possible
that we may never marry--many things might happen to prevent that, but
Will would never do anything that was mean and unworthy. The changes,
whatever they were, could not affect my love for him, and it is that
that makes my happiness--"
"Loving him! Not his loving you! Rachel, are you sure?"
"Oh, quite sure. Think just for a moment, and you will see that it must
be so. It is pleasant to be loved, but if you do not love in return you
must still feel lonely and dissatisfied at heart. If you love, you care
so much, so very, very much for the other's welfare, that there is
simply no time left to remember yourself; or, if you did, what does it
matter? What would anything matter so long as he were well and happy?"
Her face glowed with earnestness and enthusiasm--what a contrast from
Vere's fretful, restless expression, which always seems asking for
something more, something she has not got, something she cannot even
understand. Even Vere realised the difference, and her fingers closed
over Rachel's hand with an eloquent pressure. Vere never does things by
halves, and even her apologies are graceful and pretty.
"Ah, Rachel," she said, "I see how foolish I was to expect you to answer
my question in a few short words. We speak different languages, you and
I, and I can't even understand your meaning. I wish I could, Rachel--I
wish I could! The old life is out of reach, and there is nothing left
to take its place. Can't you teach me your secret to help me along?"
Rachel flushed all over her face and neck. Now that she was asked a
direct question she was obliged to answer, but her voice was very shy
and quiet, as if the subject were almost too sacred to be discussed.
"I think the secret lies in the way we look at life--whether we want our
own way, or are content to accept what God sends. If we love and trust
Him, we know that what He chooses must be best, and with that knowledge
comes rest, and the end of the struggle--"
"Ah," sighed Vere, "but it's not the end with me! I believe it, too,
with my head, but when the pain comes on, and the sleepless nights, and
the unbearable restlessness that is worst of all--I forget! I can't
rest, I _can't_ trust, it is all blackness and darkness. I must be very
wicked, for even when I try hardest I fail."
"Dear Vere," said Rachel softly, "don't be too hard on yourself! When
people are tired and worn with suffering they are not responsible for
all they say and do. I know that with my own dear father. When he is
cross and unreasonable we are not angry, we understand and pity, and try
to comfort him, and if we feel like that, poor imperfect creatures as we
are, what must God be, Who is the very heart of love! He is your
kindest judge, dear, for He knows how hard it is to bear."
"Thank you!" whispered Vere brokenly. She put her hand up to her face,
and I could see her tremble. She could not bear any more agitation just
then, so I signalled to Rachel, and we gradually turned the conversation
to ordinary topics.
Eventually Will arrived, and we had tea and some rather strained small
talk, for Vere was quiet and absent-minded, and somehow or other Will
rarely speaks to me directly nowadays. He is always perfectly nice and
polite, but he does avoid me. I don't think he likes me half as much as
he did at first.
How suddenly things happen in life! At the moment when you expect it
least, the scene changes, and the whole future is changed. As we were
sipping our tea and eating cakes, Burrows, the parlourmaid, opened the
door, and announced in her usual expressionless voice--
"If you please, marm, a messenger has come to request Miss Greaves to
return home at once. Mr Greaves has had a sudden stroke--"
We all stood up quickly, all save poor Vere, who has to be still
whatever happens. Rachel turned very white, and Will went up to her,
and took her hand in his. He looked at me, and I guessed what he meant,
and said quickly--
"The motor-car! It shall come round at once, and you will be home in
five minutes. I'll go round to the stables!"
I rushed off, thankful to be able to help, and to put off thinking as
long as possible, but even as I ran the thought flew through my head. A
stroke! That was serious--very serious in Mr Greaves's weakened
condition. I could tell from Burrows' manner that the message had been
urgent. Perhaps even now the end of the long suffering _was_ at hand--
the end of something else, too; of what had seemed an hour ago a
practically hopeless engagement!