About the middle of September Will went away to pay a visit to his
uncle. He called to say good-bye when he knew I was out, so we did not
meet again, and no one had any idea of what had happened. Isn't it
strange how far away you feel at times from even your nearest relations?
"Not e'en the dearest heart and next our own,
Knows half the reason why we smile or sigh!"
as it says in the "Christian Year." A girl's parents think: "She has a
comfortable home, and nice food and clothes, and we are always thinking
of her; she ought to be happy, and if she isn't she is a naughty,
ungrateful child!" They don't remember that the child is a woman, and
wants her very own life! And other people say: "She is a well-off girl,
that Una Sackville, she has everything that money can buy!" but money
can't take the ache out of your heart. And your sister thinks that you
should be so excited and eager at the prospect of being her bridesmaid,
that your cup of happiness ought to simply pour over on the spot. Ah,
well, perhaps it's just as well to keep your troubles to yourself!
The old uncle was weak and failing, so Will stayed on with him until
Christmas. I suppose he was glad of the excuse. He never wrote, but
Rachel sent me a note now and then, and mentioned that he had been down
to Bournemouth several times, but she is a poor correspondent at the
best of times, and her letters seemed emptier than ever. When Lorna
writes, you feel as if she were speaking, and she tells you all the
nice, interesting little things you most want to hear, but Rachel's
letters are just a dull repetition of your own.
"Dearest Una,--I am so glad to hear you are keeping well, and feeling
happier about your sister's health. It is very nice to know that dear
Mrs Sackville is so much stronger this winter, and that your father is
full of health and vigour. So you are expecting a visit from your
soldier brother, and are all greatly excited at the prospect of seeing
him after so many years, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." What is one to
do with people who write like that? Just at the end she would say,
"Will paid us a flying visit last week, and promised to come again next
Saturday. Believe me, dear Una..." Her letters left me as hungry and
dissatisfied as when they arrived, but they brought all the news I had
for three long months.
At home the atmosphere was very bright and cheery, for Vere improved so
quickly that she and Jim actually began to talk of marriage in the
summer. The old doctor came up and croaked warnings when he heard of
it. He said that Vere would need care for a long time to come, and that
in his opinion it would be wiser to wait until she was perfectly
strong--say a matter of two or three years longer; but Jim just laughed
in his face, and said he flattered himself that he could take better
care of his wife than anyone else could possibly do. So it was settled,
and the astounding marvel has come to pass that Vere is so engrossed in
thinking about Jim and their future life together, that she is
comparatively indifferent to clothes. When I sounded her as to
bridesmaids' costume, she said: "Oh, settle it yourself, dear. I don't
mind, so long as you are pleased!" Two years ago she would have
insisted on my wearing saffron, if it had been the fashionable colour,
and have worried the whole household into fits about the shape of the
sleeves! She is so loving and sweet to mother, too, not only in words,
but in a hundred taking-pains kind of ways, and she never jeers or hurts
my feelings as she used to do. Jim is going to have a very nice wife,
and he deserves it, dear old patient thing!
In November, just as it was all settled about the wedding, Spencer came
home from Malta, and stayed for a month. We were all simply bursting
with pride over him, and the whole neighbourhood came up in batches to
do obeisance. Why one should be prouder of a soldier who has never even
seen a fight than of a nice, hard-working clerk, I can't think, but the
fact remains that you _are_, and I did wish it were the fashion for
Spencer to wear his lovely uniform, instead of a dull grey tweed suit
like anybody else! The whole family was busy and happy and engrossed in
the present. Nobody guessed what years those weeks seemed to me. I was
quite bright all day long, but when I got to bed...
So the time went on, one day after another. Spencer went back to Malta,
and Jim came down to stay for Christmas, also Lady Mary and her husband,
and I sat up in my room making presents, and trying to live in the
present and not look ahead. Then Christmas morning came, and among a
stack of cards was a letter from Rachel--an extraordinary letter!
"I am quite well again," she wrote, "but mother is very frail, and takes
cold at every change in the weather. Even this sheltered place seems
too bleak for her, and we are seriously contemplating going abroad--not
to the Continent, but a much longer journey--to South Africa itself!
You may have heard that mother spent her early life at the Cape, and now
that father has gone it is only natural that she should wish to spend
her last years near her brothers and sisters. It will be a wrench for
me to leave England, and all the dear friends who have been so kind to
me, but I feel more and more strongly that it is the right thing to do.
We shall try to sell the Grange, but shall, of course, come back for a
few weeks after the New Year to pack up and make final arrangements, if,
as I think probable, our plans are settled by that time."
The letter went on to discuss other subjects, but I could not bring my
mind to attend to them. I just sat staring at that one paragraph, and
reading it over again and again and again.
Going to the Cape! To spend her mother's last days! Mrs Greaves was
not an old woman. She might easily live for another ten or fifteen
years. Did Rachel seriously mean to imply that she herself was going to
remain in South Africa all that time? And what about Will? Was he
supposed to wait patiently until she returned, or to expatriate himself
in order to join her? I felt utterly bewildered, and the worst of it
was that there was no one near who could throw any light on the subject,
or answer one of my questions. At one moment I felt indignant with
Rachel for making no mention of Will's interest; at the next I marvelled
how a mother, so kind and devoted as Mrs Greaves, could possibly demand
such a sacrifice of her daughter. What would Will say when the project
was unfolded to him? After his long waiting he would be quite justified
in taking a strong position and refusing to be put aside any longer.
From what I knew of him, I fancied that he would do so--I hoped he
would. Nothing could be more trying and dangerous for him or for me
than a long, dragging engagement, with Rachel at the other side of the
world--an engagement which held him bound, yet left him practically
free.
I knew that Will was to spend Christmas at Bournemouth, and wondered if
he would call on us on his return to discuss the astonishing news, but
though father met him once or twice, he never came near the house until
this morning, this wonderful never-to-be-forgotten morning when Bennett
came to me as I was writing in the library and said that Mr Dudley had
called to see me, and was waiting in the drawing-room.
To see me! Not mother, nor father, nor Vere, but me! My heart gave a
great leap of excitement, and I trembled so violently that I could
hardly walk across the floor. It must be something extraordinary indeed
which brought Will on a special mission to me!
He was standing by the fireplace as I entered the room, and the moment
he saw me he darted forward and seized my hands in both his. The last
time we had met he would not even shake hands at parting. I remembered
that with another thrill of excitement; then he drew me towards the
fireplace and began speaking in quick, excited tones--
"Una, it is all over! Rachel has set me free! It is her own doing,
entirely her own wish. I had no idea of it until Christmas Eve, when
she sent me a letter telling me that she was going to South Africa with
her mother, and could not continue our engagement. She asked me not to
come to Bournemouth as arranged, but I went all the same. I could not
accept a written word after all these years. I wanted to satisfy myself
that she was in earnest."
"And was she?"
"Absolutely! I could not touch her decision--sweet and gentle and
kindly as ever, but perfectly determined to end it once for all."
"Do you think that Mrs Greaves--"
"No, she has had nothing to do with it. The decision was as great a
surprise to her as to me. She told me that she would never have
consented to the South African scheme if Rachel had not first confided
in her that she wished to break her engagement, and would be glad to be
out of England. I think she is genuinely sorry. She and I were always
good friends."
"Then why--why--why--"
"A matter of feeling entirely. Stay, I will give you her letter to
read. It will explain better than I can, and there is nothing that she
could mind your seeing."
He took an envelope from his coat pocket, unfolded the sheet of paper
which it contained, and held it before me. I was so shaky and trembling
that I don't think I could have held it myself. It was dated December
23rd, and on the first page Rachel spoke of the proposed journey in
almost the same words which she had used in her letter to me, written on
the same date. Then came the surprise.
"You will wonder, dear Will, if I am altogether forgetting you and your
claims in the making of these plans; indeed, I never can be indifferent
to anything which concerns your happiness, but I have something to say
to you to-night which cannot longer be delayed. I am going to ask you
to set me free from our engagement. I have come to the conclusion that
I have been mistaken in many things, and that it would not be a right
thing for me to become your wife. Please don't imagine that I am
disappointed in you, or have any sins to lay to your charge. I am
thankful to say that my affection and esteem are greater now than on the
day when we were engaged, and I should be deeply grieved if I thought
there could ever be anything approaching a quarrel between us. I want
to be good, true friends, dear Will, but only friends--not lovers. I
see now that I should never have allowed anything else, but you must be
generous, dear, and forgive me, as you have already forgiven so many
failings.
"Don't try to dissuade me. You know I am not given to rash decisions,
and I have thought over nothing else than this step for some weeks past.
I know I am right, and in the future you will see it too, however
strangely it strikes you now. It would perhaps be better if you did not
come here to-morrow as arranged--"
The rest of the letter I knew already, so I did not trouble to look at
it, but turned back and read the last paragraphs for the second time, "I
have been mistaken in many things!" "My affection is greater than on
the day when we were engaged." "I have thought over nothing else for
some weeks past." Those three sentences seemed to stand out from the
rest, and to print themselves on my brain. I looked anxiously in Will's
face, and saw in it joy, agitation, a wonderful tenderness, but no
shadow of the suspicion which was tearing at my own heart. How blind
men are sometimes, especially when they don't care to see!
"She has never loved me!" he declared. "She had, as she says, an
affection for me as she might have had for a friend, a brother--an
affection such as I had for her, but she does not know--we neither of us
knew the meaning of--love!"
I looked at the carpet, and there rose before me a vision of Rachel's
face when Will appeared unexpectedly on the scene; when she heard the
tones of his voice in the distance; when she watched him out of sight
after he had said "Good-bye." In his actual presence she was quiet and
precise, but at these moments her eyes would shine with a deep glow of
happiness, her lips would tremble, and her cheeks turn suddenly from
white to pink. Not love him--Rachel not love Will! Why, she adored
him! He was more to her than anything and everybody in the world put
together. She might be able to deceive him, but nothing could make me
believe that she had broken off the engagement for her own happiness.
She was thinking of someone else, not herself. Who was it? Ah, that
was the question. Her mother, or Will, Will and perhaps--me! Was it
possible that she had been conscious of what had happened on the
afternoon of the motor accident, and that, in consideration of our
feelings, she had kept her own counsel until a sufficient time had
elapsed to enable her to end her engagement in a natural manner? Anyone
who knew Rachel as I do would realise in a flash that it was just
exactly what she would do in the circumstances. Then, if this were
indeed the case, the nervous shock which prostrated her for so long was
not physical, but mental. Oh, poor Rachel! Yet you could smile at me,
and be sweet and gentle in the first moments of your agony! It was all
I could do to keep back the tears, as I thought of what she must have
endured during these last three months; but through all my agitation one
determination remained unshaken: I must not let Will see my suspicions;
Rachel's secret must be loyally guarded. He was talking incessantly--a
quick, excited stream of words. I came back from my dreams to pick up a
half-finished sentence--
"Too good to be true. She has filled so large a place in my life. I
have such a strong admiration for her that it would have been a real
pain to have parted coldly. But to keep her as my friend, to know that
her affection is unchanged, and yet to be free to seek my own happiness
is such a marvellous unravelling of the skein that I can hardly realise
my good fortune. I came back last night, and could hardly wait until
this morning to tell you my news. Una, you understand! I ask nothing
of you to-day, it is not the time to speak of ourselves. I shall go
back to my uncle, and stay with him for the next few months. He is very
frail, and my place seems to be with him at present, but in the spring,
if I come back in the spring, will you see me then? Will you let me
tell you--"