_January 20th_.
Mrs Greaves and Rachel came home after the New Year and set to work at
once to break up the old home. All the furniture is to be sold by
auction, and the house is to be sold too, or let upon a very long lease.
I wanted to see Rachel, but dreaded seeing her, at the same time, so at
last I sent a letter asking when I might come, and she wrote back a dear
little affectionate note fixing the very next afternoon. When I arrived
she took me upstairs to the sitting-room where I used to spend my days
when my ankle was bad, and fussed over me in just the same old way. She
looked--different! Just as sweet, just as calm, but--oh, I can't
describe it, as if something had gone which had been the mainspring of
it all.
I should never have dared to mention Will, but she began almost at once
to speak of the broken engagement, quite calmly and quietly, repeating
that it was the best thing for both, and that she should be perfectly
content if she were satisfied about Will's future.
"Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to hear that Will is happily
married and settled down. He has been too long alone, and would so
thoroughly appreciate a home of his own. I have done him a great
injustice by condemning him to so many lonely years, but our engagement
need be no hindrance now. It was known to very few people, and,"--she
smiled a little sadly--"even those who did know refused to take it
seriously. They saw at once what I was so slow in discovering--that we
were unsuited to each other. We were thrown together at a time when he
was depressed and lonely, otherwise the engagement could never have
happened. It was a great mistake, but it is over now, and he must not
suffer from its consequences. I am going away, but I shall wait to hear
of his happiness, and I hope it may come soon."
Our eyes met. I looked at her steadily, and the colour rose in her
cheeks and spread up to the roots of her hair. She shrank back in her
chair and put up her hands as if to ward me off, but I just sank on my
knees before them and held them tightly in mine.
"Oh, Rachel!" I cried. "I know, I know! You can't deceive me, dear.
You have done this for our sakes, not your own. Oh, I hoped you had
been too much engrossed to notice what happened that day. When you said
nothing about it, I was so relieved and thankful, for truly, Rachel, it
was only an impulse. Nothing of the sort had ever happened before--not
a word or a look to which you could have objected. You believe that,
don't you, dear? Say you believe it."
Her fingers tightened round mine.
"Indeed, indeed, I do! You have been all that is true and loyal, and so
has Will. There is no one to blame but myself. I knew from the first
that he was attracted to you, and that you suited him better than I
could ever do; but I shut my eyes--I did not want to see. Don't be
sorry for what happened; it is a great blessing for us all that I was
not allowed to deceive myself any longer. You say it was only an
impulse. Ah, Una, but the impulse which made him turn to you and forget
me is too clear a warning to be neglected. It showed how his heart lay
better than any deliberate action."
I could not deny it. I did not want to deny it, deeply as I felt for
her suffering. I laid my head in her lap, so that she should not see my
face, and begged her to forgive me.
"I feel such a wretch to take my happiness at the expense of yours. You
are an angel, Rachel, to be so sweet and forgiving. I should be a fury
of rage and jealousy if I were in your place, but you give it all up
without a murmur."
She smiled at that--such a sad little smile.
"I have nothing to give. It was yours all the time. When I found that
out, I could not be mean enough to hold an empty claim. I never meant
you to know my real reason, but since you have found it out for
yourself, you must promise me not to let it interfere with Will's
happiness. Don't let me feel that he has to suffer any more because of
me. Never let him suspect the truth. He has such a tender heart that
it would trouble him sorely if he knew that I had discovered his secret,
and I don't want any shadow on our friendship. Promise me, Una, that
you will never let him know."
"I promise, Rachel. I had made up my mind about that long ago."
I did not tell her that in making my decision I had considered her
feelings, not his. I had imagined that for her pride's sake she would
not wish him to know her real reasons for breaking off the engagement.
But Rachel herself had no thought of her pride; her anxiety was simply
and wholly for Will's comfort.
I looked up at her in a passion of admiration, and in that moment a
question which had tormented me for weeks past seemed to find its
solution.
"Rachel," I cried, "I know now why this has happened! I have been
wondering how anyone so good and unselfish as you could be allowed to
have such a trouble as this, and how it could be for the best that you
are passed over for a creature like me, but I can understand now. You
are too valuable to be shut up in just one home; so many people need
you--you can help so wonderfully all round that you are kept free for
the general good. The world needs you. You belong to the world."
Her face lit up with happiness.
"Oh, Una, what a lovely thought! I shall remember that, and it will be
such a comfort. Kiss me, dear. I am so glad that it is you. I am so
thankful that Will has chosen someone whom I can love."
We talked a good deal more, and she said a lot of lovely things that I
shall remember all my life. It was as though she were giving over the
charge of Will into my hands, and they are such hasty incapable hands
that they need all the guiding they can get. She told, me all about him
as she had known him all these years--his good qualities, which I was to
encourage; his weaknesses, which I was to discourage; his faults, (ah!
Will dear, they were nothing compared to mine), which I was to help him
to fight. She looked upon it all so seriously, that marriage seemed to
become a terrible as well as a beautiful thing. Can it really be true
that I have such wonderful power to influence Will for good or evil?
Oh, I must be good, I must, I must, for his welfare is fifty thousand
times dearer to me than my own!
After this I was constantly at the Grange, and worked like a charwoman
helping to pack, and getting ready for the sale. I think I was really
of use, for Rachel has not much taste, and I re-arranged things so that
they looked ever so much more attractive, and so brought bigger prices.
We had very happy times together, and were quite merry, sometimes
sitting down to tea on the top of boxes, with our dresses pinned up and
covered with aprons, but we never spoke of Will again. That was
finished. The last two nights they were in England Mrs Greaves and
Rachel spent in our home, and I drove down and saw them off at the
station. I knew who was going to meet them at the other end, but even
then we did not mention him. Rachel just clung tightly to me, and
whispered "_Remember_!" and that said everything. Then the train puffed
slowly out of the station, and I caught one glimpse of her white, white
face through the window. Oh! if I live to be a hundred I shall never,
never forget her, and I shall love her more than anyone else except my
very own people, but I don't think I shall ever see Rachel again in this
world!
_June 25th_.
Vere's wedding eve. My poor neglected diary must come out of hiding to
hear the record of a time so wonderful to her and to me. I have had
very little leisure for thinking of my own affairs since Rachel left,
for a wedding means a tremendous amount of work and management, when it
involves inviting relations from all parts of the world, buying as many
clothes as if you were never expected to see a shop again, and choosing
and furnishing a brand-new house. Neither mother nor Vere are strong
enough to do much running about, so all the active preparations fell to
me, and I had to go up to town to scold dressmakers and hurry up
decorators, and threaten cabinet makers, and tell plumbers and
ironmongers that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and match
patterns, and choose trimmings, and change things that wouldn't do,
until Vere said, laughingly, that the wedding seemed far more mine than
hers. It kept me so busy that I had no time to dream until I went to
bed at nights and then I used to be awake for hours, thinking of Rachel
away at the other side of the world, happy in her mother's restored
health, and, to judge from the tone of her letters, thoroughly enjoying
the complete change of scene after the very quiet life she had led these
last years; thinking of Lorna, my dear old faithful Lorna, as good a
friend to me as ever, in spite of all the trouble I caused her. It is a
year ago now since that wretched affair, and Wallace seems almost his
old self again, she says, so I hope he will soon have forgotten all
about me. I feel hot and cold whenever I think about it. It is
_wicked_ to play at being in love! Suppose I had accepted Wallace out
of pique, as I thought of doing for a few mad moments; suppose I had
been going to marry him to-morrow--how awful, how perfectly awful I
should feel now! How different from Vere, whose face looks so sweet and
satisfied that it does one good to look at her.
I have been slaving all day long arranging flowers and presents, and
after tea mother just insisted that I should come up to my room to rest
for an hour, so here I am, sitting on the very same chair on which I sat
in those far-away pre-historic ages when I began this diary, a silly bit
of a girl just home from school. I am not so very ancient now as years
go, but I have come through some big experiences, and to-day especially
I feel full of all sorts of wonderful thoughts and resolutions, because
to-morrow--to-morrow, Will is coming, and we shall meet again!
I think Vere guesses, I am almost sure that she does, for she and Jim
made such a point of his coming to the wedding, and she gave me his note
of acceptance with such a sympathetic little smile. Oh, how anxious I
had been until that letter arrived, and now that it is all settled I can
hardly rest until to-morrow. Rest! How can I rest? He arrives late
to-night, so we shall meet first of all in church. I shall feel as if,
like Vere, I am going to meet my bridegroom. It will seem like a double
wedding--hers and mine.
_The Wedding Day_.
It has all passed off perfectly, without a single hitch or drawback. To
begin with, the weather was ideal, just a typical warm June day, with
the sky one deep, unclouded blue. As I looked out of my window this
morning the lawns looked like stretches of green velvet, bordered with
pink and cream, for it is to be a rose wedding, and the date was fixed
to have them at their best. The house is full of visitors, and
everybody seemed overflowing with sympathy and kindness.
It must be horrid to be married in a place where you are not known, or
in a big town where a lot of strangers collect to stare at you, as if
you were part of a show. This dear little place is, to a man, almost as
much interested and excited as we are ourselves; the villagers are all
friends, for either we have known them since they were babies, or they
have known us since we were babies, which comes to the same thing. The
old almshouse women had a tea yesterday, and sat in the gallery in
church, and the Sunday-school children had a tea to-day, and lined the
church path and scattered roses. The Mother's Meeting was in the
gallery, too, and the Band of Hope somewhere else, and the Girls'
Friendly by the door. The whole place was _en fete_, with penny flags
hanging out of the cottage windows, and streamers tied across the High
Street. It all felt so nice, and kind, and homey.
There were eight bridesmaids, and we really _did_ look nice, in white
chiffon dresses, shepherdess hats wreathed with roses, and long white
staves wreathed with the same.
As for Vere, she was a vision of loveliness, all pink and white and
gold. We walked together downstairs into the hall, where father was
waiting to receive us. Poor father! the tears came into his eyes as he
took her hand, and looked down at her. It must be hard to bring up a
child, and go through all the anxiety and care and worry, and then, just
when she is old enough to be a real companion, to have to give her up,
and see her go away with a "perfect stranger," as Spencer says.
Last night, when I was going to bed, father held me in his arms, and
said:
"Thank heaven, I shall have you left, Babs! It will be a long time
before I can spare you to another man."
And I hugged him, and said nothing, for I knew... Ah! well, they did it
themselves once on a time, so they can't be surprised!
The church was crowded with people, and everybody turned to stare at us
as we came in, but I saw only one face--Will's face--with the light I
most loved shining in his eyes. I stood at Vere's side, and heard her
repeat her vows in sweet, firm tones, which never faltered, but Jim's
voice trembled as he made that touching promise of faithfulness "in
sickness and in health," and I saw his hand tighten over hers.
It was like a dream--the swelling bursts of music, the faces of the
clergy; behind all, the great stained window, with the Christ looking
down... Then the wedding march pealed out, we took our places in the
carriages, and drove home once more.
Vere and her husband stood beneath one of the arches of the pergola, to
receive the congratulations of their friends, a picture couple, as happy
as they were handsome. The sky was like a dome of blue, the scent of
roses was in the air, and Will came to meet me across the green, green
grass.
"Una!" he cried. "_At last_!" and clasped my hand in his.
Oh, I am terribly happy! I should like everyone in the world to be as
happy as I am to-day!