_HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN._
_June 27th, Friday._
THIS morning I went to the Vicarage, hoping for another talk with
Millicent. There are things which I do so want to understand. I cannot
sleep at night, going over and over different perplexities. And it
seemed to me that perhaps another little chat might clear matters up,
even if I did not actually ask questions. Millicent is so calm and
strong; and I am so easily tempest-tossed. I wish I were more like her.
But when I reached the Vicarage, I found—to my dismay—that she was away
from home. A friend had written in trouble, begging her to go; and
Millicent had started at once. The girl could not tell me her address,
or how long she would be away. Perhaps only three or four days, perhaps
a week. Mr. Farrars had said that a change would do her good, and he
hoped she would not hurry back.
I came home, wondering how to get through another week.
_June 29th, Sunday._
This afternoon I have been reading some earlier entries in my
journal,—particularly those in last February and March. I seem to have
lived through a lifetime since. Some of the words which I wrote read
now like a satire upon my life.
The resolution that I made to live for others, to think only of the
happiness of others, to sacrifice my own wishes whenever opportunity
occurred,—how grievously I have failed in the carrying out of all this.
Everything has gone down at once, gone down hopelessly, before the very
first temptation to self-pleasing; and I have sacrificed Millicent for
myself, not myself for Millicent.
True, I do not know what her thoughts and wishes are; I cannot tell
whether under any circumstances she might have been still willing to
marry him—Ernest—but at least I did then believe that I knew her to be
willing. And in the face of that belief, in the very teeth of my own
deliberate resolution to act only in her interests and on her behalf, I
set myself to win his love. And I succeeded.
If I did truly succeed! That doubt is the worst pain.
He writes so kindly, so affectionately. But if he could act so as to
make her think him still unchanged towards herself,—if he really did
act so, as Mother believes,—what kind of a love for me can his be?
The feeling of uncertainty makes it difficult to write to him
naturally, and as he would expect. Does he see the difference, and is
he pained? I am not able to control my style.
As for Millicent, the wrong that I have done to her I see no means of
repairing. There was a time when I could have held back, when I could
have effaced myself for her sake. And I knew it, and I knew I ought
to do it, and I did not. Now it is too late. Now there is nothing
that I can do. I must not even seem to think that she cares. Perhaps
she does not; but perhaps she does. She has so much self-command; her
composure tells nothing either way. Other people might not be able to
behave so, but Millicent is perfectly able. I try to imagine that she
does not care; but in my heart I know well that there is no proof of
her indifference, none whatever. And yet I can do nothing. If I have
won his love, I have no right to cast him off for Millicent's sake. It
would do her no good; it would only make sorrow for him?
If! But have I? Would he really care? Would it mean sorrow for him?
I am not strong, like Millicent. If I found it to be all a mistake, if
I found that Ernest did not truly love me, I think I should be crushed;
I do not know how I could ever bear it.
_June 30th, Monday._
Millicent writes word that she will come home to-morrow, and she asks
me to go and see her in the afternoon. I will go; but shall I venture,
when it comes to the point, to ask her in plain words what I want to
know? If she cannot help me, it almost seems as if nobody could.
_July 2nd, Wednesday._
Yesterday afternoon I went to the Vicarage, in a tremor of doubt and
unhappiness, ready to imagine all sorts of things. But somehow, as soon
as I found myself sitting beside Millicent, with her cool fingers on
mine, a quietness crept over me, and the fears seemed to drop away.
"Now tell me all about it, from the very beginning. Give me the whole
story, Rhoda. When did it begin, and how did it come on?"
I could not do fully what she wished. I could not tell the tale of what
I had meant to do for "her," and of how I had failed. But the rest I
told at length,—how constantly Ernest had been in and out all those
weeks, and how many delightful talks we had had, and how much everybody
had liked him.
"Including Rhoda!" she put in softly.
Then I told her about the evening when he was to have come to say
good-bye, and how he never came, and how wretched I was, and how he had
not written to explain or apologise.
"But what was the reason?" she asked.
I could only hang my head, and say that I did not know. Ernest had
never told me. "It must have been just when he went to see you," I
murmured. "And I thought—perhaps—"
She smiled. "No, you thought wrongly. He must have been out of Town
that day. So like Ernest never to take the trouble to explain. Men
don't realize what such a small matter may mean to a woman. He might
have lost a good deal by it, foolish fellow!"
The very tone in which she spoke helped to clear away some of my fogs.
I was able to smile too; and she said, "Now go on."
Then I described shamefacedly how he had found me crying in the garden;
and how he had asked me there and then to marry him; and how I had
since been terribly afraid that perhaps he only asked me out of pity
because he thought me unhappy, and not because he really had meant to
do so.
"I could not stand that, could you?" I asked. "Think how horrid it
would be! I can't forgive myself for having let him see so easily what
I felt. And if he had not meant to ask me—"
"Rhoda, I think you have a gift in the self-worrying line. And 'not'
much confidence in Ernest."
"But such a thing might be. And if it were, could you stand it?" I felt
what an absurd question I was putting. Millicent most certainly would
never, under any conceivable circumstances, have allowed herself to
be found weeping in a garden, over any human being's non-appearance,
still less would she have allowed it to be known why she cried. I had
not seen this till the moment when I again asked Millicent, "Could you
stand it?" And the contrast between her and me suddenly becoming clear,
made my face burn as if it were on fire.
"Perhaps not!" she said, with just the least lifting of eyebrows.
"Well, dear, what do you propose to do? Of course you cannot go on
without doing something."
I was very much at a loss. The idea of actually doing anything had not
occurred to me—I mean as to Ernest. It is one thing, I suppose, to talk
over one's fancies with a friend, and quite another thing to act upon
them.
"You had better have it out with Ernest himself."
"Millicent!"
"And ask him frankly whether he really does want you, or no. Why not?"
"Millicent!"
"My dear Rhoda, I mean what I say. I am not jesting. If you truly and
soberly have doubts of him and of his love, you had far better speak
out plainly at once. Anything rather than go on in doubt until you are
his wife. If there is any reality at all in these fancies of yours, you
must delve to the bottom of them without delay. If there is not, then
put them utterly aside, and never give them another thought."
"It isn't so easy."
"It has to be done, one way or the other," she said resolutely.
"But when he comes,—when I am with him,—I don't feel afraid of anything
then."
Millicent kissed me, and actually laughed.
"In that case, they can hardly be worth much. The sooner he comes, and
the sooner you can stamp them out of existence, the better." After
a pause she added. "I am afraid you are preparing unhappiness for
yourself and for him, too, by these imaginations. You do not really,
in your heart of hearts, believe that he asked you to become his wife,
without wishing or intending it?"
Expressed in those terms, the thing did sound improbable. I was able to
agree with her. And yet—
"Ernest is impulsive," she observed thoughtfully, "and very
warm-hearted. But I can hardly think he would ever be so far out of his
senses as to do what you have been supposing. Whether he had entirely
made up his mind to speak so soon, is another question. Not a very
important one. Half the proposals of marriage that are made come about,
I fancy, more or less suddenly at the last. Some little event brings a
man to the point, and he speaks out what has been long simmering in his
mind. It is not impossible that your distress that day may have brought
Ernest to the point, and that otherwise he might have gone on a little
longer without saying anything. But what if it were so? You must try to
take healthier views of things."
"If only I had not let him see!"
"I agree with you in the abstract. Still, when a thing is over and
done, it is waste of time to keep on fretting about it. You cannot undo
what has been once done. All you can do is to make yourself and Ernest
unhappy."
"Not Ernest!"
"Ernest as much as yourself. When once you are married, both must be
happy or both unhappy. You don't mind my speaking plainly, do you? I
do so want you both to be happy!" She had again that singularly sweet
look. "And much must depend upon yourself. If you get into a habit of
giving the rein to such fancies as these, you cannot hide from him that
you are troubled. Either he will find out what is wrong, or he will see
that something is wrong, and will not know what it is; and both ways,
he must be unhappy. Dear Rhoda, if you only had an idea how that sort
of jarring deadens love, especially with some characters."
"You don't mean especially with Ernest?"
"Yes, I think I do. I know him so well. And he is very easily made
happy or the reverse."
"You shall teach me," I began. And then, without warning, the
exclamation broke from me, "Would he have been happier with you, if you
had married him?"
"Rather a difficult question to answer," she said drily, not in the
least discomposed. "You see, I did not marry him; and one cannot very
well settle the upshot of an event which never took place. I dare say I
should have succeeded, at the cost of some distress to myself—succeeded
in making him happy, I mean!"
"Millicent!"
"Don't misunderstand me. If there had been no hindrances in the way, I
should certainly have accepted him in those far-back days; and no doubt
we should have shaken down together. But—"
"But you would not have had him 'now!'" The words seemed to slip out,
in spite of myself, and I was vexed at having asked the question; yet I
listened eagerly for her answer.
"One cannot always say what one might do, until the opportunity is
given," she said, with deliberation. "Ernest is a very dear fellow: and
I have always been fond of him. But I am quite sure that it is far best
for me 'not' to marry. I am too middle-aged and used-up; and perhaps
I am too much accustomed to managing as I like. Besides, very few men
would be able to make me happy. And I doubt if Ernest now is one of
those few."
"Why?" I asked in surprise.
"He has not developed enough. I am so much older than I was a few years
ago, and he is hardly older at all."
"Oh!"
"Older with respect to you, but not with respect to me."
I did not feel that I understood what she meant exactly.
"Besides," she went on, "I think I should do better with a rather
stronger husband,—supposing that I ever had one at all. I think I
should prefer one who always knew his own mind."
Was she laughing at me? I could not make out. There was a curious
sparkle in her eyes. I broke into an indignant defence of Ernest. The
idea of any one calling him weak!
"I don't think I called him weak. Only perhaps he has not quite
backbone enough for me. It would not prevent his being strong enough
for you."
As if that were any improvement! But she looked so sweet, one could not
be angry. There was nothing for it but to smile and give in.
Then I knew I should be wanted at home, and I said good-bye, Millicent
pressing me to call again soon. And I walked back, feeling altogether
better; braced up and comforted. And when I came in doors, the first
sight that met my eyes was Ernest's face.
I do not know what became of all the doubts and worries. The moment his
arms were round me, they seemed to melt away, and I just clung to him,
and felt that I had all I wanted. Will those feelings ever come again?
I am so happy this evening; and Mother is satisfied; and it really does
not look as if I had done the wrong to Millicent that I feared. So I
mean now to make the best of things, and to have no more gloomy fancies.
And I shall drop journalising. It encourages morbid fancies, if one is
in the mood for them. Some people might do it safely enough, I dare
say; but I hardly think I can. I shall lock the volume away, in the
bottom of a box, far out of sight. And I will not even look at it again
for at least two or three years.
(_No further entry for fifteen years._)
_July 3rd, 18—._
My poor old journal! I have come across it unexpectedly, as I did once
before, long ago. And as then, so now, I have not been able to resist
reading it through. Now I am going to add a few last words.
Those were curious days. The little tangles of girlhood seemed at the
time so terrible and hopeless. Looking back upon them from middle life,
I know how easy the way out often was. If only one had been willing! If
only the main desire had been, not to have one's own way, but at any
and every cost to do simply the thing which was right!
"Poor little Rhoda! Poor silly little Rhoda!" I have been saying these
words to myself over and over again as I read. There was so much
needless fretting, such a waste of fervour and energy over trifles,
such a pitiful amount of preoccupation with self.
The folly of the child! I can look back upon her now as upon another
person. To take her choice, as she did, in the face of those inward
spirit-warnings, which surely are meant to lead us in the right way,
was the height of folly. I wonder at her as I read. Yet it is so
common, so human. When those gentle warnings come, we are so often just
bent upon having our own way. And then, sometimes, we are allowed to
take it; we are not even permitted to turn back from the path which
we have chosen; and in the path of our choice we have to endure the
consequences.
I have had to bear consequences in the path of my choice. How should
it be otherwise? I do not wish to say much of this, even in my private
journal. But the everyday discipline of life, these past years, has
been harder, far harder, to endure, because I have known all through
that it "was" of my own choosing, of my own bringing.
Some of the perplexities which so fretted my girlish mind in those days
have been explained since. I know—and I can now know it calmly—that
Ernest had not entirely made up his mind to ask me to be his wife, when
he found me so bitterly crying in the garden. Had he not found me thus,
he would not then have spoken. Perhaps he might never have spoken. When
he had failed on a certain momentous evening to appear, it was because
he could not arrive at any decision. He wanted to wait, to consider.
He had unexpectedly seen Millicent, and, although he was no longer in
love with her, she had always a curious power over him. If I had not
just then been in the way, he would almost certainly have turned to her
again. And if she had been one whit less pure and high in principle
than she was, less entirely self-forgetting, I do not think she would
have found it difficult to detach his affection from me, and to win him
to herself.
These things and others also came to my knowledge within a year of our
marriage; and the passionate pain and distress that I went through can
hardly be put into words.
He was fond of me, honestly fond of me. Still, it might have been
better if he had waited, if he had not spoken so hastily. And oh, how
much better if I had gone home before Addie fell ill.
A calmer, quieter wife, less eager, less impulsive, less engrossed
with herself, less disposed to imagine and to magnify, would have made
him happier. I know and see it now. We learnt gradually to put up with
one another's faults; and the last three or four years were all that
they should have been. But the first few years—the first three or four
especially—I never can forget what we both went through. Neither of
us had learnt to forbear, and each of us expected in all things to be
given way to; and there was utter incompatibility of tastes, of habits,
of inclinations. But for Millicent's angelic sweetness, but for her
power over both of us, but for the unfailing wisdom with which she
used that power, our married life would have been one long stretch of
misery. She saved us from that; and a great change took place at last,
but it "was" at last.
Two years ago he was taken from me, and I have the comfort of
remembering a placid time preceding that, a time free in the main from
jarrings and misunderstandings. Had it not been for this, I do not know
how I should endure to look back at all.
My home is once more in Wayatford. When I was left a widow, I came back
here with my little girl, to live with my dear Mother, and to brighten,
so far as might be, her later years. Addie and Emmie are both married.
Millicent still keeps her father's house, still follows her monotonous
round of Parish duties. Hers has been such an uneventful life,—"awfully
dull," as somebody the other day described it. But I can only say
that there is no one in the world with whom I would sooner exchange
than Millicent. Not because of her surroundings, not because of her
circumstances, but because of what she is in herself, because of her
perfect content.
For she is always happy. Hers has been a far happier life than mine
thus far. For this I blame myself, my own ill-governed temper, and my
own want of self-control. If by any possibility my past experience can
save dear little Millie from falling into the same tangles, she shall
indeed escape them. At least, I can tell her the story of my girlhood:
first the little rehearsal of temptation and failure in earlier
days; and then the stronger repetition of the same, the temptation
intensified, the failure repeated on a more marked scale. Does the
experience of one ever serve entirely for another? If it might but be
so in this case!
[Illustration: FINIS.]
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.