august 12th.
it is a long time since i opened this diary, for i have grown out of the habit of writing, and it is difficult to get into it again.
mr greaves died the very night of his seizure, and immediately after his funeral mrs greaves collapsed and has been an invalid ever since. it seemed as if she had kept up to the very limit of her endurance, for as soon as the strain was over her nerves gave way in a rush, and instead of the gentle, self-controlled creature which she has been all her life, she is now just a bundle of fancies, tears and repinings. it is hard on rachel, but she bears it like an angel, and is always patient and amiable. i wondered at first if she and will would marry soon and take mrs greaves to live with them; i asked rachel about it one day when we were having a quiet chat, and she answered quite openly:
“will wished it. he thought he could help me to cheer mother, but she won’t hear of it for the next twelve months at least, and, of course, i must do as she prefers. we have waited so long that another year cannot make much difference.”
i wondered if will were of the same opinion, but did not dare to ask him. as i said before, he avoids me nowadays and does not seem to care to talk to me alone. perhaps it is better so, but i can’t help being sorry. i have wondered sometimes if the dull, aching feeling which i have when he passes me by is anything like what poor wallace forbes felt about me. if it is, i am even more sorry for wallace than before. of course, i am not in love with will—i couldn’t be, for he is engaged to rachel, and i have known it from the first, but i can’t help thinking about him, and watching for him, and feeling happy if he comes, and wretched if he stays away. and i know his face by heart and just how it looks on every occasion. his eyes don’t twinkle nearly so much as they did; he is graver altogether, except sometimes when i have a mad mood and set myself to make him frisky too. i can always succeed, but i don’t try often, for i fancy rachel doesn’t like it. she can’t frisk herself, poor dear, and it must feel horrid to feel left out in the cold by your very own fiancé. i should hate it myself.
at the beginning of this month i had a great treat. lorna came to stay with me for three days. she was visiting a friend twenty miles off, and came here in the middle of her visit just for that short time, so that there need be no necessity for wallace to know anything about it. of course, she came with her parents’ consent and approval, and oh, how thankful i was to see her and to look upon her coming as a sign that they were beginning to forgive me. of course we talked shoals about wallace, for i just longed to know how he was faring.
“my dear, it was awful after you left—positively awful!” lorna said. “wallace went about looking like a ghost, and mother cried, and father was worried to death. wallace declared at first that he would go abroad, but father told him that it was cowardly to throw up his work for the sake of a disappointment, however bitter, and mother asked if he really cared so little for his parents that he could forsake them in their old age for the sake of a girl whom he had only known a month. he gave way at last, as i knew he would, and set to work harder than ever. he was very brave, poor old boy, and never broke down nor made any fuss, but he was so silent! you would not have known him. he never seemed to laugh, nor to joke, nor take any interest in what was going on, and the whole winter long he never once entered my little den, where we had had such happy times. i suppose it reminded him too much of you. this spring, however, he has been brighter. i insisted on his taking me to the tennis club as usual, and though he went at first for my sake he enjoys it now for his own. we meet so many friends, and he can’t help being happy out in the sunshine with a lot of happy boys and girls all round. he was quite keen about the tournament, and had such a pretty partner. he always walked home with her after the matches.”
“how nice!” i said, and tried to be pleased and relieved, and succeeded only in feeling irritated and rubbed the wrong way. how mean it sounds! how selfish, and small, and contemptible! i just intend to make myself feel glad, and to hope that wallace may see more and more of that pretty girl, and like her far better than me, and be right down thankful that i refused him. so now, una sackville, you know what is expected of you!
vere liked lorna, and was amused to see us frisking about together. the afternoon before lorna left we were chasing each other round the room in some mad freak when, turning towards vere’s couch, i thought i saw her head raised an inch or so from the pillow in her effort to follow our movements. my heart gave a great thud of excitement, but i couldn’t be sure, so i took no notice, but took care to retire still further into the corner. then i looked round again, and, yes! it was perfectly true, her head was a good three inches from the couch, and she was smiling all the time, evidently quite free from pain.
“oh, vere!” i cried; “oh, darling, darling vere!” and suddenly the tears rolled down my cheeks, and i trembled so that i could hardly stand. lorna could not think what had happened, neither could vere herself, and i tried hard to calm myself so as not to excite her too much.
“you raised your head, vere! oh, ever so high you raised it! you were watching us, and forgot all about yourself, and it didn’t hurt you a bit—you smiled all the time. try again if you don’t believe me—try, darling. you can do it, if you like!”
her breath came short with nervousness and agitation, but she clenched her hands and with a sudden effort her head and neck lifted themselves one, two, a good three or four inches from their support. oh, her face! the sight of it at that moment was almost enough to make up for those long months of anxiety. it was illuminated; it shone! all the weary lines and hollows disappeared, the colour rushed to her cheeks; it was the old, lovely, radiant vere, whom we had thought never to see again.
i can’t describe what we did next. mother came in and cried, father came in and clapped his hands, and asked mother what on earth she meant by crying, while the tears were rolling down his own dear old nose in the most barefaced manner all the time. i danced about the house and kissed everyone i met, and the servants cried and laughed, and the old family doctor was sent for and came in beaming and rubbing his hands with delight. he said it was a wonderful improvement, and the best possible augury of complete recovery, and that now the first step had been taken we could look forward to continuous improvement.
oh, how happy we were! i don’t think any of us slept much that night; we just lay awake and thanked god, and gloated over the glad news. all the next day vere’s face shone with the same wonderful incredulous joy. hope had been very nearly dead for the last few months, and the sudden change from despair to practical certainty was too great to realise. it seemed as if she did not know how to be thankful enough. she said to me once—
“i am going to get well, babs, but i must never forget this experience! as long as i live i shall keep this couch in my bedroom, and when i have been selfish and worldly i shall lay down straight on my back as i have done all these months and stay there for an hour or two, just to make myself remember how much i have been spared, and how humble i ought to be. and if you ever see me forgetting and going back to the old thoughtless ways, you must remind me, babs; you must speak straight out and stop me in time. i want to look back on this illness and feel that it has been the turning-point in my life.”
later on the same day she said suddenly—
“i want jim! please send for jim.” and when he came, rushing on the wings of the express next day, she was so sweet and kind to him that the poor fellow did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels.
it was characteristic of jim that when recovery seemed certain he should say no more about his own hopes. he had been anxious enough to offer his love in the dark days of uncertainty, and all the year long a day had never passed without bringing vere some sign of his remembrance—a letter, or a book, or a magazine, or flowers, or scent, or chocolates. the second post never once came in without bringing a message of love and cheer. he came down to see us, too, once a month at least, and sometimes got very little thanks for his pains, but that made no difference to his devotion. now for the first time he was silent and said not one word of love.
vere told me all about it afterwards, not the nice private little bits, of course, but a general outline of the scene between them, and i could imagine how pretty it must have been. vere is bewitching when she is saucy, and it is, oh, so good to see her saucy again!
“there sat jim like a monument of propriety,” she said, dimpling with amusement at the remembrance, “and do what i would i could not get him on to personal topics. i gave him half a dozen leads, but the wretch always drifted on to the weather, or politics, or books, and i could not corner him. then at last i said mournfully, ‘haven’t you brought me a cadeau, jim? i looked forward to a cadeau. is there nothing you want to give me?’ he apologised profusely, said there had been no time before catching the train, but if there was anything at all that i fancied when he went back to town he would be only too charmed. i looked down and twiddled my fingers, and said bashfully, ‘well, jim, i should like—a ring—!’”
dear old jim! dear old loyal, faithful jim! how i should have loved to see his face at that moment!
