january 1st.
i must begin to write again in my poor, neglected diary, for things are happening so fast that if i do not keep a record of them as they pass i shall forget half that i want to remember.
the last entry was written on the evening after the motor accident, nearly four months ago, so i must go back to that day and tell what happened in the interval.
we were all invalided more or less for a few weeks, but providentially there were no serious developments; even the poor chauffeur recovered and seemed as well as ever. rachel was the longest in gaining strength, and the doctor was worried about her, for she seemed listless and uninterested in what was going on, so different from her usual happy self. he said she had evidently had a severe nervous shock, and that that sort of thing was often more difficult to overcome than more tangible injuries. a nurse came down from london to look after her and her mother, and finally they went off to bournemouth, where they intend to remain until the worst of the winter is over.
i was relieved to feel convinced that rachel knew nothing of what had occurred at that last dreadful moment, for her ignorance seemed proved by the fact that she was absolutely the same in manner both to will and myself! in fact, if anything, i think she was more affectionate to me than she had ever been before. i was thankful! it would have been dreadful to feel that we had any part in bringing about her illness. as for will, i kept carefully out of his way, and hoped we need never, never refer to what had passed; but he evidently felt differently, and one day when he knew where i was bound he deliberately waylaid me and had it out. i never lifted my eyes from the ground, so i don’t know how he looked, but his voice told plainly enough how agitated he was feeling.
“there is something i have to say, and the sooner it is said the better for both of us,” he began. “i owe you an explanation for what occurred—that day. i should like you to understand that i hardly knew what i was about. it seemed as if it might be the last moment of life, and i turned instinctively to you. otherwise i would never, never—”
“oh, i know!” i cried brokenly. “i understand it all, and if there is any blame it is mine as much as yours, for i forgot, too. we must never refer to it again, and we had better see each other as seldom as possible. it will be easier that way.”
he was silent for a moment or two, then he sighed heavily and said:
“it will not be easy any way, una, but it must be done. i can’t blame myself altogether for what has happened. our hearts are not always in our own keeping, and mine went out to you from the first. i did not realise it for a time, but when i did, i did not trifle with temptation. i kept out of your way, as you must have noticed. all last winter i fought a hard fight. it would have been harder still if i had guessed that—you cared! the trouble began in mistaking friendship for love, but until i met you i was quite content. i had no idea that anything was lacking.”
“and you will be happy again. rachel is better than i am in every possible way, and is more worthy of you. i am a selfish, discontented wretch. if you knew what i was really like, you would wonder how you could ever have cared for me at all, and when you leave this place it will be easy to forget—”
“i shall never forget,” he said shortly. “una, i must tell you all that is in my mind. i believe in honesty in love as in all other matters, and if circumstances were different i should go straight to rachel and tell her. how, unconsciously to myself, my heart had gone out to you, and that in that supreme moment we turned instinctively to each other, and i knew that my love was returned, and i would ask her for my liberty. in nine out of ten cases i am sure that would be the right thing to do, but—this is the tenth! rachel has had years of trouble and anxiety, and now her own health is broken. i could not put another burden upon her. through these last days of misery and uncertainty what has comforted me most has been to realise that she has no idea of what happened. she must have been taken up with her own thoughts—praying, no doubt, for our safety, not her own. rachel never thinks of herself, so i must think for her. with her father gone, her mother invalided, she has no one left but me, and i can’t desert her.”
“i should hate you if you did!” i cried eagerly. “i, too, have been thankful that she knows nothing, and she must never know, you must never let her guess. there could be no happiness for us if we broke her heart. you used to call her the best woman in the world, and she is so sweet and gentle that you could not possibly live with her and remain unhappy. in years to come you will be thankful it has happened like this.”
“in any case it is the right thing to do,” he said, sighing. “as you say, we should only suffer if we thought of ourselves first. if one tries to grasp happiness at the expense of another’s suffering it only collapses like a bubble, and leaves one more wretched than before. you and i are not unprincipled, una, though we did forget ourselves for that one moment, and the remembrance of rachel would poison everything. perhaps, after all, it is as well that we know our danger, for we shall be more careful to keep out of temptation. i shall try to persuade her to marry me as soon as possible, and after that we shall live near my uncle. i shall have a busy, active life, and, as you say, one of the sweetest women in the world for my wife. she has been faithful to me for so many years that i should be a scoundrel if i did not make her happy.”
i did not say anything—i couldn’t! i seemed to see it all stretched out before me—will being married, and going to live far, far away, and settling down with his wife and children, and forgetting that there was a una in the world. i tried to be glad at the thought; i tried hard, but i was just one big ache, and my heart felt as if it would burst. honestly and truly, if by lifting up a little finger at that moment i could have hindered their happiness, nothing would have induced me to do it, but it is difficult to do right cheerfully.
we stood silently for a long time, until will said brokenly: “and what will—you do, una?”
“oh, i shall do nothing. i shall stay at home—like the little pig,” i said, trying to laugh, and succeeding very badly. “i shall help vere with her marriage preparations, and visit her in her new home, and take care of the parents in their old age. father says there ought always to be one unmarried woman in every family to play aunt mary in time of need. i shall be the sackville aunt mary.”
he turned and walked up and down the path. i stole a glance at him and saw that he was battling with some strong emotion, then our eyes met, and he came forward hastily and stood before me.
“oh, it is hard that i should have brought this upon you! i who would give my right hand to ensure your happiness. have i spoilt your life, una? will you think hardly of me some day, and wish that we had never met?”
then at last i looked full in his face.
“no, will,” i said; “that day will never come. i have known a good man, and i am proud that he has loved me, and prouder still that he is true to his word. don’t worry about me. i shall try to be happy and brave, and make the most of my life. it will be easier after you have left. we must not meet like this again. i could not bear that.”
“no, we must not meet. i could not bear it either, but i am glad that we have spoken out this once. god bless you, dear, for your sweet words. they will be a comfort to remember. good-bye!”
we did not even shake hands; he just took off his cap and—went! i had a horrible impulse to run after him, take him by the arm, and make him stay a little longer, only five minutes longer, but i didn’t. i just stood perfectly still and heard his footsteps crunch down the path. then the sound died away, and it seemed as if everything else died with them. i did not feel brave at that moment. there seemed nothing left in the whole wide world that was worth having.
