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—”
i moved away from him hurriedly.
“no, no—don’t say it! say nothing to-day, but just ‘good-bye.’ i don’t want to think of the future—it’s too soon. you said we must not think of ourselves.”
“i did. you are quite right, but sometimes it is difficult to be consistent. you are not angry with me for coming to-day?”
he held out his hand as he spoke, and—i was inconsistent, too! i laid mine in it, and we stood with clasped fingers, quite still and silent for a long, long time, but i think we said many things to each other, all the same.
then will went away—my will!—and i came upstairs to my room, and sat down all alone. no, that is not true—i can never fed alone now as long as i live!
