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 fête, 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!
