CHAPTER TWENTY.
_June 15th._To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at theMoat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in theold haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money andmother's beautiful taste can make them. I felt a sort of rush ofhappiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehowor other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and writethe history of the year.
It has been a long, long winter. We spent three months in Bournemouthfor Vere's sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our wayhome. He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles wereslow affairs, that it was a great thing to keep up the general health,that he was glad we had been to Bournemouth, and that no doubt thechange home would also be beneficial. Fresh air, fresh air--live asmuch in the fresh open air as possible during the summer-- Then hestopped, and Vere looked at him steadily, and said--
"You mean that I am worse?"
"My dear young lady, you must not be despondent. Hope on, hope ever!You can do more for yourself than any doctor. These things take time.One never knows when the turn may come," he said, reeling off the oldphrases which we all knew so well--oh, so drearily well--by this time.
Vere closed her eyes and turned her head aside with the saddest, mostpitiful little smile. She has been very good on the whole, poor dear,during the winter--less cynical and hard in manner, though she stillrefuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anythinglike pity.
The night after that doctor's visit I heard a muffled sound from herroom next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She wassobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound ofwhich haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead ofshaking me off, she clung to me with the energy of despair.
"What is it, darling?" I asked, and she panted out broken sentences.
"The doctor! I have been longing to see him; I thought I was better,that he would be pleased with my progress, but it's no use--I can see itis no use! He has no hope. I shall be like this all my life. Babs,_think_ of it! I am twenty-three, and I may live until I am seventy--upon this couch! Oh, I shall go mad--I am going mad--I can't bear it amoment longer. The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but ifit goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old--anold, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with noone to care for me! Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but fatherand mother will be dead, and you will be married in a home of your own,and Spencer very likely at the other end of the world, and--"
"And Jim?" I asked quietly.
"Ah, poor Jim! He must marry, too; it isn't fair to let him wreck hislife. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Mendon't like invalids. They are sorry for them, and pity them. WillDudley, for instance--he only comes to see me as a charity--because I amill, and need amusing--"
"He is engaged to another girl, Vere. Surely you don't want him to comefor love?"
She flushed a little, but her face set in the old defiant fashion, andshe said obstinately--
"He would have loved me if I had been well! Rachel Greaves will neversatisfy him. He cares for her as a sister rather than as a wife. If Iwere well again, and gay and bright as I used to be--"
"He would care for you less than he does now. You don't understand,Vere; but I am certain that Mr Dudley will never desert Rachel foranother girl. He may not be passionately in love with her, perhaps itis not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admirationfor her character, and would rather die than disappoint her in any way."
"You seem to know a great deal about it. How can you be sure that youunderstand him better than I do?" she asked sharply, and I could onlysay in reply--
"I don't know; but I _am_ sure! I think one understands some people byinstinct, and he and I were friends from the moment we met. Besides, Iknow Rachel better than you do, and had more opportunity of watching herlife at home. I say her life, but she has practically no life of herown--it is entirely given up for others. Think what she gives up, Vere!She could have been married years ago, and had a happy home of her own,but she won't leave her father, though he is so cross and disagreeablethat most people would be thankful to get away. She has the dullest,most monotonous time one can imagine, and hardly ever sees Will alone;but she is quite happy--not resigned, not forbearing nor any pretencelike that, but really and truly and honestly happy. I call it splendid!There are lots of people in the world who have hard things to bear, andwho bear them bravely enough, but they are not _happy_ in doing it.Rachel is--that's the wonderful thing about her!"
"I wonder if she could make me happy. I wonder if she could tell me howto like lying here!" said poor Vere with a sob, and the idea must havegrown in her mind, for a week after our return home she said suddenly,"I want to see Rachel Greaves!" and nothing would satisfy her but thatshe must be invited forthwith.
Rachel came. I had not seen her for some months, and I thought shelooked thin and pale.
As we went upstairs together our two figures were reflected in the bigmirror on the first landing--one all grey and brown, the other allwhite, and pink, and gold. I felt ashamed and uncomfortable at thecontrast in our appearance, but Rachel didn't; not a bit! She justlooked round at me, and beamed in the sweetest way, and said--
"You are more like a flower than ever, Una! It _is_ nice to see youagain!" and she meant it, every word. She really is too good to live!
I took her to Vere's room, and was going to leave them alone, but Verecalled me back, and made me stay. She said afterwards that she wantedme to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything whichshe forgot. There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost notime in stupid trivialities.
"I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularlyto ask you a question. I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get nobetter. I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to belike this all my life. I have lain here with that thought to keep mecompany until I can bear it no longer. I feel sometimes as if I amgoing out of my senses. I must find something to help me, or it mayreally come to that in the end. I keep up pretty well during the day,for I hate being pitied, and that keeps me from breaking down in public;but the nights--the long, long endless nights! Nobody knows what Iendure in the nights! You are so good--everyone says you are so good--tell me how to bear it and not mind! Tell me what I am to do to growpatient and resigned!"
"Dear Vere, I have never been tried as you are. I have had only one ortwo short illnesses in my life--I have never known the weariness anddisappointment--"
"No, but you have other trials. You have so much to bear, and it is sodull and wretched for you all the time," interrupted Vere quickly, toomuch engrossed in her own affairs to realise that it was not the mostpolite thing in the world to denounce another girl's surroundings. Asfor Rachel, she opened her eyes in purest amazement that anyone shouldimagine she needed pity.
"I? Oh, you are mistaken--quite, quite mistaken. I have the most happyhome. Everyone is good and kind to me; I have no troubles, exceptseeing dear father's sufferings; and so many blessings--so much to bethankful for!"
"You mean your engagement? Mr Dudley is charming, and I am sure youare fond of him, but you can't be married while your father lives, and--and--one never knows what may happen. Suppose--changes came--"
Vere stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and, by a curiousimpulse, Rachel turned suddenly and looked at me. Our eyes met, and theexpression in hers--the piteous, shrinking look--made me rush hotly intothe breach.
"You are talking nonsense, Vere! You don't know Mr Dudley as Racheldoes. You don't understand his character."
"No," said Rachel proudly, "you don't understand. It is quite possiblethat we may never marry--many things might happen to prevent that, butWill would never do any
thing that was mean and unworthy. The changes,whatever they were, could not affect my love for him, and it is thatthat makes my happiness--"
"Loving him! Not his loving you! Rachel, are you sure?"
"Oh, quite sure. Think just for a moment, and you will see that it mustbe so. It is pleasant to be loved, but if you do not love in return youmust still feel lonely and dissatisfied at heart. If you love, you careso much, so very, very much for the other's welfare, that there issimply no time left to remember yourself; or, if you did, what does itmatter? What would anything matter so long as he were well and happy?"
Her face glowed with earnestness and enthusiasm--what a contrast fromVere's fretful, restless expression, which always seems asking forsomething more, something she has not got, something she cannot evenunderstand. Even Vere realised the difference, and her fingers closedover Rachel's hand with an eloquent pressure. Vere never does things byhalves, and even her apologies are graceful and pretty.
"Ah, Rachel," she said, "I see how foolish I was to expect you to answermy question in a few short words. We speak different languages, you andI, and I can't even understand your meaning. I wish I could, Rachel--Iwish I could! The old life is out of reach, and there is nothing leftto take its place. Can't you teach me your secret to help me along?"
Rachel flushed all over her face and neck. Now that she was asked adirect question she was obliged to answer, but her voice was very shyand quiet, as if the subject were almost too sacred to be discussed.
"I think the secret lies in the way we look at life--whether we want ourown way, or are content to accept what God sends. If we love and trustHim, we know that what He chooses must be best, and with that knowledgecomes rest, and the end of the struggle--"
"Ah," sighed Vere, "but it's not the end with me! I believe it, too,with my head, but when the pain comes on, and the sleepless nights, andthe unbearable restlessness that is worst of all--I forget! I can'trest, I _can't_ trust, it is all blackness and darkness. I must be verywicked, for even when I try hardest I fail."
"Dear Vere," said Rachel softly, "don't be too hard on yourself! Whenpeople are tired and worn with suffering they are not responsible forall they say and do. I know that with my own dear father. When he iscross and unreasonable we are not angry, we understand and pity, and tryto comfort him, and if we feel like that, poor imperfect creatures as weare, what must God be, Who is the very heart of love! He is yourkindest judge, dear, for He knows how hard it is to bear."
"Thank you!" whispered Vere brokenly. She put her hand up to her face,and I could see her tremble. She could not bear any more agitation justthen, so I signalled to Rachel, and we gradually turned the conversationto ordinary topics.
Eventually Will arrived, and we had tea and some rather strained smalltalk, for Vere was quiet and absent-minded, and somehow or other Willrarely speaks to me directly nowadays. He is always perfectly nice andpolite, but he does avoid me. I don't think he likes me half as much ashe did at first.
How suddenly things happen in life! At the moment when you expect itleast, the scene changes, and the whole future is changed. As we weresipping our tea and eating cakes, Burrows, the parlourmaid, opened thedoor, and announced in her usual expressionless voice--
"If you please, marm, a messenger has come to request Miss Greaves toreturn home at once. Mr Greaves has had a sudden stroke--"
We all stood up quickly, all save poor Vere, who has to be stillwhatever happens. Rachel turned very white, and Will went up to her,and took her hand in his. He looked at me, and I guessed what he meant,and said quickly--
"The motor-car! It shall come round at once, and you will be home infive minutes. I'll go round to the stables!"
I rushed off, thankful to be able to help, and to put off thinking aslong as possible, but even as I ran the thought flew through my head. Astroke! That was serious--very serious in Mr Greaves's weakenedcondition. I could tell from Burrows' manner that the message had beenurgent. Perhaps even now the end of the long suffering _was_ at hand--the end of something else, too; of what had seemed an hour ago apractically hopeless engagement!