CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
_January 1st._I must begin to write again in my poor, neglected diary, for things arehappening so fast that if I do not keep a record of them as they pass Ishall 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 whathappened in the interval.
We were all invalided more or less for a few weeks, but providentiallythere were no serious developments; even the poor chauffeur recoveredand seemed as well as ever. Rachel was the longest in gaining strength,and the doctor was worried about her, for she seemed listless anduninterested in what was going on, so different from her usual happyself. He said she had evidently had a severe nervous shock, and thatthat sort of thing was often more difficult to overcome than moretangible injuries. A nurse came down from London to look after her andher mother, and finally they went off to Bournemouth, where they intendto remain until the worst of the winter is over.
I was relieved to feel convinced that Rachel knew nothing of what hadoccurred at that last dreadful moment, for her ignorance seemed provedby the fact that she was absolutely the same in manner both to Will andmyself! in fact, if anything, I think she was more affectionate to methan she had ever been before. I _was_ thankful! It would have beendreadful to feel that we had any part in bringing about her illness. Asfor Will, I kept carefully out of his way, and hoped we need never,never refer to what had passed; but he evidently felt differently, andone day when he knew where I was bound he deliberately waylaid me andhad it out. I never lifted my eyes from the ground, so I don't know howhe looked, but his voice told plainly enough how agitated he wasfeeling.
"There is something I have to say, and the sooner it is said the betterfor both of us," he began. "I owe you an explanation for whatoccurred--that day. I should like you to understand that I hardly knewwhat 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 isany blame it is mine as much as yours, for I forgot, too. We must neverrefer to it again, and we had better see each other as seldom aspossible. 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 blamemyself altogether for what has happened. Our hearts are not always inour own keeping, and mine went out to you from the first. I did notrealise 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 Ifought a hard fight. It would have been harder still if I had guessedthat--you cared! The trouble began in mistaking friendship for love,but until I met you I was quite content. I had no idea that anythingwas lacking."
"And you will be happy again. Rachel is better than I am in everypossible way, and is more worthy of you. I am a selfish, discontentedwretch. If you knew what I was really like, you would wonder how youcould ever have cared for me at all, and when you leave this place itwill be easy to forget--"
"I shall never forget," he said shortly. "Una, I must tell you all thatis 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 andtell 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 myliberty. In nine out of ten cases I am sure that would be the rightthing to do, but--this is the tenth! Rachel has had years of troubleand anxiety, and now her own health is broken. I could not put anotherburden upon her. Through these last days of misery and uncertainty whathas comforted me most has been to realise that she has no idea of whathappened. 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 beenthankful that she knows nothing, and she must never know, you must neverlet her guess. There could be no happiness for us if we broke herheart. You used to call her the best woman in the world, and she is sosweet and gentle that you could not possibly live with her and remainunhappy. In years to come you will be thankful it has happened likethis."
"In any case it is the right thing to do," he said, sighing. "As yousay, we should only suffer if we thought of ourselves first. If onetries to grasp happiness at the expense of another's suffering it onlycollapses like a bubble, and leaves one more wretched than before. Youand I are not unprincipled, Una, though we did forget ourselves for thatone moment, and the remembrance of Rachel would poison everything.Perhaps, after all, it is as well that we know our danger, for we shallbe more careful to keep out of temptation. I shall try to persuade herto marry me as soon as possible, and after that we shall live near myuncle. I shall have a busy, active life, and, as you say, one of thesweetest women in the world for my wife. She has been faithful to mefor so many years that I should be a scoundrel if I did not make herhappy."
I did not say anything--I couldn't! I seemed to see it all stretchedout before me--Will being married, and going to live far, far away, andsettling down with his wife and children, and forgetting that there wasa 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 Icould have hindered their happiness, nothing would have induced me to doit, but it is difficult to do right _cheerfully_.
We stood silently for a long time, until Will said brokenly: "And whatwill--you do, Una?"
"Oh, I shall do nothing. I shall stay at home--like the little pig," Isaid, trying to laugh, and succeeding very badly. "I shall help Verewith her marriage preparations, and visit her in her new home, and takecare of the parents in their old age. Father says there ought always tobe one unmarried woman in every family to play Aunt Mary in time ofneed. I shall be the Sackville Aunt Mary."
He turned and walked up and down the path. I stole a glance at him andsaw 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 wouldgive 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 nevermet?"
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 trueto 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 thatwe have spoken out this once. God bless you, dear, for your sweetwords. They will be a comfort to remember. Good-bye!"
We did not even shake hands; he just took off his cap and--went! I hada horrible impulse to run after him, take him by the arm, and make himstay a little longer, only five minutes longer, but I didn't. I juststood perfectly still and heard his footsteps crunch down the path.Then the sound died away, and it seemed as if everything else died withthem. I did not feel brave at that moment. There seemed nothing leftin the whole wide world that was worth having.