My cheeks burnt. It was humiliation indeed to be told to go in that summary fashion, but I knew I deserved it, and I should have been thankful to leave that very moment.

"I will go to-day. There is a train at one o'clock. I can send a telegram from the station, and tell mother I am coming. I will go up- stairs now and pack," I cried, and she never protested a bit, but said quite quietly that she would order a cab to take me to the station.

Talk about feeling small! I simply cringed as I went out of that room.

The carriage was waiting for me at the station at the end of a miserable journey, but no one was in it. I had hoped that father would come to meet me. I could have spoken to him, and he would have understood.

John said he was out for the day with a shooting-party, and when I reached the house another disappointment awaited me, for I was met by an announcement that mother also had been obliged to go out to keep an engagement.

"She hopes to be home by five o'clock," said the servant. "Miss Vere and Lady Mary are in the blue sitting-room. Mr Dudley has just come to call."

I had forgotten that Lady Mary was staying at the house, and it made me feel as if I were more superfluous than ever, for Vere would not need me when she had her best friend at hand, and, somehow or other, Will Dudley was just the last person in the world I wanted to see just then. There was nothing for it, however; I had to go upstairs and stand the horrible ordeal of being cross-questioned about my unexpected return.

"Don't tell me it is an outbreak of small-pox!" cried Lady Mary, huddling back in her chair, and pretending to shudder at my approach.

"That's the worst of staying in a doctor's house--you simply court infection! If it's anything interesting and becoming, you may kiss me as usual, but if it's small-pox or mumps, I implore you to keep at the other end of the room! I'm not sure that mumps wouldn't be the worse of the two. I can't endure to look fat!"

"Has Lorna turned out a villain in disguise? Have you quarrelled and bidden each other a tragic farewell?" asked Vere laughingly.

She looked thinner than ever, but her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes as bright as stars. As for Will Dudley, he stared at the pattern of the carpet, and his eyebrows twitched in the impatient way I know so well.

I think he saw that I was really in trouble, and was vexed with the girls for teasing me.

"Thank you, everyone was quite well when I left. You need not be afraid of infection, and Lorna is nicer than ever. We have certainly not quarrelled."

"Then why this thusness?" asked Lady Mary, and Vere burst into a laugh.

"Scalps, Babs, scalps! I see it all! My mind misgave me as soon as I heard of the fascinating Wallace. And was it really so serious that you had to fly at a moment's notice?"

I simply got up and marched out of the room. It was too much to bear.

I sat in my own room all alone for over an hour, and hated everybody.

Oh, I _was_ miserable!

_11 PM._ I have been thinking seriously over things, and have decided to put away this diary, and not write in it any more for six months or a year. It will be better so, for at present I am in such a wretched, unsettled state of mind that what I write would not be edifying, but only painful to read in time to come.

I've been reading over the first few pages to-night, and they seem written by quite a different person--a happy, self-confident, complacent Una, who felt perfectly satisfied of coming triumphantly through any and every situation. This Una is a very crestfallen, humble-minded creature, who knows she has failed, and dreads failing again; but I want to be good, through it all I long to be good! O dear G.o.d, who loves me, and understands, take pity on me, and show me the way!

CHAPTER TWENTY.

_June 15th._ To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at the Moat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in the old haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money and mother's beautiful taste can make them. I felt a sort of rush of happiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehow or other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and write the history of the year.

It has been a long, long winter. We spent three months in Bournemouth for Vere's sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our way home. He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles were slow 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 the change home would also be beneficial. Fresh air, fresh air--live as much in the fresh open air as possible during the summer-- Then he stopped, 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 old phrases 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, most pitiful little smile. She has been very good on the whole, poor dear, during the winter--less cynical and hard in manner, though she still refuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anything like pity.

The night after that doctor's visit I heard a m.u.f.fled sound from her room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She was sobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound of which haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead of shaking 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 it is 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 a moment longer. The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but if it goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old--an old, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with no one to care for me! Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but father and 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 his life. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Men don't like invalids. They are sorry for them, and pity them. Will Dudley, for instance--he only comes to see me as a charity--because I am ill, and need amusing--"

"He is engaged to another girl, Vere. Surely you don't want him to come for love?"

She flushed a little, but her face set in the old defiant fashion, and she said obstinately--

"He would have loved me if I had been well! Rachel Greaves will never satisfy him. He cares for her as a sister rather than as a wife. If I were 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 for another girl. He may not be pa.s.sionately in love with her, perhaps it is not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admiration for 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 you understand him better than I do?" she asked sharply, and I could only say in reply--

"I don't know; but I _am_ sure! I think one understands some people by instinct, and he and I were friends from the moment we met. Besides, I know Rachel better than you do, and had more opportunity of watching her life at home. I say her life, but she has practically no life of her own--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 disagreeable that 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 pretence like 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, and who 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 how to like lying here!" said poor Vere with a sob, and the idea must have grown 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 that she must be invited forthwith.

Rachel came. I had not seen her for some months, and I thought she looked thin and pale.

As we went upstairs together our two figures were reflected in the big mirror on the first landing--one all grey and brown, the other all white, and pink, and gold. I felt ashamed and uncomfortable at the contrast in our appearance, but Rachel didn't; not a bit! She just looked 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 you again!" 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 Vere called me back, and made me stay. She said afterwards that she wanted me to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything which she forgot. There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost no time in stupid trivialities.

"I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularly to ask you a question. I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get no better. I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to be like this all my life. I have lain here with that thought to keep me company until I can bear it no longer. I feel sometimes as if I am going out of my senses. I must find something to help me, or it may really 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! n.o.body knows what I endure 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 grow patient and resigned!"

"Dear Vere, I have never been tried as you are. I have had only one or two short illnesses in my life--I have never known the weariness and disappointment--"

"No, but you have other trials. You have so much to bear, and it is so dull and wretched for you all the time," interrupted Vere quickly, too much engrossed in her own affairs to realise that it was not the most polite thing in the world to denounce another girl's surroundings. As for Rachel, she opened her eyes in purest amazement that anyone should imagine she needed pity.

"I? Oh, you are mistaken--quite, quite mistaken. I have the most happy home. Everyone is good and kind to me; I have no troubles, except seeing dear father's sufferings; and so many blessings--so much to be thankful for!"

"You mean your engagement? Mr Dudley is charming, and I am sure you are 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 curious impulse, Rachel turned suddenly and looked at me. Our eyes met, and the expression in hers--the piteous, shrinking look--made me rush hotly into the breach.