It would be difficult to write of just ordinary things without referring to the one great subject, and that is just what I must not do. My business is to forget, not to remember. I must not allow myself to think!

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

_January 1st._ I must begin to write again in my poor, neglected diary, for things are happening so fast that if I do not keep a record of them as they pa.s.s I shall 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 what happened in the interval.

We were all invalided more or less for a few weeks, but providentially there were no serious developments; even the poor chauffeur recovered and seemed as well as ever. Rachel was the longest in gaining strength, and the doctor was worried about her, for she seemed listless and uninterested in what was going on, so different from her usual happy self. He said she had evidently had a severe nervous shock, and that that sort of thing was often more difficult to overcome than more tangible injuries. A nurse came down from London to look after her and her mother, and finally they went off to Bournemouth, where they intend to remain until the worst of the winter is over.

I was relieved to feel convinced that Rachel knew nothing of what had occurred at that last dreadful moment, for her ignorance seemed proved by the fact that she was absolutely the same in manner both to Will and myself! in fact, if anything, I think she was more affectionate to me than she had ever been before. I _was_ thankful! It would have been dreadful to feel that we had any part in bringing about her illness. As for Will, I kept carefully out of his way, and hoped we need never, never refer to what had pa.s.sed; but he evidently felt differently, and one day when he knew where I was bound he deliberately waylaid me and had it out. I never lifted my eyes from the ground, so I don't know how he looked, but his voice told plainly enough how agitated he was feeling.

"There is something I have to say, and the sooner it is said the better for both of us," he began. "I owe you an explanation for what occurred--that day. I should like you to understand that I hardly knew what 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 is any blame it is mine as much as yours, for I forgot, too. We must never refer to it again, and we had better see each other as seldom as possible. 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 blame myself altogether for what has happened. Our hearts are not always in our own keeping, and mine went out to you from the first. I did not realise 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 I fought a hard fight. It would have been harder still if I had guessed that--you cared! The trouble began in mistaking friendship for love, but until I met you I was quite content. I had no idea that anything was lacking."

"And you will be happy again. Rachel is better than I am in every possible way, and is more worthy of you. I am a selfish, discontented wretch. If you knew what I was really like, you would wonder how you could ever have cared for me at all, and when you leave this place it will be easy to forget--"

"I shall never forget," he said shortly. "Una, I must tell you all that is in my mind. I believe in honesty in love as in all other matters, and if circ.u.mstances were different I should go straight to Rachel and tell 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 my liberty. In nine out of ten cases I am sure that would be the right thing to do, but--this is the tenth! Rachel has had years of trouble and anxiety, and now her own health is broken. I could not put another burden upon her. Through these last days of misery and uncertainty what has comforted me most has been to realise that she has no idea of what happened. 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 been thankful that she knows nothing, and she must never know, you must never let her guess. There could be no happiness for us if we broke her heart. You used to call her the best woman in the world, and she is so sweet and gentle that you could not possibly live with her and remain unhappy. In years to come you will be thankful it has happened like this."

"In any case it is the right thing to do," he said, sighing. "As you say, we should only suffer if we thought of ourselves first. If one tries to grasp happiness at the expense of another's suffering it only collapses like a bubble, and leaves one more wretched than before. You and I are not unprincipled, Una, though we did forget ourselves for that one moment, and the remembrance of Rachel would poison everything.

Perhaps, after all, it is as well that we know our danger, for we shall be more careful to keep out of temptation. I shall try to persuade her to marry me as soon as possible, and after that we shall live near my uncle. I shall have a busy, active life, and, as you say, one of the sweetest women in the world for my wife. She has been faithful to me for so many years that I should be a scoundrel if I did not make her happy."

I did not say anything--I couldn't! I seemed to see it all stretched out before me--Will being married, and going to live far, far away, and settling down with his wife and children, and forgetting that there was a 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 I could have hindered their happiness, nothing would have induced me to do it, but it is difficult to do right _cheerfully_.

We stood silently for a long time, until Will said brokenly: "And what will--you do, Una?"

"Oh, I shall do nothing. I shall stay at home--like the little pig," I said, trying to laugh, and succeeding very badly. "I shall help Vere with her marriage preparations, and visit her in her new home, and take care of the parents in their old age. Father says there ought always to be one unmarried woman in every family to play Aunt Mary in time of need. I shall be the Sackville Aunt Mary."

He turned and walked up and down the path. I stole a glance at him and saw 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 would give 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 never met?"

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 true to 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 that we have spoken out this once. G.o.d bless you, dear, for your sweet words. They will be a comfort to remember. Good-bye!"

We did not even shake hands; he just took off his cap and--went! I had a horrible impulse to run after him, take him by the arm, and make him stay a little longer, only five minutes longer, but I didn't. I just stood perfectly still and heard his footsteps crunch down the path.

Then the sound died away, and it seemed as if everything else died with them. I did not feel brave at that moment. There seemed nothing left in the whole wide world that was worth having.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

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 repet.i.tion 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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 pa.s.s 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. n.o.body 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--"