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, fragrant1 leaves, and, somehow or other, a longing2 came over me to unearth3 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 spinal4 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 steadily5, and said—
“You mean that I am worse?”
“My dear young lady, you must not be despondent6. 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 drearily7 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 cynical8 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 muffled9 sound from her room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She was sobbing11 to herself, great, gasping12, heart-broken sobs13, 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 wizened14 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 wreck15 his life. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Men don’t like invalids16. 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 defiant17 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 passionately18 in love with her, perhaps it is not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admiration19 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 entirely20 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 monotonous21 time one can imagine, and hardly ever sees Will alone; but she is quite happy—not resigned, not forbearing nor any pretence22 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 sob10, 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! Nobody 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 engrossed23 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 amazement24 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 breach25.
“You are talking nonsense, Vere! You don’t know Mr Dudley as Rachel does. You don’t understand his character.”
“No,” said Rachel proudly, “you don’t understand. It is quite possible that we may never marry—many things might happen to prevent that, but Will would never do anything that was mean and unworthy. The changes, whatever they were, could not affect my love for him, and it is that that 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 must be so. It is pleasant to be loved, but if you do not love in return you must still feel lonely and dissatisfied at heart. If you love, you care so much, so very, very much for the other’s welfare, that there is simply no time left to remember yourself; or, if you did, what does it matter? What would anything matter so long as he were well and happy?”
Her face glowed with earnestness and enthusiasm—what a contrast from Vere’s fretful, restless expression, which always seems asking for something more, something she has not got, something she cannot even understand. Even Vere realised the difference, and her fingers closed over Rachel’s hand with an eloquent26 pressure. Vere never does things by halves, and even her apologies are graceful27 and pretty.
“Ah, Rachel,” she said, “I see how foolish I was to expect you to answer my question in a few short words. We speak different languages, you and I, and I can’t even understand your meaning. I wish I could, Rachel—I wish I could! The old life is out of reach, and there is nothing left to 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 a direct question she was obliged to answer, but her voice was very shy and 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 our own way, or are content to accept what God sends. If we love and trust Him, we know that what He chooses must be best, and with that knowledge comes 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 sleepless28 nights, and the unbearable29 restlessness that is worst of all—I forget! I can’t rest, I can’t trust, it is all blackness and darkness. I must be very wicked, for even when I try hardest I fail.”
“Dear Vere,” said Rachel softly, “don’t be too hard on yourself! When people are tired and worn with suffering they are not responsible for all they say and do. I know that with my own dear father. When he is cross and unreasonable30 we are not angry, we understand and pity, and try to comfort him, and if we feel like that, poor imperfect creatures as we are, what must God be, Who is the very heart of love! He is your kindest 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 agitation31 just then, so I signalled to Rachel, and we gradually turned the conversation to ordinary topics.
Eventually Will arrived, and we had tea and some rather strained small talk, for Vere was quiet and absent-minded, and somehow or other Will rarely speaks to me directly nowadays. He is always perfectly32 nice and polite, but he does avoid me. I don’t think he likes me half as much as he did at first.
How suddenly things happen in life! At the moment when you expect it least, the scene changes, and the whole future is changed. As we were sipping33 our tea and eating cakes, Burrows34, the parlourmaid, opened the door, and announced in her usual expressionless voice—
“If you please, marm, a messenger has come to request Miss Greaves to return home at once. Mr Greaves has had a sudden stroke—”
We all stood up quickly, all save poor Vere, who has to be still whatever 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 in five minutes. I’ll go round to the stables!”
I rushed off, thankful to be able to help, and to put off thinking as long as possible, but even as I ran the thought flew through my head. A stroke! That was serious—very serious in Mr Greaves’s weakened condition. I could tell from Burrows’ manner that the message had been urgent. 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 a practically hopeless engagement!
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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