“He’ll do nothing of the sort,” I said hotly. “I do hate you, Vere, when you sneer like that, and make out that everyone is worldly and horrible, like yourself! Will Dudley is a good man, and he wants a good woman for his wife—not a doll. He’d rather have Rachel’s little finger than a dozen empty-headed fashion-plates like the girls you admire. But you don’t understand. Your friends are all so different that you cannot understand an honest man when you meet him.”
“Can’t I? What a pity! Don’t get into a rage, dear, it’s so unnecessary. I’m sorry I’m so obtuse; but at least I can learn. I’ll make it my business to understand Mr Dudley thoroughly during the autumn. It will be quite an occupation,” replied Vere, with her head in the air and her eyes glittering at me in a nasty, horrid, cold, calculating “You-wait-and-see” kind of way which made me ill! It was just like Tennyson’s Lady Clara Vere de Vere, who “sought to break a country heart for pastime ere she went to town,” for Vere would never be content to marry Will Dudley, even if she succeeded in winning him from Rachel. Poor Rachel! I felt so sorry for her; she has so little, and she’s so sweet and content, and so innocent that a serpent has entered into her Eden. It sounds rather horrid to call your own sister a serpent, but circumstances alter cases, and it really is appropriate. I think Vere expected me to fly into another rage, but I didn’t feel angry at all, only sorry and ashamed, and anxious to know what I could do to baulk her dark designs.
“I’m thankful I’m not a beauty!” I said at last, and she stared for a moment, and then laughed and said—
“Because of the terrible temptations which you escape? Dear little innocent! Don’t be too modest, however; you really have improved marvellously these past few months. If you could hear what the men said about you last night—”
“I don’t want to hear, thank you,” I returned icily; and that was one temptation overcome, anyhow, for I just died to know every single remark! It’s awful to care so much about what people think about you, as I do. After she went away I sat down and reviewed the situation, as they say in books, and mapped out a plan of action. I wanted to feel that I was doing some good to someone, so I decided then and there to be a guardian angel to Will and Rachel. It’s wonderful what you can do, even if you are only nineteen and a girl, if you set your mind to it, and determine to succeed. They have both been kind to me, and I am their friend, and mean to help them. I’d rather be flayed alive than say so to a living soul, but I can now confess to these pages that I was jealous of Rachel myself when I first heard of the engagement, and I wondered, if Will had never seen her, if perhaps he—oh, a lot of silly, idiotic things; for he is so different from the other men you meet that you simply can’t help liking him. So now it will be a discipline for me to have to forget myself, and try to keep them together. Perhaps when they are married they will know all, and bless my memory, and call one of their children after me, and I shall be content to witness their happiness from afar. I’ve read of things like that, but I always thought I’d be the married one, not the other. You do when you are young, but it’s awful what sorrows there are in the world. I am not twenty yet, and already my life is blighted, and my fondest hopes laid in the dust...
Such ripping fun! We are all going for a moonlight party up the river, with hampers full of good things to eat at supper on the bank above the lock. We are taking rugs to spread on the grass, and Japanese lanterns to make it look festive, and not a single servant, so that we shall do everything ourselves. We girls are all delighted, but I think the men—Captain Grantly especially—think it’s rather mad to go to so much trouble when you might have your dinner comfortably at home. Male creatures are like that, so practical and commonplace, not a bit enthusiastic and sensible like school-girls. We used to keep awake until one o’clock in the morning, and sit shivering in dressing-gowns, eating custard, tarts and sardines, and thought it was splendid fun. I think a picnic where servants make the fire and pack away the dishes is too contemptible for words.
Vere wanted Will Dudley to come with us, so I went round to the “The Clift” that very afternoon and invited Rachel to come too. I am as much at liberty to invite my friends as she is to ask hers, and this was meant to be a checkmate to her plans; but Rachel was too stupid for words, and wouldn’t be induced to accept.
“I always play a game with father in the evening,” she said. “He would miss it if I went out.”
“But he can’t expect you never to go out! He would appreciate you all the more if you did leave him alone sometimes,” I said, talking to myself as much as to her, for it was four days since I had been a walk with my father, and my horrid old conscience was beginning to prick. “Do come, Rachel. I want you particularly,” but she went on refusing, so then I thought I would try what jealousy would do. “We shall be such a merry party; Vere is prettier and livelier than ever, and her friends are very amusing. Lady Mary is very handsome, and she sings and plays on the mandoline. She is going to take it with her to-night. It will be so pretty, the sound of singing on the water, and she will look so picturesque under the Japanese lamps.”