“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 passionately 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!