“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 eloquent pressure. Vere never does things by halves, and even her apologies are graceful 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 sleepless nights, and the unbearable 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 unreasonable 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 agitation 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 perfectly 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 sipping our tea and eating cakes, Burrows, the parlourmaid, opened the door, and announced in her usual expressionless voice—