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 repetition 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 Saturday. 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 pass 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!