August 12th.
It is a long time since I opened this diary, for I have grown out of the habit of writing, and it is difficult to get into it again.
Mr Greaves died the very night of his seizure, and immediately after his funeral Mrs Greaves collapsed and has been an invalid ever since. It seemed as if she had kept up to the very limit of her endurance, for as soon as the strain was over her nerves gave way in a rush, and instead of the gentle, self-controlled creature which she has been all her life, she is now just a bundle of fancies, tears and repinings. It is hard on Rachel, but she bears it like an angel, and is always patient and amiable. I wondered at first if she and Will would marry soon and take Mrs Greaves to live with them; I asked Rachel about it one day when we were having a quiet chat, and she answered quite openly:
“Will wished it. He thought he could help me to cheer mother, but she won’t hear of it for the next twelve months at least, and, of course, I must do as she prefers. We have waited so long that another year cannot make much difference.”
I wondered if Will were of the same opinion, but did not dare to ask him. As I said before, he avoids me nowadays and does not seem to care to talk to me alone. Perhaps it is better so, but I can’t help being sorry. I have wondered sometimes if the dull, aching feeling which I have when he passes me by is anything like what poor Wallace Forbes felt about me. If it is, I am even more sorry for Wallace than before. Of course, I am not in love with Will—I couldn’t be, for he is engaged to Rachel, and I have known it from the first, but I can’t help thinking about him, and watching for him, and feeling happy if he comes, and wretched if he stays away. And I know his face by heart and just how it looks on every occasion. His eyes don’t twinkle nearly so much as they did; he is graver altogether, except sometimes when I have a mad mood and set myself to make him frisky too. I can always succeed, but I don’t try often, for I fancy Rachel doesn’t like it. She can’t frisk herself, poor dear, and it must feel horrid to feel left out in the cold by your very own fiancé. I should hate it myself.
At the beginning of this month I had a great treat. Lorna came to stay with me for three days. She was visiting a friend twenty miles off, and came here in the middle of her visit just for that short time, so that there need be no necessity for Wallace to know anything about it. Of course, she came with her parents’ consent and approval, and oh, how thankful I was to see her and to look upon her coming as a sign that they were beginning to forgive me. Of course we talked shoals about Wallace, for I just longed to know how he was faring.
“My dear, it was awful after you left—positively awful!” Lorna said. “Wallace went about looking like a ghost, and mother cried, and father was worried to death. Wallace declared at first that he would go abroad, but father told him that it was cowardly to throw up his work for the sake of a disappointment, however bitter, and mother asked if he really cared so little for his parents that he could forsake them in their old age for the sake of a girl whom he had only known a month. He gave way at last, as I knew he would, and set to work harder than ever. He was very brave, poor old boy, and never broke down nor made any fuss, but he was so silent! You would not have known him. He never seemed to laugh, nor to joke, nor take any interest in what was going on, and the whole winter long he never once entered my little den, where we had had such happy times. I suppose it reminded him too much of you. This spring, however, he has been brighter. I insisted on his taking me to the tennis club as usual, and though he went at first for my sake he enjoys it now for his own. We meet so many friends, and he can’t help being happy out in the sunshine with a lot of happy boys and girls all round. He was quite keen about the tournament, and had such a pretty partner. He always walked home with her after the matches.”
“How nice!” I said, and tried to be pleased and relieved, and succeeded only in feeling irritated and rubbed the wrong way. How mean it sounds! How selfish, and small, and contemptible! I just intend to make myself feel glad, and to hope that Wallace may see more and more of that pretty girl, and like her far better than me, and be right down thankful that I refused him. So now, Una Sackville, you know what is expected of you!
Vere liked Lorna, and was amused to see us frisking about together. The afternoon before Lorna left we were chasing each other round the room in some mad freak when, turning towards Vere’s couch, I thought I saw her head raised an inch or so from the pillow in her effort to follow our movements. My heart gave a great thud of excitement, but I couldn’t be sure, so I took no notice, but took care to retire still further into the corner. Then I looked round again, a............