June 15th.

To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at the Moat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in the old haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money and mother’s beautiful taste can make them. I felt a sort of rush of happiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehow or other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and write the history of the year.

It has been a long, long winter. We spent three months in Bournemouth for Vere’s sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our way home. He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles were slow affairs, that it was a great thing to keep up the general health, that he was glad we had been to Bournemouth, and that no doubt the change home would also be beneficial. Fresh air, fresh air—live as much in the fresh open air as possible during the summer— Then he stopped, and Vere looked at him steadily, and said—

“You mean that I am worse?”

“My dear young lady, you must not be despondent. Hope on, hope ever! You can do more for yourself than any doctor. These things take time. One never knows when the turn may come,” he said, reeling off the old phrases which we all knew so well—oh, so drearily well—by this time.

Vere closed her eyes and turned her head aside with the saddest, most pitiful little smile. She has been very good on the whole, poor dear, during the winter—less cynical and hard in manner, though she still refuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anything like pity.

The night after that doctor’s visit I heard a muffled sound from her room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She was sobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound of which haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead of shaking me off, she clung to me with the energy of despair.

“What is it, darling?” I asked, and she panted out broken sentences.

“The doctor! I have been longing to see him; I thought I was better, that he would be pleased with my progress, but it’s no use—I can see it is no use! He has no hope. I shall be like this all my life. Babs, think of it! I am twenty-three, and I may live until I am seventy—upon this couch! Oh, I shall go mad—I am going mad—I can’t bear it a moment longer. The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but if it goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old—an old, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with no one to care for me! Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but father and mother will be dead, and you will be married in a home of your own, and Spencer very likely at the other end of the world, and—”

“And Jim?” I asked quietly.

“Ah, poor Jim! He must marry, too; it isn’t fair to let him wreck his life. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Men don’t like invalids. They are sorry for them, and pity them. Will Dudley, for instance—he only comes to see me as a charity—because I am ill, and need amusing—”

“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!

I took her to Vere’s room, and was going to leave them alone, but Vere called me back, and made me stay. She said afterwards that she wanted me to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything which she forgot. There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost no time in stupid trivialities.

“I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularly to ask you a question. I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get no better. I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to be like this all my life. I have lain here with that thought to keep me company until I can be............