september 6th, 11 pm.
here i am back in my own room; at least, i suppose it is me. i have been staring at myself in the glass, and i look much the same. no one who didn’t know would guess what had happened to me during the last few hours, and that to myself i feel all new and strange—a una sackville who was never really alive until to-day.
i ought to be desperately miserable, and i am, but i am happy, too; half the time i am so happy that i forget all about the past and the future, and remember only the present. to-morrow morning, i suppose, i shall begin worrying and fighting against fate, but for to-night i am content—so utterly, perfectly content that there is no room to want anything more. i’ll begin at the beginning, and tell it straight through to the end.
we started off for our ride at twelve o’clock this morning in the highest of spirits, for the sun was shining, the sky was a deep cloudless blue, and, better than all, vere had taken her first walk across the floor, supported by father on one side, and jim on the other, and had managed far better than any of us had expected. she and jim had arranged to have lunch together in the garden, and she waved her hand to us at parting, and cried airily:
“perhaps i may stroll down to the lodge to meet you on your return!”
father and mother looked at one another when they were outside the door, so happy, poor dears, that they hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry, and then out we went into the sunshine, where the motor was throbbing and bumping as if it were impatient to be off. when i invent a motor i’ll make one that can be quiet when it stands. i’m not a bit nervous when once we are started, but i hate it while we are waiting, and the stupid thing behaves as if it were going to blow up every moment.
rachel was waiting for us, and flushed to the loveliest pink when will appeared and she discovered that he was to be one of the party. father, mother and the chauffeur sat on the front seat, rachel and i on the one behind, with will in the middle, and the luncheon-baskets were packed away behind. i had a mad turn, and was quite “fey,” as the scotch say. i kept them laughing the whole time, and was quite surprised at my own wit. it seemed as if someone else was talking through my lips, for i said the things almost before i thought of them.
we rushed along through beautiful country lanes, through dear, sleepy little villages, and along the banks of the river. the motor behaved beautifully, and neither smelt nor shook; it was quite intoxicating to fly through the air without any feeling of exertion, and rachel herself grew almost frisky in time.
at two o’clock we camped out, and had a delicious luncheon; then off we started again, to take a further circuit of the country, and have tea at a quaint old inn on the way home. all went well until about four o’clock, when we began to descend a long, steep hill leading to a riverside village. father told the chauffeur to take it as slowly as possible, but we had not covered a quarter of the way when—something happened! suddenly, without the slightest warning, the machine seemed to leap forward like an arrow from a bow, and rush down the hill, more and more quickly with every second that passed. we all called out in alarm, and the chauffeur turned a bleached face to father, and said shakily:
“it’s gone, sir! the brake has gone. i can’t hold her!”
“gone? broken? are you sure—perfectly sure?”
“quite sure, sir. what shall i do? run through the village and chance the river, or turn up the bank?”
we knew the village—one long, narrow street crowded with excursionists, with vehicles of all descriptions, with little children playing about. at the end the road gave a sharp turn close to the water’s edge. on the other hand the bank was high and steep, and in some places covered with flints.
father looked round, and his face whitened, but he said firmly:
“we will not risk other lives besides our own. if that is the choice, run her up the bank, johnson!”
“right, sir!” said the chauffeur.
it all happened in a moment, but it seemed like hours and hours. the machine shook and quivered, and turned unwillingly to the side. the bank seemed to rush at us—to grow steeper and steeper; to tower above our heads like a mountain. my heart seemed to stop beating; a far-away voice said clearly in my brain, “this is death!” and a great wave of despair rolled over me. i turned instinctively towards will, and at the same moment he turned towards me, and his eyes were bright and shining.
“una, una!” he cried, and his arms opened wide and clasped me in a tight, protecting embrace. there was a crash and a roar, a feeling of mounting upwards to the skies, and then—darkness!
the next thing was waking up feeling heavy and dazed, staring stupidly at my coat-sleeve, and wondering what it was, and how i came to be wearing such an extraordinary night-gown. then i tried to move the arm, and it was heavy and painful; and suddenly i remembered! i was not dead at all, not even, it appeared, seriously hurt. but the others? i sat up and glanced fearfully around. the motor lay half-way up the bank, a shattered mass. father was on his knees beside mother, who was moaning in a low, unconscious fashion. will was slowly scrambling to his feet, holding one hand to his back. rachel lay white and still as death, but her eyes were open, and she was evidently fully conscious. the chauffeur was dreadful to look at, with the blood pouring from his head, but he, too, moaned, and moved his limbs. nobody was dead! it was almost too wonderful to be believed. i dragged myself across to mother, and she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at the sight of our anxious faces. her dear hands were terribly cut; she winced with pain as she sat up, and was evidently badly bruised, but it was such bliss to see her move and hear her speak that these seemed but light things. father rushed to the motor, managed to extricate a flask from the scattered contents, and went round administering doses of brandy to us all in turns. he had ricked his knee, and hobbled about like an old man. will had a bad pain in his back, and a cut on his forehead. my left arm was useless. rachel seemed utterly stunned, and unable to speak or move, and the poor chauffeur was unconscious, having fallen on his head on a mass of flints.
by this time the accident had become known, and the village people came trooping up the hill, bringing stretchers with them, for, as they afterwards explained, they expected to find us all dead. the chauffeur and rachel were carried in front, but the rest of us preferred to hobble along on our own feet, mother leaning on father’s arm, will and i, one on each side, never once glancing in the other’s face. it was awful to be alive, and to remember that last moment when we had forgotten everything in the world but our two selves. i felt like a murderess when i looked at rachel’s still face, and hated myself for what i had done. yet how could i help it? when you face death at the distance of a few seconds, all pretence dies away, and you act unconsciously as the heart dictates. i wanted will—and—will wanted me! oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to think of! all these months when he has avoided me, and i thought he liked me less, has he really been loving me, and trying to get over it in loyalty to poor, dear rachel? and was that what it meant when he called me “una!” and his voice lingered over the word?
looking back now, i can understand lots of things which puzzled and worried me at the time. i think he began to love me almost at the very first, as i did him. but oh, rachel, rachel—dear, sweet, unselfish rachel! i’d rather die than steal your happiness from you! did she hear, i wonder? did she see? father and mother were too much engrossed in themselves to know anything about it—perhaps she, too, was too excited to notice. yet, surely in that awful moment she would turn to will for comfort, and when she saw him absorbed in me, forgetting her very existence, she must understand. oh, she must!
i was terrified to meet her eyes when at last we reached the parlour of the inn, and the doctor came to attend to us all in turns. she was lying on the sofa, and when i made myself go over to speak to her, my heart gave a great throb of thankfulness, for she smiled at me, very feebly, but as sweetly as ever, and pressed my hand between hers. she shook her head when i asked her a question, and seemed as if she could not bear to talk. the doctor was puzzled by her condition; he could find no real injuries, but said she was evidently suffering from shock, and must be kept as quiet as possible until she recovered her nerve. we were sponged, bandaged, plastered, and fortified with tea, and a wretched livid-looking party we were! no one could possibly have recognised us as the same people who had set out so gaily four hours before.
the doctor was anxious that we should telegraph home, and spend the night at the inn, but we had two more invalids to consider—mrs greaves and vere, neither of whom were fit to be left alone in suspense, so we chartered a big covered omnibus, borrowed dozens of pillows and cushions, and set out to drive the remaining ten miles, leaving the chauffeur to be taken to the village hospital. mother, rachel and i lay full length along the seats, the two men banked themselves up with pillows, and endured the shaking as best they could, and so at last we reached our separate homes. i have been sitting here by my desk thinking, thinking, thinking for over an hour, and it all comes to the same thing.
i have made one man unhappy through my selfish vanity; i will not ruin a woman’s life into the bargain. rachel is my friend, and i will be truly and utterly loyal to her. so far my conscience is clear of offence where she is concerned, for if i have loved will it has been unconsciously, and without realising what i was doing. i have never, never tried to attract him nor take him from her in any way. i have looked upon him as much out of my reach as if he had been a married man, but after this things will be different. i know the danger that is before us both, and shall have to watch myself sternly every minute of the time.
i suppose i shall be an old maid now, for i can’t imagine caring for anyone after will. father and mother will be glad, and i’ll try to be a comfort to them, but it will be dreadful getting old, and ugly, and tired and ill, and never having a real home of my own, and someone to like me best. preachey people would say that it is wrong of me to want to be first, and that i should be quite content to take a lower place, but i can’t think that can be true where love is concerned, else why did god put this longing in women’s hearts? anyway, i’ve found out that love—the best kind of love—is his gift, and if it comes to me at all it shall be as his gift. i won’t steal it! poor, darling, unselfish rachel, for your sake i must guard my thoughts as well as my deeds.
i think perhaps i’d better not write any more in this diary for a time. it would be difficult to write of just ordinary things without referring to the one great subject, and that is just what i must not do. my business is to forget, not to remember. i must not allow myself to think!
