"I see."

"Then, of course, she is extra specially nice, and seems to be more interested in him than anyone else."

"Pleasant for him!"

"It is, for a time. But if he trusted to it and believed that she was really in earnest, he might get to care himself, and then, when he found out, he would be disappointed."

"Naturally so."

"It has happened like that before, several times, and sometimes there are other people to be considered—I mean there might be another girl whom the man had liked before, and when he had given her up, and found that-that—"

"That he had given up the substance and grasped the shadow—"

"Yes; then, of course, they would both be miserable, and it would be worse than ever."

"Naturally it would be."

He spoke in the same cool, half-jeering tone, then suddenly turned round and bent his head down to mine, staring at me with bright grey eyes.

"Why not be honest, Babs, and not beat about the bush? You think that my peace is threatened and want to warn me of it, isn't that it, now? You are my very good friend, and I am grateful for your interest. Did you think I was in danger?"

"Sometimes—once or twice! Don't be angry. I know you would be true and loyal, but sometimes—I saw you watching her—"

"She is very lovely, Babs; the loveliest woman I have ever seen. There was some excuse for that."

"I know, I feel it myself, and it was just because I could understand a little that I spoke. I thought quite likely that you might be angry at first, but it was better that you should be that than wretched in the end."

"Quite so; but I am not angry at all, only very grateful for your bravery in tackling a difficult subject. I have a pretty good opinion of myself, but I am only a man, and other men have imagined themselves secure and found out their mistake before now. Forewarned is forearmed. Thank you for the warning," and he smiled at me with a sudden flash of the eyes which left me hot and breathless.

Was I in time? Had he really begun to care for Vere so soon as this? I longed to say more, but dared not. All my courage had gone, and I was thankful when father came out of the cottage and put an end to our tete-a-tete.

I thought there would be a difference after this, but there wasn't—not a bit. When Will came to the house he was as nice as ever to Vere, and seemed quite willing to be monopolised as much as she liked. If he avoided anyone it was me, and I was not a bit surprised. People may say what they like, but they do bear you a grudge for giving them good advice. I sat in a corner and made cynical reflections to myself, and nobody took any notice of me, and I felt more cynical than ever, and went to my bedroom and banged about the furniture to relieve my feelings.

Vere came into my room soon after, and stood by the window talking while I brushed my hair. The blind was up, for it was moonlight and I hate to shut it out. Her dress was of some soft silvery stuff, and, standing there in the pale blue light, she looked oh, so lovely, more like a fairy than a human creature! I am so glad I admired her then; I'm glad I told her that I did; I'm glad, glad, glad that I was nice and loving as a sister ought to be, and that we kissed and put our arms round each other when we said good night.

"Sleep well, little girl, you look tired. We can't let you lose your bonny colour," she said, in her, pretty caressing way; nobody can be as sweet as Vere when she likes.

I was tired, but I sat by the window for quite a long time after she left, thinking, thinking, thinking. I can't tell what I thought exactly, so many things passed through my head, and when I said my prayers I hardly said any words at all; I just put down my head and trusted God to understand me better than I did myself. I had so much to make me happy, but I was not happy somehow. I had so much to make me content, yet there was something missing that made everything else seem blank. I wanted to be good, and such horrid, envious feelings rose up in my heart. In my dear little room, at my own dear little table, I asked God to help me, and to take care of me whatever happened.

And He did, but it was not in the way I expected.

At last the moon disappeared behind the clouds which had been gathering for some time, and I went to bed and fell fast asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, as I always do, no matter how agitated I am. I suppose it's being nineteen and in such good health. "How long I slept I cannot tell," as they say in ghost stories, but suddenly I woke up with a start and a sort of horrid feeling that something was wrong. The room felt close and heavy, and there was a curious noise coming from outside the door, a sort of buzzing, crackling noise. I didn't get up at once, for I felt stupid and heavy; it was a minute or two before I seemed really able to think, and then—oh, I shall never forget that moment!—I knew what it was. I felt it! I went cold all over, and my legs shook under me as I stepped on to the floor.

The air was thick, and it smelt. My door was the nearest to the staircase, and when I opened it a great cloud of smoke rolled in my face. For a moment it was all cloud and darkness, then a light shot up from below, and the crackling noise was repeated. It was true, quite true. The house was on fire, and already the staircase was ablaze!



CHAPTER NINE.

August 16th. We used to wonder at school sometimes how we should behave if we suddenly found ourselves in a position of great danger. I always said I should scream and hide my face, and faint if I possibly could, but I am thankful to remember that, when it came to the point, I did nothing of the sort. My heart gave one big, sickening throb, and then I felt suddenly quite calm and cold and self-possessed, almost as if I didn't care. I went back into my room, put on my dressing-gown and slippers, took up a big brass bell which one of the girls had given me, and, shutting the door carefully behind me, ran along the corridor, ringing it as loudly as I could, and knocking at each door as I passed. I didn't call out "Fire!"—it was too terrifying; besides, I knew the others would guess what was wrong as soon as they heard the bell and smelt the smoke, and, in less than two minutes, every door was open, and the occupants of the different rooms first peeped and then rushed out on to the landing in dressing-gowns and shawls, and all sorts of quaint- looking wraps. One light was always left burning all night long, so we could see each other, even when the smoke hid that other horrible lurid light, and it is wonderful how brave we all were on the whole. Mother came forward wrapped in her long blue gown, and found a chair for Madge Talbot, who was the only one who showed signs of breaking down, just as quietly and graciously as if she had been entertaining her in the drawing-room. Father and the men consulted rapidly together, and Vere put her arm round me, and leant on my shoulder. I could feel her trembling, but she shut her lips tight, and tried hard to smile encouragingly at poor Madge, and all the time the smoke grew thicker, and the horrid crackling louder and nearer.

"The drawing-room!" we heard father say. "The servants have been careless in putting out the lights, and something has smouldered and finally caught the curtains—that's the most probable explanation. If that is the case, I fear the back stairs will be impassable; they are even nearer than these."

He turned and ran quickly down the passage, followed by Captain Grantly and Mr Nash. Mr Carstairs came and stood by Vere's side, as if he could not bear to leave her unprotected, and she looked up at him and smiled a white little smile, as if she were glad to have him there. A moment later the men came back, and, as father turned and closed the heavy oak door which divided one wing from another, we knew without asking that the other staircase was also cut off.

Madge began to sob hysterically, but father stopped her with a wave of his hand, and said sharply, addressing us all—

"The back staircase is impracticable, but if we keep our senses, there is no real danger to fear. I have rung the alarm bell, and the men will soon be round with ropes and ladders. The best thing you can do is to go back to your rooms, dress rapidly, and collect a few valuables which can be lowered from the window. You can have five minutes—no longer. I will ring a bell at the end of that time, and we will all meet in my room, which is the centre position, and therefore the farthest from the fire. Now, girls, quick! There is no time to lose!"

We ran. Some time—in a long, long time to come—we shall laugh to think what curious costumes we made! It was just the first thing that came to hand. I was decently clothed in two minutes, seized a dressing- bag, put in my pearl necklace, a few odd trinkets, this diary, and the old Bible I have had since I was ten years old, and rushed along to mother's room to see if I could help.

She was putting on a long dark coat, and had a lace scarf tied over her hair. Even then, in the middle of the night, she looked dignified and beautiful, and her eyes melted in the tender way they have at great moments as she saw me.

"Ready, daughter?" she said smiling, and then came up and took me into her arms. "Good girl! Brave girl! We must help the others, Una. You and I have no time to be afraid."

"Thank you, mother darling!" I said, gratefully, for I had been, oh, terribly afraid, and it was just the best thing she could have said to calm me and give me courage; and, while we clung together, father came hurrying in. He hardly seemed to notice me, Babs, his pet daughter!—He looked only at mother, and spoke to her.

"Are you warm, Carina? Are you suitably dressed? You must have no train—nothing to make movement difficult. That's all right. Don't trust yourself to anyone but me, sweet-heart! I'll come to you in good time!"

"Yes, Boy, yes! I'll come with you," said mother softly.

They went out of the room arm-in-arm, never once looking at me. It seemed as if at the first touch of danger they had gone back to the old days when they were lovers, and no difference of interest had arisen to draw them apart. It made the tears come to my eyes to see them, and I was glad to be forgotten.

The women servants were all awake by now, and, finding their own staircase in flames, came swarming down the corridor to escape by the main way; when they found this also was impracticable, they began to shriek and moan, and to implore us to save them, and it was hard work to get them into one room and keep them quiet. The men crowded at the window, looking for help, and shouting directions to the coachmen and gardeners when at last they came running towards the house. They flew off, some to get ropes and ladders, some to alarm the neighbourhood, and bring help from the nearest fire office. It was three miles off, and in the country firemen are scattered about in outlying cottages, and there would be all the way to come back. It made one sick to think how long it might be before the engine arrived; and meantime the fire was steadily spreading on the ground floor. When father bent forward to shout to the men, the light on his face was dreadful to see. I had a horrible longing to scream, and I think I should have done it if I hadn't been so occupied with Annie, the kitchen-maid, who was literally almost mad with fright. It seemed to soothe her to hold my arm, poor little soul. Respect for "the gentry" had been so instilled into her from her earliest years that I honestly believe she imagined the very flames would hesitate to touch the Squire's "darter!"

It seemed ages before William and James came back—without the ladders! They were kept locked up by father's special orders, as so many jewel burglaries had taken place in the neighbourhood, the thieves using ladders to get into a bedroom while dinner was going on downstairs. Now, in the usual contrary way of things, the man who had the key had ridden away, forgetting all about it in his haste to bring help. Father stamped with impatience while the men were reporting their failure and asking further instructions. It was getting more and more difficult to hear, with that horrid roar coming up from below, and Mr Carstairs said suddenly—

"We can't waste time like this! These men have lost their heads. Grantly, you and I are strongest. We must get down and break in the door. Come to the back of the house; there must surely be some way of dropping down on an out-house."

"The blue room—over the larder. It's a deep drop, but safe enough for fellows like you. I'll show you!" cried father promptly, and led the way forward. It was no time to protest or to make polite speeches. Something had to be done, and done at once. I watched them go and envied them. It's hardest of all to be a woman and have to wait. I would rather a hundred times have faced that drop than have sat in that room listening to the noise, seeing Vere growing whiter and whiter, and mother's face grow old and lined. If the worst came to the worst, I would go and sit beside them, but for the present I held Annie's hand and stroked it, and wondered if it could be true that life was really going to end like this. Only nineteen, and just home from school—it seemed so young to die! I remembered Will, and wondered if he would be sorry, and if he and Rachel would talk of me when they were married. Then I forgot everything, and lust shut my eyes and prayed, prayed, prayed.

A great shout of relief and joy! Father and Mr Nash were leaning out of the window waving their hands to the other men, who were carrying the ladders across the lawn. We all sobbed with relief, for it seemed as if escape must be easy now, but the ladders were not long enough, they had to be tied together, and by this time the flames were leaping out of the window below; we could see the light dancing up and down, and it seemed a dreadful prospect to have to pass them on an open ladder. I looked at mother—mother who never walked a step outside the grounds, who was waited upon hand and foot, and spent half her time lying on the sofa. It seemed impossible that she could attempt such a feat!

The moment the ladder was fixed father turned round and called to us to come forward, but we all hung back silent and trembling. Then he stamped his foot, and his eyes flashed.

"Are you going to turn cowards and risk other lives besides your own? There is not a moment to lose. Every moment will make it more formidable. Mary, you are a brave girl! Will you lead the way?"

She walked forward without a word. I did admire her! Father lifted her up; a pair of arms were thrust out to receive her from the midst of the clouds of smoke. We all held our breath for what seemed an age, but was only a few minutes, I suppose, and then came another cheer, and we knew she was safe. The servants rushed forward at that, but when they looked down and saw the flames licking the very side of the ladder, they shrieked again and fell back; so Madge went next, and then father walked up to mother and took her by the hand. She looked up at him and shook her head.

"Not yet, dear, not yet. The girls first!" she said, but he wouldn't listen to that.

"The girls wouldn't go before you. You can't stand this any longer. I am going to carry you down and come back for them. Come, sweetheart!"

She rose then without a word, and we saw him lift her in one arm like a baby and let himself down slowly, slowly with the other hand.

Oh, the awfulness of that moment when they both disappeared and we were left alone! With father gone it seemed as if there were no one left to keep order or inspire us with any show of courage. I think we all went mad or something like it, and, before we knew what was happening, one of the servants had opened the door and flown shrieking along the passage. Another great gust of smoke rushed into the room; we could hardly see each other; we were all rushing about, jostling together, fighting like wild things for air and freedom.

"Vere, Vere!" I shouted, and she clutched at my arm, and we ran together down the corridor, to the head of the servants' stairs, back again faster than ever into the blue room where the men had let themselves down to the roof of the larder. There seemed just a chance that we might be able to do the same. It was the only chance I could think of, and Vere was clinging to me, begging me to save her, and not let her be burnt.

"I can't die, Babs—I can't! I've never thought of it. I'm frightened! Oh, Babs, Babs, think of something—think of a way—Save me! Save me!"

"I'll try, Vere, but you must help, you must be quiet! The heat is not so bad here, and if we get on the roof and call, someone may hear us. They will come to look if they find we have gone. Oh, we should never have left that room! Father trusted us to wait for him, but it is too late now... Look, here's a sheet: we must tear it into strips and make a rope. It will be easier that way."

But when they tell you in books to make ropes of sheets, they forget that it's almost impossible to tear strong new sheets, and that one cannot always find scissors in a strange room in the middle of the night. In the end, we could only knot the two together, and tie one end to the rail of the washstand. It was not long enough then, but I scrambled out and let myself down to the end, and then dropped, and by good providence managed to steady myself on the roof beneath. It was not so very sloping as roofs go, and the gutter was deep, and made a kind of little wall round the edge. I called to Vere to follow, and promised to catch her, but it took, oh, ages of coaxing and scolding before she would venture, and it was only by a miracle that we didn't both fall to the ground, for she let go so suddenly and clutched at me in such frantic terror when I stretched up to catch her. We didn't fall, however, but cowered down together on the roof with our feet fixed firmly against the projecting gutter, and I, for one, felt in a worse position than ever. We were still too far from the ground to jump down without hurting ourselves on the hard paving stones, and no one was in sight, no one heard our calls for help. To make things worse, in getting nearer the ground we had come nearer to the fire itself, for some of the windows on the ground floor had fallen in, and it was just like looking into the heart of a furnace. There is nothing more awful than the speed with which fire travels. One feels so utterly helpless before it. The tiles on which we sat were hot. I don't know if it was fancy, but every now and then I seemed to feel a movement beneath us as if something might give way. I think now that it really was nervousness, for the roof was left practically unhurt, but at the time anything seemed possible, and I was terrified. We called and called again, but no one came, and it seemed as if hours passed by, and the fire came creeping nearer and nearer. Sometimes Vere would be frantic with excitement; sometimes she would cover her face with her hands and moan; sometimes she would be on the brink of fainting. I began to see that if something was not done at once she would faint, and then we would probably both fall to the ground together and be killed outright. Something had to be done, and I had to do it. I went creepy cold all down my spine, for I knew what it was I had to do, and was in mortal terror of facing it.

Somehow or other, if Vere were to be saved in time, I must get up from my cramped seat, lower myself over the edge of the roof, hang at full length from the coping and drop on to the flags beneath. The men had done it, but they were men, and it was a big drop even for them, and they haven't got nerves like girls, or skirts, or slippers with heels. I was frightened out of my wits, but I knew that every moment I thought about it I should be more frightened still, so I just told Vere what I was going to do—and did it!

I can't write about it; it makes me feel queer even now! The awful moment when you get over and swing into space; and the feeling that you must look down, the ache in your hands as you cling on, and the terror of leaving go! Mental pain is worse than physical, so it was really a relief to reach the ground, even though one foot did go over, and a pain like a red-hot poker shot up the leg. I thought I had broken the foot to pieces, but it was only the ankle that was sprained, and I could limp along, in a fashion, though so slowly that it took ages to get round to the front of the house. At another time I suppose I should have sat still and howled; but you don't think of pain when it is a case of life and death, and I knew there was no time to spare.

It could not really have been very long since we left father's room, but already the scene was quite changed. The alarm bell had roused the neighbourhood, and there was quite a little crowd on the lawn. I saw at a glance how it was that we had not been missed. The servants had rushed upstairs to the third storey, and were grouped together at a window there screaming and calling for help, while the poor men worked hard at lengthening the ladders. At a distance, and through the clouds of smoke, it was impossible to distinguish one figure from another, and everyone had taken for granted that we were there with the rest. Nobody noticed me hobbling forward till I got close up to the workers, and saw a well-known grey figure busy with the ropes. I pulled at his arm, and he lifted a white face, then leapt to his feet and seized me by both hands.

"You, Una! Here! Thank God! How is it possible? Which way did you come?"

"Out of a window—but, oh, don't talk—you must save Vere first! Round at the back—now—at once! I'll show you the way, but I can't walk, my foot is hurt—"

I felt as if I could not keep up a moment longer, but Will picked me up in his arms as if I had been a baby, and said soothingly—

"There! Now think quietly for one moment, and tell me what we shall want! Where is she—high up? Shall I get some of these men to help."

"She's on an outhouse roof. I dropped down, but it hurt me, you see, and Vere daren't attempt it. A ladder would do, just one ladder. There's Mr Carstairs—he'll come! I'll tell him where to go."

I did tell him, and the poor fellow's face of mingled rapture and fear was touching to see; then Will went on in front, still carrying me in his arms, while the others followed with ladders and sheets and all kinds of things that might be needed. I was moaning to myself all the time, and Will put down his head and said tenderly—

"Does it hurt so much, poor little girl?"

But it was my heart which hurt; I was so terrified of what we were going to find.

She was still there. I lifted my head as we came round the corner of the house, and I could see her. She was not sitting as when I had left, but half standing, half crouching forward, her hands stretched out, her hair loose over her shoulders. She looked like a mad woman; she was mad, poor Vere, and the sight of us in the distance seemed to excite her more than ever. We called to her; we begged her to be calm, to sit still for one moment—just one moment longer. The men ran forward to reassure her, but she didn't understand—she seemed past understanding. Just as help was within reach she threw out her arms with a dreadful cry and jumped, and her foot caught in the coping as she fell. Oh, I can't write about it! I must forget, or I shall go mad myself!...



CHAPTER TEN.

August 16th. They picked her up, poor Vere! the man who loved her, and the servants who had known her since she was a child; picked her up and laid her on a board which did duty for a stretcher, rolled up a pillow for her head, and drew her golden hair back from her face. Mr Carstairs took off his coat and laid it over her as she lay. His face was as white as hers, and all drawn with pain, while hers was quite still and quiet. So still! I was afraid to look at her, or to ask any questions.

Will put me down in a corner, and I sat there trembling and sick at heart, watching the little procession go round the corner of the house. I thought they had forgotten me, and I didn't care. I was past caring! The pain and the shock and excitement were making me quite faint and rambly in the head, when someone spoke to me suddenly, and put an arm round my neck.

"It's all over, darling! We have come to take you home. All your troubles are over now," said a soft voice, and I looked up and saw a face looking down at me inside a close-fitting hood. For a moment I did not recognise her; I thought it was a nun or someone like that sprung out of a hazy dream, but when she smiled I knew it was Rachel, and somehow I began to cry at once, not because I was sorry, but because now that she was there I could afford to give way. She would look after Vere.

"Yes, cry, dear, it will do you good; but you mustn't stay here any longer. We have brought a chair, and are going to put you in it, and carry you home to the Grange. We are your nearest neighbours, so you must give us the pleasure of looking after you for a time. They are taking your sister on ahead, and a man has ridden off for a doctor. He will look after that poor foot of yours presently. I am afraid it will be painful for you to be moved, but we will be very careful. The servants are preparing rooms in case they are needed. You shall get straight to bed."

"And mother and father?"

"Your mother was taken to the Lodge. She is well, but very exhausted. They want to keep her quiet to-night. Your father knows you are safe. He is very thankful, but he will not leave his post until the servants are safe. Now here is the chair, and here are Will and the coach-man waiting to carry you. Are you ready to be moved?"

I set my teeth and said "Yes," and they hoisted me up and carried me down the path after that other dreadful procession. Oh, my foot! I never knew what pain was like before that. How do people go on bearing it day after day, week after week, year after year? I couldn't! I should go mad. I would have shrieked then, but my pride wouldn't let me before Will and Rachel, when they kept praising me, and saying how brave I was.

I was carried straight to a room and put to bed. Rachel bathed and bandaged my ankle, and then hurried away, and no one came near me for an age. I knew why. They were all with Vere; my ankle was a trifle compared with her injuries. When at last the doctor did appear, he could tell me very little about her. The great thing was to keep her quiet until the next day, when he would be able to make an examination. I summoned courage to ask if she were in danger, and he answered me rather strangely—

"In danger—of death, do you mean? Certainly not, so far as I can tell."

What other danger could there be? I lay and pondered over it all through that hot, aching night; but I have learnt since then that there are many things which may seem, oh, far, far harder than death to a young, beautiful girl. I have never had a great dread of death, I am thankful to say. Why should one fear it? If you really and truly are a Christian, and believe what you pretend, it's unreasonable to dread going to a life which is a thousand times better and happier; and as for dying itself, I've talked to hospital nurses when I was ill at school, and they say that most people know nothing about it, but are only very, very tired, and fall asleep. Of course, there are exceptions. It would have been dreadful to have been burnt alive!

I did sleep towards morning, and it was so odd waking up in that strange room, which I had hardly noticed in the pain and confusion of the night before. I smiled a little even then as I looked round. It was so Racheley! Lots of nice things badly arranged, so different from my dear little room! Oh, my dear little room; should I ever, ever see it again? Someone was sitting behind the curtains, and as I moved he bent forward and took hold of my hand. It was father, looking so white and old that the tears came to my eyes to see him; but he was alive and safe, that was the great thing, and able to tell me that all the servants had been saved, and to give a good report of mother.

"Very weak and shaken, but nothing more than that, thank God! Good old Mrs Rogers is very happy helping Terese to nurse her. She sent you her love."

"And, oh, father, the house, the dear old home? Is it quite ruined, or did you manage to put out the fire before it went too far? What happened after we left?"

His face set, but he said calmly—

"The lower rooms are more or less destroyed, but the second storey is little injured, except by smoke and, of course, water. The engines worked well, and we had more help than we could use. The people turned out nobly. The home itself can be saved, Babs; it will take months to repair, but it can be done, and we shall be thankful to keep the old roof above our heads."

"But it will never look the same. The ivy that has been growing for hundreds of years will be dead, and all the beautiful creepers! I can't imagine 'The Moat' with bare walls. And inside—oh, poor father, all your treasures gone! The silver and the china, and the cases of curios, and the old family portraits! You were so proud of them. Doesn't it break your heart to lose them all?"

"No," he said quietly, "I cannot think of such things to-day. I am too filled with thankfulness that out of all that big household not a life has been lost, and that my three darlings are with me still. Those things you speak of are precious in their way, but I have no room for regret for them in my heart when a still greater treasure is in danger, Vere—"

"Oh, father, tell me about Vere! Tell me the truth. I am not a child, and I ought to know. How has she hurt herself?"

"Truthfully, dear, no one knows. She cannot move, and there is evidently some serious injury, but what it is cannot be decided until after an examination. They fear some spinal trouble."

Spinal! I had a horrid vision of plaster jackets and invalid couches, and those long flat, dreadful-looking chairs which you meet being wheeled about at Bournemouth. It seemed impossible to connect such things with Vere!

"It can't be so bad! It can't be really serious," I cried vehemently. "It was all over in such a second, and we were there at once; everything was done for her! Vere is easily upset, and she feels stiff and strained. I do myself, but she will be better soon, father—they must make her better! She could not bear to be ill."

He sighed so heavily, poor father, and leant his head against the wall as if he were worn out, body and mind.

"Poor Vere, poor darling! I often wondered how her discipline would come. Pray God it may not be this way; but if it does come thus we must help her through it as bravely as may be. It will be hard for us as well as for her; terribly hard for your mother especially. We shall look to you, Babs, to cheer us up; you are young and lighthearted, and if our fears come true you will have a great work before you."

But I didn't feel that I could promise at all. After he had gone I lay thinking it all over and feeling perfectly wretched at the idea of being cheerful under such circumstances. I can be as lively as a grig, (what is a grig, by the way?) when things go smoothly, and other people are cheerful, too, but to keep lively when they are in the depths of woe, and you have to keep things going all by yourself and there is no excitement or variety, is a very different thing. I am quelled at once by sighs, and tears, and solemn faces. It's my nature, I can't help it. I'm so sensitive. Miss Bruce once said that that word "sensitive" was often used when "selfish" would be much more applicable. I thought it horrid of her at the time, but I expect, like most hard things, it is true. Now if you didn't think of yourself at all but only and wholly of others, it would be your one aim through life to make them happy, and no effort would be too difficult if it succeeded in doing that. Then people would talk about you and say you were "the sunshine of the home," and your parents would bless you with their latest breath, and people who had misjudged you would flock round and sit at your knee, and profit by your example. I should like to be like that. It would be so lovely and so soothing to the feelings.

The doctor came at noon and allowed me to be lifted on to the sofa and wheeled into the next room. It made a change, but it was a very long day, all the same, and I thought the afternoon would never come to an end. Rachel came in and out the room, but could never settle down, for as soon as she sat down, rat-tat came to the door, someone said, "Miss Rachel, please," and off she flew to do something else.

Mrs Greaves brought some sewing and sat beside me, but she can't talk, poor dear; she can only make remarks at intervals and sigh between them, and it isn't cheerful. At tea-time Mr Greaves appeared, and—well, he is a curious creature! I have always been taught that it is mean to accept hospitality, "eat salt," as the proverb has it, and then speak unkindly of your host, and, of course, I wouldn't to anyone else, but to you, O diary, I must confess that I'm truly and devoutly thankful he is not my father.

He has a great big face, and a great big voice, and very little manners, and I believe he enjoys, really thoroughly enjoys, bullying other people, and seeing them miserable. He was quite nice to me in the way of sympathising with my foot, and saying that he was pleased to see me; but I felt inclined to shake him when he went on to speak of "The Moat," and of all we had done that we should not have done, and left undone that we should have done, and of what he would have done in our place; making out, if you please, that the fire was all our fault, and that we deserved it if we were burnt out of house and home!

Rachel poured tea on the troubled waters, and he snubbed her for her pains and called his wife "madam," and wished to know if she had nothing fit to eat to offer to her guest. There were about ten different things on the table already; it was only rage which kept me from eating, but he chose to pretend that everything was bad, and we had a lively time of it, while he ate some of the cakes on every plate in turns and took a second helping and finished it to the last crumb, and then declared that it wasn't fit for human consumption. All the while poor Mrs Greaves sat like a mute at a funeral, hanging her head and never saying so much as "Bo!" in self-defence; and Rachel smiled as if she were listening to a string of compliments, and said—

"Try the toast, then, father dear. It is nice and crisp, just as you like it. If you don't like those cakes, we won't have them again. Ready for some more tea, dear? It is stronger now that it has stood a little while."

"It might easily be that. Hot water bewitched—that's what I call your tea, young lady. Waste of good cream and sugar—"

So it went on—grumble, grumble, grumble, grum— And that Rachel actually put her arm round his neck and kissed his cross red face.

"It is not the tea that is bad, dear, it is your poor old foot. Cheer up! It will be better to-morrow. This new medicine is said to work wonders."

Then he exploded for another half hour about doctors and medicines, abusing them both as hard as he could, and at the end pointed to my face, which, to judge from my feelings, must have been chalky green, and wanted to know if they called themselves nurses, and if they wished to kill me outright, for if they did they had better say so at once, and let him know what was in store. He had borne enough in the last twenty- five years, goodness knew!

I was carried back to bed and cried surreptitiously beneath the clothes while Rachel tidied up.

"Dear father," she said fondly; "he is a martyr to gout. It is so sad for him to have an illness which depresses his spirits and spoils his enjoyment. There are so few pleasures left to him in life now, but he bears it wonderfully well."

I peeped at her over the sheet, but her face was quite grave and serious. She meant it, every word!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

August 17th. I was wheeled into the library every day, and lay in state upon the sofa, receiving callers. Mother drove over each afternoon for a short visit. Will came in often, and brought Mr Carstairs with him. The other members of Vere's house-party had returned home, but this poor, good fellow could not tear himself away from the neighbourhood until the doctor had come to some more definite conclusion about Vere.

A specialist had been down from town, and he pronounced the spine injured by the fall, but hoped that, with complete rest, recovery was possible in the future. How long would she have to rest? It was impossible to say. If he said a year, it would probably be exciting false hopes; it might be two years, or even three. And at the end of that time, even of the longest time, was there any certainty? It was impossible to be certain in such cases, but the probabilities made for improvement. Miss Sackville had youth on her side, and a good constitution. It was a mistake to look on the dark side. "Hope, my dear sir, hope is a more powerful medicine than people realise! Fifty guineas, please—thank you! Train leaves at two o'clock, I think you said?"

I was thankful I had not to tell Vere the verdict. Father broke it to her, and said she "took it calmly," but he looked miserable, and every time he went to see her he looked still more wretched and baffled. There is no other word to express it. He seems impatient for me to see her, and when at last I could hobble to the door of her room, went with me and whispered urgently, "Try what you can make of her! Don't avoid the subject. It is better sometimes to speak out," and I went in, feeling almost as anxious as he was himself.

Vere was lying in bed, with her hair twisted loosely on the top of her head, and wearing one of her pretty blue jackets, all ribbons and frilly-willies. In a way she looked just the same; in a way so different that I might never have seen her before. The features were the same, but the expression was new; it was not that she looked troubled, or miserable, or cross, or anything like that; you could not tell what she felt; it was just as if a mask covered everything that you wanted to see, and left only the mere bare outline.

She spoke first.

"Well, Una! So your foot is better, and you can get about? I was so sorry to hear it was bad. I suppose you are not able to get out yet?"

"Oh, no! This is my longest walk. I am afraid of attempting the stairs. The Greaves are very kind. I believe they like having us here."

"Having you, you mean. I am sure you must make a delightful break in the monotony. As for me,"—she thrust out her hands with an expressive little grimace—"I have been rather a nuisance to everybody while these stupid doctors have been debating over the case. It's a comfort that they have made up their minds at last, and that I can be moved as soon as there is a place ready for me. Father is ordering a spinal carriage from London with the latest conveniences, like the suburban villas. I believe you lie on a mattress or something of the sort, which can be lifted and put down in the carriage. Such a saving of trouble! It is wonderful how cleverly they manage things nowadays."

Just the old, light, airy voice; just the same society drawl. She might have been talking of a new ball dress for any sign of emotion to be seen, and yet I know well that Vere—the old Vere—could have faced no fate more bitter than this! I stared at her, and she stared back with a fixed, unchanging smile. I knew by that smile that it was not resignation she felt; not anything like that lovely willing way in which really good people accept trouble—crippled old women in cottages, who will tell you how good God has been to them, when they are as poor as mice, and have never been out of one room for years; and other people who lose everybody they love best, and spend their lives trying to make other people happy, instead of glumping alone. I have really and truly known people like that, but their faces looked sweet and radiant. Vere's was very different. I knew now what father had been worrying about the last few days, and what he meant by advising me to speak openly, but it was not easy to do so. I was afraid of her with that new look!

"We are both cripples for the time being, but if I get strong before you do, I'll do everything I can to help you, dear, and make the time pass quickly," I was beginning feebly, when she caught me up at once, as if she did not want to hear any more.

"Oh, thanks; but I love lazing. I am quite an adept in the art of doing nothing, and you will have quite enough on your hands. It's a capital thing for you, my being out of the running. You would never have taken your proper place unless you were really forced into it. Now you will have to be Miss Sackville, and you must keep up my reputation and do credit to your training."

"I shall never take your place, Vere," I said sadly, and then something—I don't know what—reminded me suddenly of Mr Carstairs, and I asked if she knew he was staying with Will.

"Oh, yes. He writes to me frequently—sheets upon sheets. He has made up his mind to stay until he can see me again, and realise that I am still in the flesh, so he will have the pleasure of seeing me in my new chair. I must send him an invitation to join me on my first expedition. He really deserves some reward for his devotion."

I had a vision of them as they would look. Vere stretched at full length, flat on her back, on that horrid-looking chair, and Mr Carstairs towering above her, with his face a-quiver with grief and pity, as I had seen it several times during the last week. If it had been me, I should have hated appearing before a lover in such a guise, and I am only an ordinary-looking girl, whereas Vere is a beauty, and has been accustomed to think of her own appearance before anything in the world. I could not understand her.

"I like Jim Carstairs," I said sturdily. "I hope some day I may have someone to care for me as he does for you, Vere. It must be a lovely feeling. He has been in such distress about you, and on that night— that awful night—I shall never forget his face—"

"Ah, you have an inconvenient memory, Babs! It was always your failing. For my part I mean to forget all about it as soon as possible. You were very good and brave, by the way, and, I am afraid, hurt your foot in trying to save me. I would rather not return to the subject, so I will just thank you once and for all, and express my gratitude. You practically saved my life. Think of it! If it had not been for you I should not have had a chance of lying here now, or riding about in my fine new chair!"

"Vere, don't! don't sneer!" I cried hotly, for the mask had slipped for a moment, and I had caught a glimpse of the bitter rebellion hidden beneath the smile. "It is awful for you—we are all wretched about it; but there is hope still, and the doctor says you will get better if only you will give yourself a chance. Why do you pretend? why smile and make fun when all the time—oh, I know it, I know it quite well—your heart is breaking!"

Her lip trembled. I thought she was going to break down, but in a moment she was composed again, saying in the same light, jeering tones—

"Would you prefer me to weep and wail? You have known me all your life; can you imagine me—Vere Sackville—lying about with red eyes and a swollen face, posing as an object of pity? Can you imagine me allowing myself to be pitied?"

"Not pitied, perhaps—no one likes that; but if people love you, and sympathise—"

"Bah!" She flicked her eyelids impatiently. I realised at that moment that she could not move her head, and it gave me a keener realisation of her state than I had had before. "Bah! It is all the same. I want nothing from my friends now that they did not give me a month ago. If I have to be on my back instead of walking about, it is no affair of theirs. I neither ask nor desire their commiseration. The kindest thing they can do is to leave me alone."

I thought of the old days when she was well and strong, and could run about as she liked, and how bored she was after a few days of quiet home life. How could she bear the long weeks and months stretched out motionless on a couch, with none of her merry friends to cheer her and distract her thoughts. The old Vere could not have borne it, but this was a new Vere whom I had never seen before. I felt in the dark concerning her and her actions.

We talked it over at tea that afternoon, Rachel and Will and I. He came to call, so Mr Greaves sent up a polite message that he preferred to remain in his own room, and, of course, his poor wife had to stay, too, so for once we young people were alone. I was a little embarrassed at being number three with a pair of lovers, as any nice-minded person would be. I did all I could for them—I pretended to be tired, and said I thought I'd better be wheeled back to my room, and I made faces at Rachel behind Will's back to show what I meant, but she only smiled, and he said—

"I can see you, Babs, and it's not becoming! We have no secrets to talk about, and would much rather have you with us, wouldn't we, Rachel?"

"Of course you are to stay, Una dear; don't say another word about it," Rachel answered kindly, but that wasn't exactly answering his question. She was too honest to say that she would rather have me there, and I don't think she quite liked his saying so, either, for she was even quieter than usual for the next five minutes. Then Will began to talk about Vere, and of Mr Carstairs' anxiety, and father's distress about her state of mind. He seemed to think that she did not realise what was before her, but Rachel and I knew better than that, and assured him that he need fear no rude awakening.

"Vere is not one of the people who deceive themselves for good or bad. She is very shrewd and far-seeing, and, though she may not say anything about it, I know she has thought of every single little difficulty and trouble that will have to be faced. When it comes to the point, you will see that she has her own ideas and suggestions, which will be better than any others. She will order us about, and tell us what clothes to choose, how to lift her, and where to take her. And she will do it just as she is doing things now, as calmly and coolly as if she had been accustomed to it all her life."

"Extraordinary!" cried Will. He put down his cup and paced up and down the floor, frowning till his eyebrows met. "Marvellous composure! I should not have believed it possible. A lovely girl like that to have her life wrecked in a moment; to look forward to being a hopeless invalid for years—perhaps for ever. It is enough to unhinge the strongest brain, and she bears it without a murmur, you say; realises it all and still keeps calm? You women are wonderful creatures. You teach us many lessons in submission."

Rachel and I looked at each other and were silent, but I knew that she knew, and I had a longing to hear what Will would say. Somehow, ever since knowing him I have always felt more satisfied when I knew his opinion on any subject. So I told him all about it. I said—

"I'll tell you something, but you mustn't speak of it to Mr Carstairs, or father, or anybody; just think over it yourself, and try if you can help her. Rachel knows—she found out for herself, as I did. Vere is not brave nor submissive, nor anything that you think; it is only a pretence, for in reality she is broken-hearted. She won't allow herself to give in like other people, so she has determined to brave it out, and pretend that she doesn't care. She has always been admired and envied, and would hate it if people pitied her now, and I think there is another reason. She is angry! Angry that this should have happened to her, and that it should have happened just now when she was enjoying herself so much, and was so young and pretty. She feels that she has been ill- used, and it makes her cold and bitter. I've felt the same myself when things went wrong. It isn't right, of course: one ought to be sweet and submissive, but—can't you understand?"

"Yes," said Will, quickly. He stopped in his pacings to and fro, and stood thinking it over with his head leant forward on his chest. His face looked so kind, and troubled, and sorry. "Oh, yes," he said, "I understand only too well. Poor girl, poor child! It's awfully sad, for it is going to make it all so much more difficult for her. She doesn't see it, of course, but what she is trying to do is to accept the burden and refuse the consolation which comes with it."

"I must say I fail to see much consolation in an injured spine," I said hastily, and he looked across the room, opening his eyes with that quick, twinkling light which I loved to see.

"Ask Rachel," he said, "ask Rachel! If she broke her back to-morrow she would have at least twenty good reasons for congratulation with which to edify me for the first time we met. Wouldn't you, dear? I am quite sure you would accept it as a blessing in disguise."

"If I broke my back I should die, Will. It is always fatal, I believe!" quoth Rachel the literal, blushing with pleasure at his praise, but talking as primly and properly as if she were addressing a class in a school. She is a queer girl to be engaged to!

I saw Will's eyebrows give just one little twitch on their own account, as if he thought so himself, but the next moment he sat down beside her and said gently—

"But if you were in Miss Sackville's place, how would you feel? How would you face the truth?"

She leant back in her chair and stared before her with big, rapt eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping themselves on her knee.

"There is only one way—to look to God for help and courage. Pride and anger can never carry her through the long days and nights that will be so hard to bear. They must fail her in the end, and leave her more helpless than before. The consolations are there, if she will open her eyes to see them, and afterwards—afterwards she will have learnt her lesson!"

We sat quiet for quite a long time, and then came the inevitable summons, and Rachel went away and left us alone.

"I told you she was the best woman in the world!" Will said, smiling at me proudly. I didn't feel inclined to smile at all, but the tears came suddenly to my eyes, and I began to sob like a baby.

"Oh, yes, yes, but I am not, and Vere is my sister, and she was so pretty and gay. I can't be resigned for her! I can't bear to see her lying flat on her back; I can't bear to think of that awful chair. How can I talk to her of submission when I'm rebellious myself? I'm all hot, and sore, and miserable, and I want to know why, why, why? Why was our dear old home burnt when other houses are safe and sound? Why should we be crippled and made sad and gloomy just when we thought it was going to be so nice? All my school life I have looked forward to coming home, and now it's all spoiled! I'm not made like Rachel. I can't sit down and be quiet. It doesn't come natural to me to be resigned; I want to argue and understand the meaning of things. I have to fight it through every inch of the way."

"I, too, Babs," he said sadly. "I'm afraid I have kicked very hard against the pricks several times in my life. Every now and then—very rarely—one meets a sweet soul like Rachel who knows nothing of these struggles; they are born saints, and appear to rise superior to temptations, but most of us are continually fighting. There's this consolation, that the hour of victory can never be so sweet as when it comes after a struggle."

"And Vere—will she win too? I can think of no one but her just now. We used often to quarrel, and I've been jealous of her hundreds of times. I never knew I loved her so much till we were in danger, but now I'd give my life to save her, and help her through this terrible time!"

"And you will do it, too. Vere will win her battle, but not with her own weapons, as Rachel says. Pride and anger won't carry her very far down the road she has to travel, poor child. It will be a gentler weapon."

"You mean—?"

Will turned his back to me, and stood staring out of the window. He looked so big and strong himself, as if no weakness could touch him.

"I mean—love," he said softly.

I wondered what he meant. I wondered why he turned his face from me as he spoke. I wondered if the thought of Vere lying there all broken and lovely was too much for his composure, and if he was longing to save her himself. But then there was Rachel. He could never be false to poor trusting Rachel!



CHAPTER TWELVE.

August 20th. It is lovely to be able to go out again into the sweet summer land, and drive about with father and mother, and have our nice, homely talks again. The Greaves' are perfect angels of kindness, and what we should have done without their hospitality I'm sure I can't tell, but every family has its own little ways, and, of course, you like your own the best. The Greaves' way is always to say exactly precisely whatever they mean and nothing beyond, and to think you rather mad if you do anything else. Our way is to have little jokes and allusions, and a great deal of chatter about nothing in particular, and to think other people bores if they don't do the same. We call our belongings by proper names. My umbrella is "Jane," because she is a plain, domestic-looking creature, and mother's, with the tortoiseshell and gold, is "Mirabella," and our cat is "Miss Davis," after a singing-mistress who squalled, and the new laundry-maid is "Monkey-brand," because she can't wash clothes. It's silly, perhaps, but it does help your spirits! When I go out on a wet day and say to my maid "Bring 'Jane,' please," the sight of her face always sends me off in good spirits. She tries so hard not to laugh.

Father and I just make plain, straightforward jokes, like everyone else, but mother jokes daintily, as she does everything else. It's lovely to listen to her when she is in a frisky mood!

We are all depressed enough just now, goodness knows, but it cheers us up a little to be together, and, in comparison with the Greaves' conversation, ours sounds frisky. Yesterday we drove up to see the dear home, at which dozens of men are already at work. It was at once better and worse than I expected. The ivy is still green in places, and they don't think it is all destroyed, so that the first view from the bottom of the drive was a relief. Near at hand we saw the terrible damage done, and, when I went inside for a few minutes, the smell was still so strong that I had to hurry back into the air. It will take months to put things right, and meantime father has taken a furnished house four miles off, where we go as soon as Vere can be moved, and stay until she is strong enough to travel to the sea, or to some warm, sunny place for the winter. We shall probably be away for ages. No balls, Una! No dissipations, and partners, and admiration, and pretty new frocks, as you expected. Furnished houses and hospital nurses, and a long, anxious illness to watch. Those are your portion, my dear!

I am a wretch to think of myself at all. Rachel wouldn't; but I do, and it's no use pretending I don't. I'm horribly, horribly disappointed! One part of me feels cross and injured; the other part of me longs to be good and unselfish, and to cheer and help the others. I haven't had far to look for my sister. While I was searching the neighbourhood for someone to befriend, the opportunity was preparing inside our very own walls! Now then, Una Sackville, brace up! Show what you are made of! You are fond enough of talking—now let us see what you can do!

August 28th. The spinal chair arrived yesterday when I was at the Lodge. Father cried when he saw it. I hate to see a man cry, and got out of the way as soon as possible, and, when I came back, mother and he were sitting hand in hand in the little parlour, looking quite calm, and kind of sadly happy. I think bearing things together has brought them nearer than they have been for years, so they certainly have found their compensation.

The doctor says Vere is to live out of doors, so this morning she was carried out on her mattress, laid flat on the chair, and wheeled to a corner of the lawn. As I had prophesied, she arranged all details herself. She wore a soft, white serge dressing-gown sort of arrangement, which was loose and comfortable, and a long lace scarf put loosely over her head, and tied under the chin, instead of a hat. Everything was as simple as it could be. Vere had too much good taste to choose unsuitable fineries, but, as she lay with the sunlight flickering down at her beneath the screen of leaves, she looked so touchingly frail and lovely that it broke your heart to see her. Her hair lay in little gold rings on her forehead, the face inside the lace hood had shrunk to such a tiny oval. One had not realised, seeing her in bed, how thin she had grown during these last few weeks!

We all waited on her hand and foot, and walked in procession beside her, gulping hard, and blinking our eyes to keep back the tears whenever we had a quiet chance, and she laughed and admired the trees, and said really it was the quaintest sensation staring straight up at the sky; she felt just like "Johnny Head in Air" in the dear old picture-book! It was a delightful couch—most comfortable! What a lazy summer she should have! If there was one thing she loved more than another, it was having meals in the open air—all in the same high, artificial note which she had used ever since her accident.

We all agreed and gushed, and said, "Yes, darling," "Isn't it, darling?" "So you shall, darling," and we had tea under a big beech-tree, and anyone might have thought we were quite jolly; but I could see father's lip quiver under his moustache, and mother looked old. I hate to see mother look old!

Just as we had finished tea a servant came up to tell father that Will and Mr Carstairs had called to see him. They had too much good feeling to join us where we were, but Vere lifted her languid eyes and said "Stupid men! What are they afraid of? Tell them to come here at once." And no one dared to oppose her.

I shall never forget that scene. It was like treading on sacred ground to be there when Mr Carstairs went forward to take Vere's hand, yet, of course, it would not have done to leave them alone. His face was set, poor fellow, and he couldn't speak. I could see the pulse above his ear beating like a hammer, and was terrified lest he should break down altogether. Vere would never have forgiven that! She thanked him in her pretty society way for all his "favaws," the flowers, and the books, and the letters, all "so amusing, don't you know!" (as if his poor letters could have been amusing!) and behaved really and truly as if they had just met in a ball-room, after an ordinary separation.

"It's quite an age since I saw you; and now, I suppose, it is a case of 'How do you do, and good-bye,'" she said lightly. "You must be longing to get away from this dull place, to pay some of your postponed visits."

"They will have to be postponed a little longer. Dudley is good enough to say he can put me up another week or two, and I should like to see you settled at Bylands. There—there might be something I could do for you," returned the poor man wistfully, but she would not acknowledge any need of help.

"Dearie me! Have you turned furniture remover? Are you proposing to pack me with the rest of our belongings?" she cried, lifting her chin about a quarter of an inch in feeble imitation of her old scornful tilt. It was very pitiful to see her do it, and Mr Carstairs' lip twitched again, and he turned and began talking to mother, leaving the coast clear for Will Dudley. He looked flushed, but his eyes were curiously bright and determined.

"I am so thankful to see you out again, Miss Sackville," he said. "That's the first step forward in your convalescence, and I hope the others may follow quickly!"

That was his cue! He was not going to allow Vere to ignore her illness talking to him; he had determined to make her face it naturally and simply, but the flash in her eyes showed that it would not be too easy. She stared up into his face with a look of cold displeasure, and he stared straight back and said—

"Are you as comfortable as possible? I think that light is rather dazzling to your eyes. Let me move you just a few inches."

"I am perfectly happy, thank you. Pray don't trouble. I prefer to stay where I am."

"I'll move you back again if you don't like it," he said coolly. "There! Now that branch screens you nicely. The sun has moved since you first came out, I expect. Confess, now, that is more comfortable!"

She would not confess, and she could not deny, so she simply dropped her eyelids and refused to answer; but a little thing like that would not daunt Will Dudley, and he went on talking as if she had thanked him as graciously as possible. Presently, however, the hospital nurse gave us a private signal that Vere was getting tired and ought to rest, so we all strolled away and left them alone together beneath the tree.

We had only three days more at the Grange, and during them Rachel devoted herself as much as possible to Vere, trotting between the house and the beech-trees on everlasting missions, and reading aloud for hours together from stupid novels, which I am sure bored her to extinction. Vere herself did not seem to listen very attentively, but I think the sweet, rather monotonous voice had a soothing effect on her nerves; she was relieved to be spared talking, and also intent on studying this strange specimen of human nature.

"Oh, admirable but dullest of Rachels, she absolutely delights in doing what she dislikes! It was as good as a play to watch her face yesterday while she read aloud the reflections of the worldly Lady Peggy! They evidently gave her nerves a severe shock, but as for omitting a passage, as for even skipping an objectionable word, no! not if her life depended upon it. 'It is my duty, and I will.' That is her motto in life. How boring people are who do their duty!" drawled Vere languidly on the last afternoon, as poor Rachel left her to go back to the other invalid, who was no doubt growling like a bear in his den as he waited for her return. Everyone seemed to take Rachel's help for granted, and to think it superfluous to thank her. Even Will himself is far less attentive to her wants than my fiance shall be when I have one. I simply couldn't stand being treated like a favourite aunt, and really and truly he behaves far more as if she were that, than his future wife. He is never in the least tiny bit excited or agitated about seeing her.

I wouldn't admit this to Vere for a thousand pounds, but I felt cross all the same, and said snappishly—

"It's a pity she wasted her time, since you were only jeering at her for her pains. I don't know about enjoying what she hates, but she certainly loves trying to help other people, and I admire her for it. I wish to goodness I were like her!"

At this she smiled more provokingly than ever.

"Yes. I've noticed the imitation. It's amusing. All the more so that it is so poor a success. Your temper is not of the quality to be kept persistently in the background, my dear."

It isn't. But I had tried hard to keep patient and gentle the last few weeks, even when Vere aggravated me most. I had been so achingly sorry for her that I would have cut off my right hand to help her, so it hurt when she gibed at me like that.

"I'm sorry I was impatient! I wanted so badly to help you, dear. You must forgive me if I was cross."

"Babs, don't!" she gasped, and her face was convulsed with emotion. For one breathless moment, as we clutched hands and drew close together, I thought the breakdown had come at last, but she fought down her sobs, crying in tones of piteous entreaty—

"Don't let me cry! Stop me! Oh, Babs, don't let me do it. If I once begin I can never stop!"

"But wouldn't it be a relief to you, darling? Everyone has been terrified lest you were putting too great a strain on yourself. If you gave way once to me—it doesn't matter for me—it might do you good. Cry, darling, if you want, and I'll cry with you!"

But she protested more vigorously than ever. "No, no, I daren't! I can't face it! Be cross with me—be neglectful—leave me to myself, but for pity's sake don't be so patient, Babs! It makes me silly, and I must keep up, whatever happens. Say something now to make me stop— quickly!"

"I expect the men will be here any moment. You'll look hideous with red eyes," I said gruffly. It was the only thing I could think of, and perhaps it did as well as anything else, for she calmed down by degrees, and there was no more sign of a breakdown that night.

After that day we seemed to understand each other better, and when I saw danger signals I was snappy on purpose, and felt like a martyr when Will and Mr Carstairs glared at me, and thought what a wretch I was. We wanted Vere to be resigned and natural about her illness, but we dreaded and feared a hysterical breakdown, which must leave her weaker than ever, and she had said herself that if she once began to cry she could never leave off.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

September 5th. Four days later we left the Grange and came to our new home, a furnished house four miles away. It is a big, square, prosaic-looking building, but comfortable, with a nice big garden, so we are fortunate to have found such a place in the neighbourhood. We told each other gushingly how fortunate we had been, every time that we discovered anything that we hated more than usual, and were obtrusively gay all that first horrid evening.

Vere's two rooms had been made home-like and pretty with treasures saved from the Moat, and new curtains and cushions and odds and ends like that; but we left the other rooms as they were, and pretended that we liked sitting on crimson satin chairs with gold legs. Father is lost without his nice gunny, sporty sanctum. Mother looks pathetically out of place in the bald, ugly rooms, and I feel a pelican in the wilderness without my belongings but when you have come through great big troubles you are ashamed to fuss over little things like these.

Also, to tell the truth, we are thankful to be together in a place of our own again. Mrs Greaves and Rachel had been sweet to us, but they had one invalid on their hands already, and we could not help feeling that we gave a great deal of trouble. They said they were sorry to lose us, and that we had been an interest in their quiet lives, and I do think that was true. Vere, with her beauty and her tragedy, her lovely clothes and dainty ways, was as good as a three-volume novel to people who wear blue serge the whole year round, do their hair neatly in knobs like walnuts, and never indulge in anything more exciting than a garden party. Then there was the romantic figure of poor Jim Carstairs hovering in the background, ready at any moment to do desperate deeds, if thereby he could win a smile of approval, so different from that other complacent lover, who was "content to wait" and never knew the semblance of a qualm! I used to watch Rachel watch Jim, and thought somehow that she felt the difference, and was not so serene as she had been when I first knew her. Her face looked sad sometimes, but not for long, for she had so little time to think of herself. I agree with Will that she is the best woman in the world, and the sweetest and most unselfish.

The house where Will lives is nearer "The Clift" than the old home, and the two men come over often to see us. They had reconnoitred the grounds before we arrived, and knew just the nicest portions for Vere's chair for each part of the day, and Jim had noticed how she started at the sudden appearance of a newcomer, and had hit on a clever way of giving her warning of an approach. Lying quite flat as she does, with her face turned stiffly upwards, it had been impossible to see anyone till he was close at hand, but now he has suspended a slip of mirror from the branches of the favourite trees in such a position that they reflect the whole stretch of lawn. It is quite pretty to look up and see the figures moving about; the maids bringing out tea, or father playing with the dogs. Vere can even watch a game of tennis or croquet without turning her head. We were all delighted, and gushed with admiration at his ingenuity, and Vere said, "Thank you, Jim," and smiled at him, and that was worth all the praise in the world.

He told us that he was going home at the end of the week, and one day I listened to a conversation which I never should have heard, but it wasn't my fault. Vere and I were alone, and when we saw Jim coming she got into a state of excitement, and made me vow and declare that I would not leave her. I couldn't possibly refuse, for she isn't allowed to be excited, but I twisted my chair as far away as I dared, humped up my shoulders and buried myself in my book. Jim knew I would do my best for him, but it's disgusting how difficult it is to fix your attention on one thing, and close your ears to something still more interesting. I honestly did try, and the jargon that the book and the conversation made together was something too ridiculous. It was like this—

"Maud was sitting gazing out of the window at the unending stream of traffic." "This is our last talk! I told Dudley not to come, for there's so much to say." "It was her first visit to London, and to the innocent country mind—" "Don't put me off, dear! I must speak to-day, or wait here till I do." "Innocent country mind—innocent country mind." "No matter if it does pain me. I will take the risk. I just wish you to know." "Innocent country mind it seemed as if—" But it was no use; my eyes travelled steadily down the page, but to this moment I can't tell you what Maud's innocent country mind made of it. I could hear nothing but Jim's deep, earnest voice.

"I don't ask anything from you. You never encouraged me when you were well, and I won't take advantage of your weakness. I just want you to realise that I am yours, as absolutely and truly as though we were formally engaged. You are free as air to do in every respect as you will, but you cannot alter my position. I cannot alter it myself. The thing has grown beyond my control. You are my life; for weal or woe I must be faithful to you. I make only one claim—that when you need a friend you will send for me. When there is any service, however small, which I can render, you will let me do it. It isn't much to ask, is it, sweetheart?"

There was a moment's pause—I tried desperately and unsuccessfully to get interested in Maud, and then Vere's voice said gently—more gently than I had ever heard her speak—

"Dear old Jim, you are so good always! It's a very unfair arrangement, and it would be horribly selfish to agree. I'd like well enough to have you coming down; it would be a distraction, and help to pass the time. I expect we shall be terribly quiet here, and I have always been accustomed to having some man to fly round and wait upon me. There is no one I would like better than you—wait a moment—no one I would like better while I am ill! I can trust you, and you are so thoughtful and kind. But if I get well again? What then? It is best to be honest, isn't it, Jim? You used to bore me sometimes when I was well, and you might bore me again. It isn't fair!"

"It is perfectly fair, for I am asking no promises. If I can be of the least use or comfort to you now, that is all I ask. I know I am a dull, heavy fellow. It isn't likely you could be bothered with me when you were well."

Silence. I would not look, but I could imagine how they looked. Jim bending over her with his strong brown features a-quiver with emotion. Vere with the lace scarf tied under her chin, her lovely white little face gazing up at him in unwonted gentleness.

"I wonder," she said slowly, "I wonder what there is in me to attract you, Jim! You are not like other men. You would not care for appearances only, yet, apart from my face and figure—my poor figure of which I was so proud—there is nothing left which could really please you. I have been a vain, empty-headed girl all my life. I cared for myself more than anything on earth. I do now! You think I am brave and uncomplaining, but it is all a sham. I am too proud to whine, but in reality I am seething with bitterness and rebellion. I am longing to get well, not to lead a self-sacrificing life like Rachel Greaves, but to feel fit again, and wear pretty clothes, and dance, and flirt, and be admired—that's what I want most, Jim; that's all I want!"

He put out his hands and took hers. I don't know how I knew it, but I did, though Maud was still staring out of the window, and I was still staring at Maud.

"Poor darling!" he said huskily. "Poor darling!"

He didn't preach a bit, though it was a splendid opening if he had wanted one, but I think the sorrow and regret in his voice was better than words. Vere knew what he meant, and why he was sorry. I heard a little gasping sound, and then a rapid, broken whispering.

"I know—I know! I ought to feel differently! Sometimes in the night— oh, the long, long nights, Jim!—the pain is so bad, and it seems as if light would never come, and I lie awake staring into the darkness, and a fear comes over me... I feel all alone in a new world that is strange and terrible, where the things I cared for most don't matter at all, and the things I neglected take up all the room. And I'm frightened, Jim! I'm frightened! I've lost my footing, and it's all blackness and confusion. Is it because I am so wicked that I am afraid to be alone with my thoughts? I was so well and strong before this. I slept so soundly that I never seemed to have time to think."

"Perhaps that's the reason of it, sweetheart. You needed the time, and it has been given to you this way, and when you have found yourself the need will be over, and you will be well again."

"Found myself!" she repeated musingly. "Is there a real self that I know nothing of hidden away somewhere? That must be the self you care for, Jim. Tell me! I want to know—what is there in me which made you care so much? You acknowledge that I am vain?"

"Y-es!"

"And selfish?"

He wouldn't say "Yes," and couldn't deny it, so just sat silently and refused to answer.

"And a flirt?"

"Yes."

"And very cruel to you sometimes, Jim?" said Vere in that new, sweet, gentle voice.

"You didn't mean it, darling. It was only thoughtlessness."

"No, no! I did mean it! It was dreadful of me, but I liked to experiment and feel my power. You had better know the truth once for all; it will help you to forget all about such a wretched girl."

"Nothing can make me forget. You could tell me what you like about yourself, it would make no difference; I am past all that. You are the one woman in the world for me. At first it was your beauty which attracted me, but that stage was over long ago. It makes no difference to me now how you look. Nothing makes any difference. If you were never to leave that couch—"

But she called out at that, interrupting him sharply—

"Don't say it! Don't suggest for a moment that it is possible! Oh, Jim, you don't believe it! You don't really think I could be like this all my life? I will be very good, and do all they say, and keep quiet and not excite myself. I will do anything—anything—but I must get better in the end! I could not bear a life like this!"

"The doctors all tell us you will recover in time, darling, but it's a terribly hard waiting. I wish I could bear the pain for you; but you will let me do what I can, won't you, Vere? I am a dull stick. No one knows it better than I do myself, but make use of me just now; let me fetch and carry for you; let me run down every few weeks to see you, and give you the news. It will bind you to nothing in the future. Whatever happens, I should be grateful to you all my life for giving me so much happiness."

"Dear old Jim! You are too good for me. How could I possibly say 'No' to such a request?" sighed Vere softly. I think she was very nearly crying just then, but I made another desperate effort to interest myself in Maud, and soon afterwards he went away.

Vere looked at me curiously when I returned to the seat by her side, and I told her the truth.

"I tried to read, I did, honestly, but I heard a good deal! It was your own fault. You wouldn't let me go away."

"Then you know something you may not have known before—how a good man can love! I have treated Jim Carstairs like a dog, and this is how he behaves in return. I don't deserve such devotion."

"Nobody does. But I envy you, Vere. I envy you even now, with all your pain. It must be the best thing in the world to be loved like that."

"Sentimental child!" she said, smiling; but it was a real smile, not a sneer; and when mother came up a few minutes later, Vere looked at her anxiously, noticing for the very first time how ill and worn she looked.

"You looked fagged, mother dear. Do sit still and rest," she said, in her old, caressing manner. Mother flushed, and looked ten years younger on the spot.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

September 20th. I expected Vere to be quite different after this—to give up being cold and defiant, and be her own old self. I thought it was a kind of crisis, and that she would go on getting better and better—morally, I mean. But she doesn't! At least, if she does, it is only by fits and starts. Sometimes she is quite angelic for a whole day, and the next morning is so crotchety and aggravating that it nearly drives one wild. I suppose no one gets patient and long-suffering all at once; it is like convalescence after an illness—up and down, up and down, all the time; but it's disappointing to the nurses. She does try, poor dear, but it must be difficult to go on trying when one day is exactly like the last, and you do nothing but lie still, and your back aches, aches, aches. Jim is not always present to lavish his devotion upon her, and now that the first agitation is over we onlookers are getting used to seeing her ill, and are less frantically attentive than at first, which, of course, must be trying, too; but one cannot always live at high pressure. I believe one would get callous about earthquakes if they only happened often enough.

Summer is passing away and autumn coming on, and it grows damp and mouldy, and we have to sit indoors for most of the day. When I have any time to think of myself I feel so tired; and one day Vere said abruptly—

"Babs, you are thin! Upon my word, child, I can see your cheek-bones. What have you been doing to yourself?"

Thin! Blessed word! I leapt from my seat and rushed to the nearest glass, and it was true! I stared, and stared, and wondered where my eyes had been these last weeks. My cheeks had sunk till they were oval instead of round. I looked altogether about half the old size. What would the girls say if they could behold their old "Circle" now? It used to be my ambition to be described as a "tall, slim girl," and now I turned, and twisted, and attitudinised before that glass, and, honestly, that was just exactly what I looked! I took hold of my dress, and it bagged! I put my fingers inside my belt, and the whole hand slipped through! My face of rapture made Vere laugh with almost the old trill.

"You goose! You look as if you had come into a fortune! I don't deny that it is an improvement, but you mustn't overdo it. It would be too hard luck for mother if we were both ill at the same time. All this anxiety has been too much for you. I had better turn nurse, and let you be patient for a little time, and I'll prescribe a little change and excitement. Firstly, a becoming new toilette for dinner to-night, in which you can do justice to your charms."

Vere never dines with us now, as the evenings are her worst time, and she spends them entirely in her own little sitting-room. I am always with her to read aloud, or play games, or talk, just as she prefers; but this night there were actually some people coming to dinner for the first time since the pre-historic ages before the fire. The people around had been very kind and attentive, and mother thought it our duty to ask a few of them; so four couples were coming, and Will Dudley to pair with me. It was quite an excitement after our quiet days; and Vere called her maid, and sent her to bring down one or two evening dresses which had been rescued uninjured from a hanging cupboard and left untouched until now, in the box in which they had been packed.

"Miss Una is so much thinner, I believe she could get into them now, Terese; and I have a fancy to dress her up to-night and see what we can make of her," she said, smiling; and Terese beamed with delight, not so much at the thought of dressing me, as in joy at hearing her beloved mistress take an interest in anything again. She adores Vere, as all servants do. It's because she makes pretty speeches to them and praises them when they do things well, instead of treating them like machines, as most people do. In my superior moments I used to think that she was hypocritical, while I myself was honest and outspoken; but I am beginning to see that praise is sometimes more powerful than blame. I am really becoming awfully grown-up and judicious. I hardly know myself sometimes.

Well, Terese brought in three dresses, and I tried them on in succession, and Vere decided which was most becoming, and directed little alterations, and said what flowers I was to wear, and how my hair was to be done, just exactly as if I were a new doll which made an amusing plaything. I had to be dressed in her room, too, and she lay watching me with her big wan eyes, issuing directions to Terese, and saying pretty things to me. It was one of her very, very nicest days, and I did love her.

When the last touch was given I surveyed myself in the long mirror and "blushed at my own reflection," like the girl in books who is going to her first ball. I really did look my very, very nicest, and so grown up, and sort of fragile and interesting, instead of the big, hulking schoolgirl of a year ago. The lovely moonshiny dress would have suited anyone, and Terese had made my hair look just about twice as thick as when I do it myself. I can't think how she manages! I did feel pleased, and thought it sweet of Vere to be pleased too, for it was not in girl nature to avoid feeling lone and lorn at being left alone, stretched on that horrid couch. She tried to smile bravely as I left her to go downstairs, but her lips trembled a little, and she said in a wistful way—

"Perhaps, if I feel well enough, you might bring Mr Dudley up to see me for a few minutes after dinner. Terese will let you know how I am."

I had to promise, of course, but I didn't like doing it. It didn't seem fair either to Rachel or to Jim Carstairs to let these two see too much of each other, or to Vere herself, for that matter; for I always have a kind of dread that this time it may not be all pretence on her side. She seems a little different when Will is there, less absolutely confident and sure of herself.

The four couples arrived in good time. How uninteresting middle-aged couples are! One always wondered why they married each other, for they seem so prosy and matter-of-fact. When I am a middle-aged couple, or half of one, I shall be like father and mother, and carry about with me the breath of eternal romance, as Lorna would say, and I shall "Bant," and never allow myself to grow stout, and simply annihilate my husband if he dares to call me "my dear." Fancy coming down to being a "my dear" in a cap!

I had gone into the conservatory to show some plants to funny old bald Mr Farrer, and when he toddled out to show a bloom to his wife I came face to face with Will, standing in the entrance by himself, looking so handsome and bored. He gave a quick step forward as he saw me and exclaimed first "Babs!" and then, with a sudden change of voice and manner, almost as if he were startled—

"Una!"

He didn't shake hands with me, and I felt a little bit scared and shy, for it is only very, very rarely that he calls me by my name, and I have a kind of feeling that when he does he likes me more than usual. It was Vere's dress, of course; perhaps it made me look like her. We went back into the drawing-room, and stood in a corner like dummies until dinner was announced.

I thought it would have been such fun, but it wasn't. Will was dull and distrait, and he hardly looked at me once, and talked about sensible impersonal things the whole time. Of course, I like sensible conversation; one feels humiliated if a man does nothing but frivol, but there is a happy medium. When you are nineteen and looking your best, you don't care to be treated as if you were a hundred and fifty, and a fright at that. Will and I have always been good friends, and being engaged as he is, I expect him to be perfectly frank and out-spoken.

I tried to be lively and keep the conversation going, but it was such an effort that I grew tired, and I really think I am rather delicate for once in my life, for what with the exertion and the depression, I felt quite ill by the time dessert was on the table. All the ladies said how pale I was in the drawing-room, and mother puckered her eyebrows when she looked at me. Dear, sweet mother! It was horrid of me to be pleased at anything which worried her, but when you have been of no account, and all the attention has been lavished on someone else, it is really rather soothing to have people think of you for a change.

Terese met me coming out of the dining-room, and said that Vere was well enough to see Mr Dudley, so I took him upstairs as soon as he appeared. Passing through the hall, I saw a letter addressed to me in Lorna's handwriting, on the table, and carried it up with me to read while they were talking. They wouldn't want me, and it would be a comfort to remember that Lorna did. I was just in the mood to be a martyr, so when I had seen Will seated beside the couch, and noticed that Vere had been arrayed for the occasion in her prettiest wrap, with frilled cushion covers to match, I went right off to the end of the room and sat down on the most uncomfortable chair I could find. When one feels low it is comical what a relief it is to punish oneself still further. When I thought myself ill-used as a child, I used always to refuse tart and cream, which I loved, and eat rice pudding, which I hated. The uncomfortable chair was the rice pudding in this instance, but I soon forgot all about it, and even about Vere and Will, in the excitement of reading that letter.