August 28th.
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 myfiancéshall 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 Ihadtried 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.
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 myfiancéshall 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 Ihadtried 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.
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’sallI 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.
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’sallI 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.
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.“My own Maggie,—(on the second day after we met at school Lorna and I decided to call each other ‘Maggie’—short for ‘magnetic attraction’—but we only do it when we write, otherwise it excites curiosity, and that is horrid in matters of the heart!)—My own Maggie,—It is ages since I heard from you, darling. Why didn’t you answer my letter last week? But I know how occupied you are, poor angel, and won’t scold you as you deserve. I think of you every moment of the day, and do so long to be able to help you to bear your heavy burden. How little we thought when you went home how soon the smiling future would turn into a frown! We both seem to have left our careless youth far behind, for I have my own trials too, though nothing to yours, my precious darling.“I have heaps to tell you. I decided to have the blue dress, after all, and the dressmaker has made it sweetly, with dozens of little tucks. I wore it at an afternoon ‘At Home’ yesterday, and it looked lovely. Lots of people were there. Wallace took me. He is at home helping with the practice. Maggie, my darling, I am really writing to ask you the most awful favour. Would you, could you, come down to stay with us for a few weeks? I do long for you so. There is no one on earth but you to whom I can speak my utmost thoughts, and I feel all bottled up, for there are some things one can’t write. I know you feel this, too, dearest, for there is a change in the tone of your letters, and I read between the lines that you have lots to tell me. We could have great sport with Wallace to take us about, and the people around are very hospitable, and always ask us out when we have a visitor. Wallace saw your photograph one day, and said you were ‘ripping,’ and he is quite keen on your coming, though, as a rule, he doesn’t care for girls. Mother will write to Mrs Sackville if you think there is the slightest chance that you can be spared. Of course, darling, if you feel it your duty to stay at home I won’t persuade you to come. You remember how we vowed to urge each other to do our best and noblest, but perhaps if you had a little change you would go back refreshed and able to help your people better than you can at present. Anyway, write soon, darling, and put me out of my suspense. I sha’n’t sleep a wink till I hear. Oh, the bliss of having you all to myself! How we would talk!“Your own Maggie.”Yes, it would indeed be bliss! I longed for Lorna, but it did not seem possible to go away and enjoy myself, and leave Vere so helpless and sad. I decided not to say a word about the invitation, but I couldn’t help thinking about it. Lorna lived in a big town house in the middle of a street; her father is a busy doctor, and is not at all rich, but very jolly. She is the only unmarried girl, and has half-a-dozen brothers in all stages, from twelve up to Wallace, who is a doctor, and thinks my photograph is “ripping!” It all seemed so tempting, and so refreshingly different from anything I have known. I began imagining it all—the journey, meeting Lorna at the station, and tearing about with all those funny, merry boys, instead of tiptoeing about a sick-room; Wallace being nice and attentive to me, instead of in love with someone else, as all the men at home seem to be, and Lorna creeping into my bed at night, with her hair in a funny, tight little pigtail, and talking, talking, talking for hour after hour. Oh, I did want to go so badly! The tears came to my eyes for very longing. My resolution did not waver one bit, but I was dreadfully sorry for myself, all the same.Suddenly I became aware that there was a dead silence in the room. How long it had lasted I can’t tell, but when I looked up there were Vere and Will staring at me, and looking as if they had been staring for an age, and couldn’t understand what on earth was the matter. I jumped and got red, and blinked away the tears, and Vere said—“What is the matter, child? Have you had bad news? You look as if your heart was broken!”“Oh, no—there’s no news at all. I am tired, I think, and stupid, and wasn’t thinking of what I was doing.”“You seemed to be thinking of something pretty deeply; and what business have you to be tired—a baby like you? I have been prescribing for her to-day, Mr Dudley. Have you noticed how thin she has grown? She hadn’t discovered it herself until I told her, wonderful to relate.”“I don’t think she has thought of herself at all these last few months,” said Will, quietly.He only just gave one glance at me, and then looked away, and I was thankful, for every drop of blood in my body seemed to fly to my face in the joy of hearing him praise me like that. Vere did not speak for a moment or two, and then she just asked who the letter was from.“Lorna Forbes. She writes every week. I haven’t written to her for an age—nearly a month.”They both knew about Lorna, and teased me about her when I quoted her opinion, and now, to my surprise, Will lifted his eyes from the carpet, and said, looking me full in the face—“And she wants you to pay her a visit, and you think you ought not to go?”How could he guess? I was so taken aback that at first I could only gasp and stare.“How in the world did you know?” I asked at last, and he smiled and said—“Your face was very eloquent. It was very easy to read, wasn’t it, Miss Sackville?”“I did not find it so transparent as you seem to have done; I suppose I am dense,” Vere replied, with a laugh that sounded a little bit strained. “Is it true, Babs? Has Mr Dudley read the signs correctly?”I had to confess, making as light of it as possible, but they weren’t deceived a bit.“You hardly looked as if you didn’t ‘care,’” Will remarked drily, and Vere said quite quickly and eagerly—“You must go, Babs—of course you must go! It is the very thing you need. You have been a ministering angel to me, and I’m very grateful, but I don’t want the responsibility of making you ill. Change and the beloved Lorna will soon bring back your roses, and it will be amusing to hear of your escapades when you return. Don’t think of me! It is good for me to be quiet, and there are plenty of friends who will come in for an hour or two if I feel the need of society. You will take pity on me, won’t you, Mr Dudley? You will come sometimes and have tea with mother and me?”“I shall be delighted,” said Will, gravely. As for me, I didn’t know whether to be most pleased or depressed. I should pay my visit to Lorna, that was practically settled from the moment Vere approved of the proposal, which was one nice thing; and another was her remark that I had been an angel; but it seemed as if I could be very easily spared, and I had grown to think myself indispensable these last few weeks. We talked a little more about it, and then Will and I went downstairs. He didn’t speak until we were nearly at the drawing-room door, when he said abruptly—“You are very eager to get away! Are you so tired of this neighbourhood and all the people it contains?”“Oh, so tired! so utterly, utterly tired!” I cried earnestly.It sounded rude, perhaps, but at the moment I really felt it. I had reached the stage of tiredness when I had a perfect craving for a change. He didn’t say a word, but stalked straight forward, and never spoke to me again except to say good-night. It doesn’t concern me, of course, but I do hope for Rachel’s sake that he hasn’t a sulky nature.Heigh-ho for Lorna! I am going at the end of next week. I am positively bursting with delight!
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.
“My own Maggie,—(on the second day after we met at school Lorna and I decided to call each other ‘Maggie’—short for ‘magnetic attraction’—but we only do it when we write, otherwise it excites curiosity, and that is horrid in matters of the heart!)—My own Maggie,—It is ages since I heard from you, darling. Why didn’t you answer my letter last week? But I know how occupied you are, poor angel, and won’t scold you as you deserve. I think of you every moment of the day, and do so long to be able to help you to bear your heavy burden. How little we thought when you went home how soon the smiling future would turn into a frown! We both seem to have left our careless youth far behind, for I have my own trials too, though nothing to yours, my precious darling.“I have heaps to tell you. I decided to have the blue dress, after all, and the dressmaker has made it sweetly, with dozens of little tucks. I wore it at an afternoon ‘At Home’ yesterday, and it looked lovely. Lots of people were there. Wallace took me. He is at home helping with the practice. Maggie, my darling, I am really writing to ask you the most awful favour. Would you, could you, come down to stay with us for a few weeks? I do long for you so. There is no one on earth but you to whom I can speak my utmost thoughts, and I feel all bottled up, for there are some things one can’t write. I know you feel this, too, dearest, for there is a change in the tone of your letters, and I read between the lines that you have lots to tell me. We could have great sport with Wallace to take us about, and the people around are very hospitable, and always ask us out when we have a visitor. Wallace saw your photograph one day, and said you were ‘ripping,’ and he is quite keen on your coming, though, as a rule, he doesn’t care for girls. Mother will write to Mrs Sackville if you think there is the slightest chance that you can be spared. Of course, darling, if you feel it your duty to stay at home I won’t persuade you to come. You remember how we vowed to urge each other to do our best and noblest, but perhaps if you had a little change you would go back refreshed and able to help your people better than you can at present. Anyway, write soon, darling, and put me out of my suspense. I sha’n’t sleep a wink till I hear. Oh, the bliss of having you all to myself! How we would talk!“Your own Maggie.”
“My own Maggie,—(on the second day after we met at school Lorna and I decided to call each other ‘Maggie’—short for ‘magnetic attraction’—but we only do it when we write, otherwise it excites curiosity, and that is horrid in matters of the heart!)—My own Maggie,—It is ages since I heard from you, darling. Why didn’t you answer my letter last week? But I know how occupied you are, poor angel, and won’t scold you as you deserve. I think of you every moment of the day, and do so long to be able to help you to bear your heavy burden. How little we thought when you went home how soon the smiling future would turn into a frown! We both seem to have left our careless youth far behind, for I have my own trials too, though nothing to yours, my precious darling.
“I have heaps to tell you. I decided to have the blue dress, after all, and the dressmaker has made it sweetly, with dozens of little tucks. I wore it at an afternoon ‘At Home’ yesterday, and it looked lovely. Lots of people were there. Wallace took me. He is at home helping with the practice. Maggie, my darling, I am really writing to ask you the most awful favour. Would you, could you, come down to stay with us for a few weeks? I do long for you so. There is no one on earth but you to whom I can speak my utmost thoughts, and I feel all bottled up, for there are some things one can’t write. I know you feel this, too, dearest, for there is a change in the tone of your letters, and I read between the lines that you have lots to tell me. We could have great sport with Wallace to take us about, and the people around are very hospitable, and always ask us out when we have a visitor. Wallace saw your photograph one day, and said you were ‘ripping,’ and he is quite keen on your coming, though, as a rule, he doesn’t care for girls. Mother will write to Mrs Sackville if you think there is the slightest chance that you can be spared. Of course, darling, if you feel it your duty to stay at home I won’t persuade you to come. You remember how we vowed to urge each other to do our best and noblest, but perhaps if you had a little change you would go back refreshed and able to help your people better than you can at present. Anyway, write soon, darling, and put me out of my suspense. I sha’n’t sleep a wink till I hear. Oh, the bliss of having you all to myself! How we would talk!
“Your own Maggie.”
Yes, it would indeed be bliss! I longed for Lorna, but it did not seem possible to go away and enjoy myself, and leave Vere so helpless and sad. I decided not to say a word about the invitation, but I couldn’t help thinking about it. Lorna lived in a big town house in the middle of a street; her father is a busy doctor, and is not at all rich, but very jolly. She is the only unmarried girl, and has half-a-dozen brothers in all stages, from twelve up to Wallace, who is a doctor, and thinks my photograph is “ripping!” It all seemed so tempting, and so refreshingly different from anything I have known. I began imagining it all—the journey, meeting Lorna at the station, and tearing about with all those funny, merry boys, instead of tiptoeing about a sick-room; Wallace being nice and attentive to me, instead of in love with someone else, as all the men at home seem to be, and Lorna creeping into my bed at night, with her hair in a funny, tight little pigtail, and talking, talking, talking for hour after hour. Oh, I did want to go so badly! The tears came to my eyes for very longing. My resolution did not waver one bit, but I was dreadfully sorry for myself, all the same.
Suddenly I became aware that there was a dead silence in the room. How long it had lasted I can’t tell, but when I looked up there were Vere and Will staring at me, and looking as if they had been staring for an age, and couldn’t understand what on earth was the matter. I jumped and got red, and blinked away the tears, and Vere said—
“What is the matter, child? Have you had bad news? You look as if your heart was broken!”
“Oh, no—there’s no news at all. I am tired, I think, and stupid, and wasn’t thinking of what I was doing.”
“You seemed to be thinking of something pretty deeply; and what business have you to be tired—a baby like you? I have been prescribing for her to-day, Mr Dudley. Have you noticed how thin she has grown? She hadn’t discovered it herself until I told her, wonderful to relate.”
“I don’t think she has thought of herself at all these last few months,” said Will, quietly.
He only just gave one glance at me, and then looked away, and I was thankful, for every drop of blood in my body seemed to fly to my face in the joy of hearing him praise me like that. Vere did not speak for a moment or two, and then she just asked who the letter was from.
“Lorna Forbes. She writes every week. I haven’t written to her for an age—nearly a month.”
They both knew about Lorna, and teased me about her when I quoted her opinion, and now, to my surprise, Will lifted his eyes from the carpet, and said, looking me full in the face—
“And she wants you to pay her a visit, and you think you ought not to go?”
How could he guess? I was so taken aback that at first I could only gasp and stare.
“How in the world did you know?” I asked at last, and he smiled and said—
“Your face was very eloquent. It was very easy to read, wasn’t it, Miss Sackville?”
“I did not find it so transparent as you seem to have done; I suppose I am dense,” Vere replied, with a laugh that sounded a little bit strained. “Is it true, Babs? Has Mr Dudley read the signs correctly?”
I had to confess, making as light of it as possible, but they weren’t deceived a bit.
“You hardly looked as if you didn’t ‘care,’” Will remarked drily, and Vere said quite quickly and eagerly—
“You must go, Babs—of course you must go! It is the very thing you need. You have been a ministering angel to me, and I’m very grateful, but I don’t want the responsibility of making you ill. Change and the beloved Lorna will soon bring back your roses, and it will be amusing to hear of your escapades when you return. Don’t think of me! It is good for me to be quiet, and there are plenty of friends who will come in for an hour or two if I feel the need of society. You will take pity on me, won’t you, Mr Dudley? You will come sometimes and have tea with mother and me?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Will, gravely. As for me, I didn’t know whether to be most pleased or depressed. I should pay my visit to Lorna, that was practically settled from the moment Vere approved of the proposal, which was one nice thing; and another was her remark that I had been an angel; but it seemed as if I could be very easily spared, and I had grown to think myself indispensable these last few weeks. We talked a little more about it, and then Will and I went downstairs. He didn’t speak until we were nearly at the drawing-room door, when he said abruptly—
“You are very eager to get away! Are you so tired of this neighbourhood and all the people it contains?”
“Oh, so tired! so utterly, utterly tired!” I cried earnestly.
It sounded rude, perhaps, but at the moment I really felt it. I had reached the stage of tiredness when I had a perfect craving for a change. He didn’t say a word, but stalked straight forward, and never spoke to me again except to say good-night. It doesn’t concern me, of course, but I do hope for Rachel’s sake that he hasn’t a sulky nature.
Heigh-ho for Lorna! I am going at the end of next week. I am positively bursting with delight!
Chapter Fifteen.
October 4th.
October 4th.
Here I am! It is not a bit as I imagined, but ever so much nicer. Lorna looks sweet in grown-up things, and she thinks I look sweet in mine. She comes into my bed at nights, and we talk for hours. The house is right in the middle of the town, in a dingy old square, where the trees look more black than green. It is ugly and shabby, but there is plenty of room, which is a good thing, for I am sure it is needed. The doctor sits in his consulting-room all the morning seeing patients, who wait their turn in the dining-room, and if there are a great many you have to be late for lunch, but, as Lorna says, “That means another guinea, so we mustn’t grumble!” They are not at all rich, because the six boys cost so much to educate. They are all away at school and college, except the oldest and the youngest, of whom more anon.Dr Forbes is an old love. He has shaggy grey hair, and merry eyes, and the funniest way of talking aloud to himself without knowing what he is saying. At lunch he will keep up a running conversation like this: “Nasty case—yes, nasty case! Poor woman, poor woman! Very little chance—little chance—Very good steak, my dear—an admirable dinner you have given me! Am-pu-ta-tion at eleven—mustn’t forget the medicine. Three times a day. A little custard, if you please,” and so on, and so on, and the others never take any notice, but eat away as if no one were speaking.Mrs Forbes is large and kind, and shakes when she laughs. I don’t think she is clever, exactly, but she’s an admirable mother, and lets them do exactly as they like.Wallace isn’t bad. He is twenty-four, and fairly good-looking, and not as conceited as men generally are at that age. Personally, I prefer them older, but he evidently approves of me, and that is soothing to the feelings. Julias, surnamed “Midas,” is only twelve, and a most amusing character. I asked Lorna and Wallace how he got his nickname, as we sat together over a fire in the old schoolroom the first night. They laughed, and Wallace said—(of course, I call him Dr Wallace, really, but I can’t be bothered to write it here)—“Because everything he touches turns to gold, or, to speak more correctly, copper! He has a genius for accumulating money, and has what we consider quite a vast sum deposited in the savings bank. My father expects him to develop into a great financier, and we hope he may pension off all his brothers and sister, to keep them from the workhouse. To do Midas justice, he is not mean in a good cause, and I believe he will do the straight thing.”“But how can he make money? He is only twelve. I don’t see how it is to be done,” I cried. And they laughed and said—“It began years ago—when he shed his front teeth. Mother used to offer us sixpence a tooth when they grew waggly, and we pulled them out without any fuss. We each earned sixpences in our turn, and all went well; but when Midas once began he was not content to stop, and worked away at sound, new double teeth, until he actually got out two in one afternoon. Then mother took alarm, and the pay was stopped. There was an interregnum after that, and what came next? Let me see—it must have been the sleeping sickness. Midas grew very rapidly, Miss Sackville, and it was very difficult to get him to bed at nights, so as the mater thought he was suffering from the want of sleep, she promised him threepence an hour for every hour he spent in bed before nine o’clock. After that he retired regularly every night at seven, and on half-holidays it’s a solemn fact that he was in bed at four o’clock, issuing instructions as to the viands which were to be brought up for his refreshment! The mater stood it for a time, but the family finances wouldn’t bear the strain, so she limited the hours and reduced the fee, and Midas returned to his old ways. What came after that, Lorna?”“I don’t know—I forget! Of course there was Biggs—”“Ah, yes, Miss Biggs! Miss Biggs, you must know, Miss Sackville, is an ancient friend of the family, whom we consider it a duty to invite for a yearly visit. She is an admirable old soul, but very deaf, very slow, and incredibly boring. Her favourite occupation is to bring down sheaves of letters from other maiden ladies, and insist upon reading them aloud to the assembled family. ‘I have just had a letter from Louisa Gibbings; I am sure you will like to hear it,’ she will say calmly, when the poor old parents are enjoying a quiet read after dinner, and we youngsters are in the middle of a game. None of us have the remotest idea who Louisa Gibbings may be, and don’t want to know, but we are bound to listen to three sheets of uninteresting information as to how ‘My brother in China contemplates a visit home next year.’ ‘My garden is looking charming, but the peas are very poor this season.’ ‘You will be grieved to hear that our good Mary still suffers acutely from the old complaint,’ etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Last time she paid her visit when Midas had his Easter holidays, and one day, seeing mother quite exhausted by her efforts at entertainment, he made the brilliant proposal that he should take Miss Biggs off her hands for the sum of fourpence an hour. Mother agreed with enthusiasm, and Midas made quite a fortune in the next fortnight, with equal satisfaction to all concerned. In the morning he took Miss Biggs out walking to see the sights, and gave her his advice in the purchase of new caps. In the afternoon the wily young wretch cajoled her into giving him an hour’s coaching in French, and in the evening he challenged her to draughts and dominoes, and made a point of allowing her to win. Mother had a chance of attending to her work; father could read in peace; Midas was in a condition of such complacent good nature that he declared Miss Biggs was a ‘ripping old girl,’ and she on her part gave him the credit for being ‘the most gentlemanly youth she had ever encountered.’ I believe she is really attached to him, and should not wonder if she remembers him substantially in her will. Then Midas will have scored a double triumph!”Wallace and Lorna laughed as heartily as I did over these histories. They really are a most good-natured family, and Wallace treats Lorna as politely as if she were someone else, and not his own sister, which is very different from some young men I could mention. I had put on my blue dress, and I knew quite well that he admired it and me, and that put me in such good spirits that I was quite sparkling and witty. He stayed talking to us until after nine, when he had to go downstairs to write some letters.“Thank goodness! I thought he would never go. What a bore he is!” Lorna said, when the door closed behind him.I didn’t feel like that at all, but I disguised my feelings, and told her the details and the adventures of the last three months, and about Vere, and the house, and my own private tribulations, and she sympathised and looked at everything from my point of view, in the nice, unprejudiced way friends have. It was very soothing, and I could have gone on for a long time, but it was only polite to return the compliment, so I said—“Now we must talk about you! You said in your last letter that you had many troubles of which you could not write. Poor, sweet thing, tell me about them! Begin at the beginning. What do you consider your very greatest trial?”Lorna pondered. She is dark and slight, and wears her hair parted in the middle, and puffed out at the sides in a quaint fashion that just suits her style. She wrinkled her brows, and stared into space in a rapt, melancholy fashion.“I think,” she said, slowly, at last, “I think it is the drawing-room!”I was surprised, but still not surprised, for the drawing-room is awful! Big and square, and filled with heavy furniture, and a perfect shopful of ugly ornaments and bead mats, and little tables, and milking-stools, and tambourines, and bannerettes, and all the kind of things that were considered lovely ages ago, but which no self-respecting girl of our age could possibly endure. Lorna told me thrilling tales of her experience with that room.“When I first came home, mother saw that I didn’t like it, so she said she knew quite well that she was old-fashioned and behind the times, and now that she had a grown-up daughter she would leave the arrangement of such things to her, and I could alter the room as much as ever I liked. So, my dear, I made Mary bring the biggest tray in the house, and I filled it three times over with gimcracks of all descriptions, and sent them up to the box-room cupboard. I kept about three tables instead of seven, with really nice things on them, and left a good sweep of floor on which you could walk about without knocking things down. I pulled out the piano from the wall, and lowered the pictures, and gathered all the old china together, and put it on the chimney-piece, and—and—oh, I can’t tell you all the alterations, but you would hardly have known it for the same room! It looked quite decent. When all was finished, I sent for mother, and she came in and sat down, and, my dear, she turned quite white! She kept looking round and round, searching for things where she had been accustomed to find them, and she looked as if something hurt her. I asked her if she didn’t like it, and she said—“‘Oh, yes, it looks much more—more modern. Yes, dear, you have been very clever. It is quite—smart! A little bare, isn’t it—just a little bare, don’t you think?’“‘No, mother,’ I said sternly, ‘not the least little bit in the world! It seems so to you because you have had it so crowded that there was no room to move, but you will soon get accustomed to the room as it is, and like it far better.’“‘Yes, dear,’ she said meekly, ‘of—of course. I’m sure you are quite right,’ and will you believe it, Una, she went straight into her own room, and cried! I know she did, for I saw the marks on her face later on, and taxed her with it. She was very apologetic, but she said the little table with the gold legs had been father’s first gift to her after they were married, and she couldn’t bear to have it put aside; and the ivory basket under the glass shade had come from the first French Exhibition, and she had worked those bead bannerettes herself when I was teething, and threatened with convulsions, and she did not dare to leave the house. Of course, I felt a wretch, and hugged her, and said—“‘Why didn’t you say so before? We will bring them back at once, and put them where they were; but you have not tender associations with all the things. You did not work that hideous patchwork cushion, for instance, and—’“‘No, but Aunt Mary Ryley did,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and it is made out of pieces of all the dresses we wore when we were girls together. I often look at it and remember the happy times I had in the grey poplin and the puce silk.’“So, of course, the cushion had to come back too, and by the end of a week every single thing was taken out of the cupboard, and put in its former place! Theyallhad memories, and mother loved the memories, and cared nothing for the appearance. I was sweet about it. I wouldn’t say so to anyone but you, Una, but I really was quite angelic, until one day when Amy Reeve came to call. She was staying with some friends a few miles off, and drove in to see me. You know how inquisitive Amy is, and how she stares, and takes in everything, and quizzes it afterwards? Well, my dear, she sat there, and her eyes simply roved round and round the whole time, until she must have known the furniture by heart. I suffered,” sighed Lorna plaintively, “I sufferedanguish! I wouldn’t have minded anyone else so much—but Amy!”I said, (properly), that Amy was a snob and an idiot, and that it mattered less than nothing what she thought, but all the time I knew that I should have felt humiliated myself, and Lorna knew it, too, but was not vexed with me for pretending the contrary, for it is only right to set a good example.“Of course,” she said, “one ought to be above such petty trials. If a friendship hangs upon chiffoniers and bead mats, it can’t be worth keeping. I have told myself so ever since, but human nature is hard to kill, and Ishouldhave liked the house to look nice when Amy called! I despise myself for it, but I foresee that that room is going to be a continual trial. Its ugliness weighs upon me, and I feel self-conscious and uncomfortable every time my friends come to call, but I am not going to attempt any more changes. I wouldn’t make the dear old mother cry again for fifty drawing-rooms!”I thought it was sweet of her to talk like that, and wanted so badly to find a way out of the difficulty. I always feel there must be a way, and if one only thinks long enough it can generally be found. I sat plunged in thought, and at last the inspiration came.“Didn’t you say this room was your own to do with as you liked?”“Yes; mother said I could have it for my den. Nobody uses it now; but, Una, it is hideous, too!”“But it might be made pretty! It is small, and wouldn’t take much furnishing. You could pick up a few odds and ends from other rooms that would not be missed.”“Oh, yes, mother wouldn’t mind that, and the green felting on the floor is quite nice and new; but the paint, and the paper-saffron roses—and gold skriggles—and a light oak door! How could you possibly make anything look artistic against such a background?”“You couldn’t, and it wouldn’t be much fun if you could. I’ve thought of something far more exciting. Lorna, let us paper and paint it ourselves! Let us go to town to-morrow, and choose the very, very most artistic and up-to-date paper that can be bought, and buy some tins of enamel, and turn workmen every morning. Oh, do! I should love it; and you were saying only an hour ago that you did not know how to amuse me in the mornings. If we did the room together you would always associate me with it, and I should feel as if it were partly mine, and be able to imagine just where you were sitting. Oh, do, Lorna! It would be such ripping sport!”She didn’t speak for a good half-minute, but just sat staring up in ecstasy of joy.“You angel!” she cried at last. “You simple duck! How can you think of such lovely plans? Oh, Una, how have I lived without you all these months? Of course, I’ll do it. I’d love to! I am never happier than when I am wrapped up in an apron with a brush in my hand. I’ve enamelled things before now, but never hung a paper. Do you really think we could?”“Of course! If the British workman can do it, there can’t be much skill required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any difficulty,” I said grandiloquently. “All we want is a pot of paste, and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on. I’ve seen it done scores of times.”“So have I,” said Lorna. “And doesn’t the paste smell! I expect, what with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. It will spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow, but that doesn’t matter.”I thought it mattered a good deal. It was all very well for her, but she wasn’t staying with a friend who had an interesting grown-up brother. Even the finest natures can be inconsiderate sometimes.
Here I am! It is not a bit as I imagined, but ever so much nicer. Lorna looks sweet in grown-up things, and she thinks I look sweet in mine. She comes into my bed at nights, and we talk for hours. The house is right in the middle of the town, in a dingy old square, where the trees look more black than green. It is ugly and shabby, but there is plenty of room, which is a good thing, for I am sure it is needed. The doctor sits in his consulting-room all the morning seeing patients, who wait their turn in the dining-room, and if there are a great many you have to be late for lunch, but, as Lorna says, “That means another guinea, so we mustn’t grumble!” They are not at all rich, because the six boys cost so much to educate. They are all away at school and college, except the oldest and the youngest, of whom more anon.
Dr Forbes is an old love. He has shaggy grey hair, and merry eyes, and the funniest way of talking aloud to himself without knowing what he is saying. At lunch he will keep up a running conversation like this: “Nasty case—yes, nasty case! Poor woman, poor woman! Very little chance—little chance—Very good steak, my dear—an admirable dinner you have given me! Am-pu-ta-tion at eleven—mustn’t forget the medicine. Three times a day. A little custard, if you please,” and so on, and so on, and the others never take any notice, but eat away as if no one were speaking.
Mrs Forbes is large and kind, and shakes when she laughs. I don’t think she is clever, exactly, but she’s an admirable mother, and lets them do exactly as they like.
Wallace isn’t bad. He is twenty-four, and fairly good-looking, and not as conceited as men generally are at that age. Personally, I prefer them older, but he evidently approves of me, and that is soothing to the feelings. Julias, surnamed “Midas,” is only twelve, and a most amusing character. I asked Lorna and Wallace how he got his nickname, as we sat together over a fire in the old schoolroom the first night. They laughed, and Wallace said—(of course, I call him Dr Wallace, really, but I can’t be bothered to write it here)—
“Because everything he touches turns to gold, or, to speak more correctly, copper! He has a genius for accumulating money, and has what we consider quite a vast sum deposited in the savings bank. My father expects him to develop into a great financier, and we hope he may pension off all his brothers and sister, to keep them from the workhouse. To do Midas justice, he is not mean in a good cause, and I believe he will do the straight thing.”
“But how can he make money? He is only twelve. I don’t see how it is to be done,” I cried. And they laughed and said—
“It began years ago—when he shed his front teeth. Mother used to offer us sixpence a tooth when they grew waggly, and we pulled them out without any fuss. We each earned sixpences in our turn, and all went well; but when Midas once began he was not content to stop, and worked away at sound, new double teeth, until he actually got out two in one afternoon. Then mother took alarm, and the pay was stopped. There was an interregnum after that, and what came next? Let me see—it must have been the sleeping sickness. Midas grew very rapidly, Miss Sackville, and it was very difficult to get him to bed at nights, so as the mater thought he was suffering from the want of sleep, she promised him threepence an hour for every hour he spent in bed before nine o’clock. After that he retired regularly every night at seven, and on half-holidays it’s a solemn fact that he was in bed at four o’clock, issuing instructions as to the viands which were to be brought up for his refreshment! The mater stood it for a time, but the family finances wouldn’t bear the strain, so she limited the hours and reduced the fee, and Midas returned to his old ways. What came after that, Lorna?”
“I don’t know—I forget! Of course there was Biggs—”
“Ah, yes, Miss Biggs! Miss Biggs, you must know, Miss Sackville, is an ancient friend of the family, whom we consider it a duty to invite for a yearly visit. She is an admirable old soul, but very deaf, very slow, and incredibly boring. Her favourite occupation is to bring down sheaves of letters from other maiden ladies, and insist upon reading them aloud to the assembled family. ‘I have just had a letter from Louisa Gibbings; I am sure you will like to hear it,’ she will say calmly, when the poor old parents are enjoying a quiet read after dinner, and we youngsters are in the middle of a game. None of us have the remotest idea who Louisa Gibbings may be, and don’t want to know, but we are bound to listen to three sheets of uninteresting information as to how ‘My brother in China contemplates a visit home next year.’ ‘My garden is looking charming, but the peas are very poor this season.’ ‘You will be grieved to hear that our good Mary still suffers acutely from the old complaint,’ etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Last time she paid her visit when Midas had his Easter holidays, and one day, seeing mother quite exhausted by her efforts at entertainment, he made the brilliant proposal that he should take Miss Biggs off her hands for the sum of fourpence an hour. Mother agreed with enthusiasm, and Midas made quite a fortune in the next fortnight, with equal satisfaction to all concerned. In the morning he took Miss Biggs out walking to see the sights, and gave her his advice in the purchase of new caps. In the afternoon the wily young wretch cajoled her into giving him an hour’s coaching in French, and in the evening he challenged her to draughts and dominoes, and made a point of allowing her to win. Mother had a chance of attending to her work; father could read in peace; Midas was in a condition of such complacent good nature that he declared Miss Biggs was a ‘ripping old girl,’ and she on her part gave him the credit for being ‘the most gentlemanly youth she had ever encountered.’ I believe she is really attached to him, and should not wonder if she remembers him substantially in her will. Then Midas will have scored a double triumph!”
Wallace and Lorna laughed as heartily as I did over these histories. They really are a most good-natured family, and Wallace treats Lorna as politely as if she were someone else, and not his own sister, which is very different from some young men I could mention. I had put on my blue dress, and I knew quite well that he admired it and me, and that put me in such good spirits that I was quite sparkling and witty. He stayed talking to us until after nine, when he had to go downstairs to write some letters.
“Thank goodness! I thought he would never go. What a bore he is!” Lorna said, when the door closed behind him.
I didn’t feel like that at all, but I disguised my feelings, and told her the details and the adventures of the last three months, and about Vere, and the house, and my own private tribulations, and she sympathised and looked at everything from my point of view, in the nice, unprejudiced way friends have. It was very soothing, and I could have gone on for a long time, but it was only polite to return the compliment, so I said—
“Now we must talk about you! You said in your last letter that you had many troubles of which you could not write. Poor, sweet thing, tell me about them! Begin at the beginning. What do you consider your very greatest trial?”
Lorna pondered. She is dark and slight, and wears her hair parted in the middle, and puffed out at the sides in a quaint fashion that just suits her style. She wrinkled her brows, and stared into space in a rapt, melancholy fashion.
“I think,” she said, slowly, at last, “I think it is the drawing-room!”
I was surprised, but still not surprised, for the drawing-room is awful! Big and square, and filled with heavy furniture, and a perfect shopful of ugly ornaments and bead mats, and little tables, and milking-stools, and tambourines, and bannerettes, and all the kind of things that were considered lovely ages ago, but which no self-respecting girl of our age could possibly endure. Lorna told me thrilling tales of her experience with that room.
“When I first came home, mother saw that I didn’t like it, so she said she knew quite well that she was old-fashioned and behind the times, and now that she had a grown-up daughter she would leave the arrangement of such things to her, and I could alter the room as much as ever I liked. So, my dear, I made Mary bring the biggest tray in the house, and I filled it three times over with gimcracks of all descriptions, and sent them up to the box-room cupboard. I kept about three tables instead of seven, with really nice things on them, and left a good sweep of floor on which you could walk about without knocking things down. I pulled out the piano from the wall, and lowered the pictures, and gathered all the old china together, and put it on the chimney-piece, and—and—oh, I can’t tell you all the alterations, but you would hardly have known it for the same room! It looked quite decent. When all was finished, I sent for mother, and she came in and sat down, and, my dear, she turned quite white! She kept looking round and round, searching for things where she had been accustomed to find them, and she looked as if something hurt her. I asked her if she didn’t like it, and she said—
“‘Oh, yes, it looks much more—more modern. Yes, dear, you have been very clever. It is quite—smart! A little bare, isn’t it—just a little bare, don’t you think?’
“‘No, mother,’ I said sternly, ‘not the least little bit in the world! It seems so to you because you have had it so crowded that there was no room to move, but you will soon get accustomed to the room as it is, and like it far better.’
“‘Yes, dear,’ she said meekly, ‘of—of course. I’m sure you are quite right,’ and will you believe it, Una, she went straight into her own room, and cried! I know she did, for I saw the marks on her face later on, and taxed her with it. She was very apologetic, but she said the little table with the gold legs had been father’s first gift to her after they were married, and she couldn’t bear to have it put aside; and the ivory basket under the glass shade had come from the first French Exhibition, and she had worked those bead bannerettes herself when I was teething, and threatened with convulsions, and she did not dare to leave the house. Of course, I felt a wretch, and hugged her, and said—
“‘Why didn’t you say so before? We will bring them back at once, and put them where they were; but you have not tender associations with all the things. You did not work that hideous patchwork cushion, for instance, and—’
“‘No, but Aunt Mary Ryley did,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and it is made out of pieces of all the dresses we wore when we were girls together. I often look at it and remember the happy times I had in the grey poplin and the puce silk.’
“So, of course, the cushion had to come back too, and by the end of a week every single thing was taken out of the cupboard, and put in its former place! Theyallhad memories, and mother loved the memories, and cared nothing for the appearance. I was sweet about it. I wouldn’t say so to anyone but you, Una, but I really was quite angelic, until one day when Amy Reeve came to call. She was staying with some friends a few miles off, and drove in to see me. You know how inquisitive Amy is, and how she stares, and takes in everything, and quizzes it afterwards? Well, my dear, she sat there, and her eyes simply roved round and round the whole time, until she must have known the furniture by heart. I suffered,” sighed Lorna plaintively, “I sufferedanguish! I wouldn’t have minded anyone else so much—but Amy!”
I said, (properly), that Amy was a snob and an idiot, and that it mattered less than nothing what she thought, but all the time I knew that I should have felt humiliated myself, and Lorna knew it, too, but was not vexed with me for pretending the contrary, for it is only right to set a good example.
“Of course,” she said, “one ought to be above such petty trials. If a friendship hangs upon chiffoniers and bead mats, it can’t be worth keeping. I have told myself so ever since, but human nature is hard to kill, and Ishouldhave liked the house to look nice when Amy called! I despise myself for it, but I foresee that that room is going to be a continual trial. Its ugliness weighs upon me, and I feel self-conscious and uncomfortable every time my friends come to call, but I am not going to attempt any more changes. I wouldn’t make the dear old mother cry again for fifty drawing-rooms!”
I thought it was sweet of her to talk like that, and wanted so badly to find a way out of the difficulty. I always feel there must be a way, and if one only thinks long enough it can generally be found. I sat plunged in thought, and at last the inspiration came.
“Didn’t you say this room was your own to do with as you liked?”
“Yes; mother said I could have it for my den. Nobody uses it now; but, Una, it is hideous, too!”
“But it might be made pretty! It is small, and wouldn’t take much furnishing. You could pick up a few odds and ends from other rooms that would not be missed.”
“Oh, yes, mother wouldn’t mind that, and the green felting on the floor is quite nice and new; but the paint, and the paper-saffron roses—and gold skriggles—and a light oak door! How could you possibly make anything look artistic against such a background?”
“You couldn’t, and it wouldn’t be much fun if you could. I’ve thought of something far more exciting. Lorna, let us paper and paint it ourselves! Let us go to town to-morrow, and choose the very, very most artistic and up-to-date paper that can be bought, and buy some tins of enamel, and turn workmen every morning. Oh, do! I should love it; and you were saying only an hour ago that you did not know how to amuse me in the mornings. If we did the room together you would always associate me with it, and I should feel as if it were partly mine, and be able to imagine just where you were sitting. Oh, do, Lorna! It would be such ripping sport!”
She didn’t speak for a good half-minute, but just sat staring up in ecstasy of joy.
“You angel!” she cried at last. “You simple duck! How can you think of such lovely plans? Oh, Una, how have I lived without you all these months? Of course, I’ll do it. I’d love to! I am never happier than when I am wrapped up in an apron with a brush in my hand. I’ve enamelled things before now, but never hung a paper. Do you really think we could?”
“Of course! If the British workman can do it, there can’t be much skill required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any difficulty,” I said grandiloquently. “All we want is a pot of paste, and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on. I’ve seen it done scores of times.”
“So have I,” said Lorna. “And doesn’t the paste smell! I expect, what with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. It will spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow, but that doesn’t matter.”
I thought it mattered a good deal. It was all very well for her, but she wasn’t staying with a friend who had an interesting grown-up brother. Even the finest natures can be inconsiderate sometimes.