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

I did sleep towards morning, and it was so odd waking up in that strange room, which I had hardly noticed in the pain and confusion of the night before. I smiled a little even then as I looked round. It was so Racheley! Lots of nice things badly arranged, so different from my dear little room! Oh, my dear little room; should I ever, ever see it again?

Someone was sitting behind the curtains, and as I moved he bent forward and took hold of my hand. It was father, looking so white and old that the tears came to my eyes to see him; but he was alive and safe, that was the great thing, and able to tell me that all the servants had been saved, and to give a good report of mother.

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

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

His face set, but he said calmly--

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It can't be so bad! It can't be really serious," I cried vehemently.

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

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

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

But I didn't feel that I could promise at all. After he had gone I lay thinking it all over and feeling perfectly wretched at the idea of being cheerful under such circ.u.mstances. I can be as lively as a grig, (what is a grig, by the way?) when things go smoothly, and other people are cheerful, too, but to keep lively when they are in the depths of woe, and you have to keep things going all by yourself and there is no excitement or variety, is a very different thing. I am quelled at once by sighs, and tears, and solemn faces. It's my nature, I can't help it.

I'm so sensitive. Miss Bruce once said that that word "sensitive" was often used when "selfish" would be much more applicable. I thought it horrid of her at the time, but I expect, like most hard things, it is true. Now if you didn't think of yourself at all but only and wholly of others, it would be your one aim through life to make them happy, and no effort would be too difficult if it succeeded in doing that. Then people would talk about you and say you were "the sunshine of the home,"

and your parents would bless you with their latest breath, and people who had misjudged you would flock round and sit at your knee, and profit by your example. I should like to be like that. It would be so lovely and so soothing to the feelings.

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

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

He has a great big face, and a great big voice, and very little manners, and I believe he enjoys, really thoroughly enjoys, bullying other people, and seeing them miserable. He was quite nice to me in the way of sympathising with my foot, and saying that he was pleased to see me; but I felt inclined to shake him when he went on to speak of "The Moat,"

and of all we had done that we should not have done, and left undone that we should have done, and of what _he_ would have done in our place; making out, if you please, that the fire was all our fault, and that we deserved it if we _were_ burnt out of house and home!

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

"Try the toast, then, father dear. It is nice and crisp, just as you like it. If you don't like those cakes, we won't have them again.

Ready for some more tea, dear? It is stronger now that it has stood a little while."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

_August 17th_.

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

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

I was thankful I had not to tell Vere the verdict. Father broke it to her, and said she "took it calmly," but he looked miserable, and every time he went to see her he looked still more wretched and _baffled_.

There is no other word to express it. He seems impatient for me to see her, and when at last I could hobble to the door of her room, went with me and whispered urgently, "Try what you can make of her! Don't avoid the subject. It is better sometimes to speak out," and I went in, feeling almost as anxious as he was himself.

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

She spoke first.

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

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

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

Just the old, light, airy voice; just the same society drawl. She might have been talking of a new ball dress for any sign of emotion to be seen, and yet I know well that Vere--the old Vere--could have faced no fate more bitter than this! I stared at her, and she stared back with a fixed, unchanging smile. I knew by that smile that it was not resignation she felt; not anything like that lovely willing way in which really good people accept trouble--crippled old women in cottages, who will tell you how good G.o.d has been to them, when they are as poor as mice, and have never been out of one room for years; and other people who lose everybody they love best, and spend their lives trying to make other people happy, instead of glumping alone. I have really and truly known people like that, but their faces looked sweet and radiant.

Vere's was very different. I knew now what father had been worrying about the last few days, and what he meant by advising me to speak openly, but it was not easy to do so. I was afraid of her with that new look!

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

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

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

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

He really deserves some reward for his devotion."

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

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

"Ah, you have an inconvenient memory, Babs! It was always your failing.