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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course you are to stay, Una dear; don't say another word about it,"

Rachel answered kindly, but that wasn't exactly answering his question.

She was too honest to say that she would rather have me there, and I don't think she quite liked his saying so, either, for she was even quieter than usual for the next five minutes. Then Will began to talk about Vere, and of Mr Carstairs' anxiety, and father's distress about her state of mind. He seemed to think that she did not realise what was before her, but Rachel and I knew better than that, and a.s.sured him that he need fear no rude awakening.

"Vere is not one of the people who deceive themselves for good or bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If I broke my back I should die, Will. It is always fatal, I believe!"

quoth Rachel the literal, blushing with pleasure at his praise, but talking as primly and properly as if she were addressing a cla.s.s in a school. She is a queer girl to be engaged to!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Vere--will she win too? I can think of no one but her just now.

We used often to quarrel, and I've been jealous of her hundreds of times. I never knew I loved her so much till we were in danger, but now I'd give my life to save her, and help her through this terrible time!"

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

"You mean--?"

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

"I mean--love," he said softly.

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

CHAPTER TWELVE.

_August 20th_.

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

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

We are all depressed enough just now, goodness knows, but it cheers us up a little to be together, and, in comparison with the Greaves'

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

I am a wretch to think of myself at all. Rachel wouldn't; but I do, and it's no use pretending I don't. I'm horribly, horribly disappointed!

One part of me feels cross and injured; the other part of me longs to be good and unselfish, and to cheer and help the others. I haven't had far to look for my sister. While I was searching the neighbourhood for someone to befriend, the opportunity was preparing inside our very own walls! Now then, Una Sackville, brace up! Show what you are made of!

You are fond enough of talking--now let us see what you can do!

_August 28th_.

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

The doctor says Vere is to live out of doors, so this morning she was carried out on her mattress, laid flat on the chair, and wheeled to a corner of the lawn. As I had prophesied, she arranged all details herself. She wore a soft, white serge dressing-gown sort of arrangement, which was loose and comfortable, and a long lace scarf put loosely over her head, and tied under the chin, instead of a hat.

Everything was as simple as it could be. Vere had too much good taste to choose unsuitable fineries, but, as she lay with the sunlight flickering down at her beneath the screen of leaves, she looked so touchingly frail and lovely that it broke your heart to see her. Her hair lay in little gold rings on her forehead, the face inside the lace hood had shrunk to such a tiny oval. One had not realised, seeing her in bed, how thin she had grown during these last few weeks!

We all waited on her hand and foot, and walked in procession beside her, gulping hard, and blinking our eyes to keep back the tears whenever we had a quiet chance, and she laughed and admired the trees, and said really it was the quaintest sensation staring straight up at the sky; she felt just like "Johnny Head in Air" in the dear old picture-book!

It was a delightful couch--most comfortable! What a lazy summer she should have! If there was one thing she loved more than another, it was having meals in the open air--all in the same high, artificial note which she had used ever since her accident.

We all agreed and gushed, and said, "Yes, darling," "Isn't it, darling?"

"So you shall, darling," and we had tea under a big beech-tree, and anyone might have thought we were quite jolly; but I could see father's lip quiver under his moustache, and mother looked old. I hate to see mother look old!

Just as we had finished tea a servant came up to tell father that Will and Mr Carstairs had called to see him. They had too much good feeling to join us where we were, but Vere lifted her languid eyes and said "Stupid men! What are they afraid of? Tell them to come here at once."

And no one dared to oppose her.