Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Heart of Una Sackville

by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey
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This book is not really in the same league as Pixie, but it
certainly is a well-written story about the inner life of a
young woman in search of a wooer and future husband in the
months and years after she leaves school.  All the characters,
men and women, boys and girls, are well-drawn, and the book is
an enjoyable read, which we would recommend, particularly to the
fairer sex.  Dated in 1895, it contains contains a good deal
of local and historical colour, and is worth reading for the
insight into the social background of girls of the professional
middle classes of those days.
________________________________________________________________
"THE HEART OF UNA SACKVILLE"
A TALE OF A YOUNG WOMAN'S SEARCH FOR THE FUTURE LOVE OF HER LIFE

BY MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY



CHAPTER ONE.

                                                       _May 13th, 1895_.
Lena Streatham gave me this diary.  I can't think what possessed her,
for she has been simply hateful to me sometimes this last term.  Perhaps
it was remorse, because it's awfully handsome, with just the sort of
back I like--soft Russia leather, with my initials in the corner, and a
clasp with a dear little key, so that you can leave it about without
other people seeing what is inside.  I always intended to keep a diary
when I left school and things began to happen, and I suppose I must have
said so some day; I generally do blurt out what is in my mind, and Lena
heard and remembered.  She's not a bad girl, except for her temper, but
I've noticed the hasty ones are generally the most generous.  There are
hundreds and hundreds of leaves in it, and I expect it will be years
before it's finished.  I'm not going to write things every day--that's
silly!  I'll just keep it for times when I want to talk, and Lorna is
not near to confide in.  It's quite exciting to think all that will be
written in these empty pages!  What fun it would be if I could read them
now and see what is going to happen!  About half way through I shall be
engaged, and in the last page of all I'll scribble a few words in my
wedding-dress before I go on to church, for that will be the end of Una
Sackville, and there will be nothing more to write after that.  It's
very nice to be married, of course, but stodgy--there's no more
excitement.

There has been plenty of excitement to-day, at any rate.  I always
thought it would be lovely when the time came for leaving school, and
having nothing to do but enjoy oneself, but I've cried simply
bucketfuls, and my head aches like fury.  All the girls were so
fearfully nice.  I'd no idea they liked me so much.  Irene May began
crying at breakfast-time, and one or another of them has been at it the
whole day long.  Maddie made me walk with her in the crocodile, and
said, "Croyez bien, ma cherie, que votre Maddie ne vous oubliera
jamais."  It's all very well, but she's been a perfect pig to me many
times over about the irregular verbs!  She gave me her photograph in a
gilt frame--not half bad; you would think she was quite nice-looking.

The kiddies joined together and gave me a purse--awfully decent of the
poor little souls--and I've got simply dozens of books and ornaments and
little picture things for my room.  We had cake for tea, but half the
girls wouldn't touch it.  Florence said it was sickening to gorge when
your heart was breaking.  She is going to ask her mother to let her
leave next term, for she says she simply cannot stand our bedroom after
I'm gone.  She and Lorna don't get on a bit, and I was always having to
keep the peace.  I promised faithfully I would write sheets upon sheets
to them every single week, because my leaving at half term makes it
harder for them than if they were going home too.

"We shall be so flat and dull without you, Circle!"  Myra said.  She
calls me "Circle" because I'm fat--not awfully, you know, but just a
little bit, and she's so thin herself.  "I think I'll turn over a new
leaf and go in for work.  I don't seem to have any heart for getting
into scrapes by myself!"

"Well, we _have_ kept them going, haven't we!"  I said.  "Do you
remember," and then we talked over the hairbreadth escapes we had had,
and groaned to think that the good times were passed.

"I will say this for Una," said Florence, "however stupid she may be at
lessons, I never met a girl who was cleverer at scenting a joke!"

When Florence says a thing, she _means_ it, so it was an awful
compliment, and I was just trying to look humble when Mary came in to
say Miss Martin wanted me in the drawing-room.  I did feel bad, because
I knew it would be our last real talk, and she looked simply sweet in
her new blue dress and her Sunday afternoon expression.  She can look as
fierce as anything and snap your head off if you vex her, but she's a
darling all the same, and I adore her.  She's been perfectly sweet to me
these three years, and we have had lovely talks sometimes--serious
talks, I mean--when I was going to be confirmed, and when father was
ill, and when I've been homesick.  She's so good, but not a bit goody,
and she makes you long to be good too.  She's just the right person to
have a girls' school, for she understands how girls feel, and that it
isn't natural for them to be solemn, unless of course they are prigs,
and they don't count.

I sat down beside her and we talked for an hour.  I wish I could
remember all the things she said, and put them down here to be my rules
for life, but it's so difficult to remember.

She said my gaiety and lightness of heart had been a great help to them
all, and like sunshine in the school.  Of course, it had led me into
scrapes at times, but they had been innocent and kindly, and so she had
not been hard upon me.  But now I was grown up and going out into the
battle of life, and everything was different.

"You know, dear, the gifts which God gives us are our equipments for
that fight, and I feel sure your bright, happy disposition has been
given to you to help you in some special needs of life."

I didn't quite like her saying that!  It made me feel creepy, as if
horrid things were going to happen, and I should need my spirit to help
me through.  I want to be happy and have a good time.  I never can
understand how people can bear troubles, and illnesses, and being poor,
and all those awful things.  I should die at once if they happened to
me.

She went on to say that I must make up my mind from the first not to
live for myself; that it was often a very trying time when a girl first
left school and found little or nothing to occupy her energies at home,
but that there were so many sad and lonely people in the world that no
one need ever feel any lack of a purpose in life, and she advised me not
to look at charity from a general standpoint, but to narrow it down till
it came within my own grasp.

"Don't think vaguely of the poor all over the world; think of one person
at your own gate, and brighten that life.  I once heard a very good man
say that the only way he could reconcile himself to the seeming
injustice between the lots of the poor and the rich was by believing
that each of the latter was deputed by God to look after his poorer
brother, and was _responsible_ for his welfare.  Find someone whom you
can take to your heart as your poor sister in God's great family, and
help her in every way you can.  It will keep you from growing selfish
and worldly.  In your parents' position you will, of course, go a great
deal into society and be admired and made much of, as a bright, pretty
girl.  It is only natural that you should enjoy the experience, but
don't let it turn your head.  Try to keep your frank, unaffected
manners, and be honest in words and actions.  Be especially careful not
to be led away by greed of power and admiration.  It is the best thing
that can happen to any woman to win the love of a good, true man, but it
is cruel to wreck his happiness to gratify a foolish vanity.  I hope
that none of my girls may be so forgetful of all that is true and
womanly."

She looked awfully solemn.  I wonder if she flirted when she was young,
and he was furious and went away and left her!  We always wondered why
she didn't marry.  There's a photograph of a man on her writing-table,
and Florence said she is sure that was him, for he is in such a lovely
frame, and she puts the best flowers beside him like a shrine.

Florence is awfully clever at making up tales.  She used to tell us them
in bed, (like that creature with the name in the _Arabian Nights_).  We
used to say:

"Now then, Florence, go on--tell us Fraulein's love-story!" and she
would clear her throat, and cough, and say--"It was a glorious summer
afternoon in the little village of Eisenach, and the sunshine peering
down through the leaves turned to gold the tresses of young Elsa Behrend
as she sat knitting under the trees."

It was just like a book, and so true too, for Fraulein is always
knitting!  The Romance de Mademoiselle was awfully exciting.  There was
a duel in it, and one man was killed and the other had to run away, so
she got neither of them, and it was that that soured her temper.

I really must go to bed--Lorna keeps calling and calling--and Florence
is crying still--I can hear her sniffing beneath the clothes.  We shall
be perfect wrecks in the morning, and mother won't like it if I go home
a fright.  Heigho! the very last night in this dear old room!  I hate
the last of anything--even nasty things--and except when we've
quarrelled we've had jolly times.  It's awful to think I shall never be
a school-girl any more!  I don't believe I shall sleep a wink all night.
I feel wretched.

PS--Fancy calling me pretty!  I'm so pleased.  I shall look nicer still
in my new home clothes.



CHAPTER TWO.

                                        Bed-time; my own room. May 14th.
It is different from school!  My room is simply sweet, all newly done up
as a surprise for me on my return.  White paint and blue walls, and
little bookcases in the corners, and comfy chairs and cushions, and a
writing-table, and such lovely artistic curtains--dragons making faces
at fleur-de-lys on a dull blue background.  I'm awfully well off, and
they are all so good to me, I ought to be the happiest girl in the
world, but I feel sort of achey and strange, and a little bit lonely,
though I wouldn't say so for the world.  I miss the girls.

It was awful this morning--positively awful.  I should think there was a
flood after I left--all the girls howled so, and I was sticking my head
out of the carriage window all the journey to get my face cool before I
arrived.  Father met me at the station, and we spanked up together in
the dog-cart.  That was scrumptious.  I do love rushing through the air
behind a horse like Firefly, and father is such an old love, and always
understands how you feel.  He is very quiet and shy, and when anyone
else is there he hardly speaks a word, but we chatter like anything when
we are together.  I have a kind of idea that he likes me best, though
Spencer and Vere are the show members of the family.  Spencer is the
heir, and is almost always away because he is a soldier, and Vere is
away a lot too, because she hates the country, and likes visiting about
and having a good time.  She's awfully pretty, but--No!  I won't say it.
I hereby solemnly vow and declare that I shall never say nasty things
of anyone in this book, only, of course, if they do nasty things, I
shall have to tell, or it won't be true.  She isn't much with father,
anyway, and he likes to be made a fuss of, because he's so quiet
himself.  Isn't it funny how people are like that!  You'd think they'd
like you to be prim and quiet too, but they don't a bit, and the more
you plague them the better they're pleased.

"Back again, my girl, are you?  A finished young lady, eh?" said father,
flicking his whip.

"Very glad of it, I can tell you.  I'm getting old, and need someone to
look after me a bit."  He looked me up and down, with a sort of anxious
look, as if he wanted to see if I were changed.  "We had good times
together when you were a youngster and used to trot round with me every
morning to see the dogs and the horses, but I suppose you won't care for
that sort of thing now.  It will be all dresses and running about from
one excitement to another.  You won't care for tramping about in thick
boots with the old father!"

I laughed, and pinched him in his arm.  "Don't fish!  You know very well
I'll like it better than anything else.  Of course, I shall like pretty
dresses too, and as much fun as I can get, but I don't think I shall
ever grow up properly, father--enough to walk instead of run, and smile
sweetly instead of shrieking with laughter as we do at school.  It will
be a delightful way of letting off steam to go off with you for some
long country rambles, and have some of our nice old talks."

He turned and stared at me quite hard, and for a long time.  He has such
a lot of wrinkles round his eyes, and they look so tired.  I never
noticed it before.  He looked sort of sad, and as if he wanted
something.  I wonder if he has been lonely while I was away.  Poor old
dad!  I'll be a perfect angel to him.  I'll never neglect him for my own
amusement like Resolution number one!  Sentence can't be finished.

"How old are you, child?" father said at last, turning away with a sigh
and flicking Firefly gently with the whip, and I sat up straight and
said proudly--

"Nearly nineteen.  I begged to stay on another half year, you know,
because of the exam, but I failed again in that hateful arithmetic: I'm
a perfect dunce over figures, father; I hope you don't mind.  I can sing
very well; my voice was better than any of the other girls, and that
will give you more pleasure than if I could do all the sums in the
world.  They tried to teach me algebra, too.  Such a joke; I once got an
equation right.  The teacher nearly had a fit.  It was the most awful
fluke."

"I don't seem to care much about your arithmetical prowess," father
said, smiling.  "I shall not ask you to help me with my accounts, but it
will be a pleasure to hear you sing, especially if you will indulge me
with a ballad now and then which I can really enjoy.  You are older than
I thought; but keep as young as you can, child.  I don't want to lose my
little playfellow yet awhile.  I've missed her very badly these last
years."

I liked to hear that.  It was sad for him, of course, but I simply love
people to love me and feel bad when I'm gone.  I was far and away the
most popular girl at school, but it wasn't all chance as they seemed to
think.  I'm sure I worked hard enough for the position.  If a girl
didn't like me I was so fearfully nice to her that she was simply forced
to come round.  I said something like that to Lorna once, and she was
quite shocked, and called it self-seeking and greed for admiration, and
all sorts of horrid names.  I don't see it at all; I call it a most
amiable weakness.  It makes you pleasant and kind even if you feel
horrid, and that must be nice.  I felt all bubbling over with good
resolutions when father said that, and begged him to let me be not only
his playmate but his helper also, and to tell me at once what I could
do.

He smiled again in that sad sort of way grown-up people have, which
seems to say that they know such a lot more than you, and are sorry for
your ignorance.

"Nothing definite, darling," he said; "an infinite variety of things
indefinite!  Love me, and remember me sometimes among the new
distractions--that's about the best you can do;" and I laughed, and
pinched him again.

"You silly old dear!  As if I could ever forget!" and just at that
moment we drove up to the porch.

If it had been another girl's mother, she would have been waiting at the
door to receive me.  I've been home with friends, so I know; but my
mother is different.  I don't think I should like it if she did come!
It doesn't fit into my idea of her, some way.  Mother is like a queen--
everyone waits upon her, and goes up to her presence like a throne-room.
I peeped into the mirror in the hall as I passed, and tucked back some
ends of hair, and straightened my tie, and then the door opened, and
there she stood--the darling!--holding out her arms to welcome me, with
her eyes all soft and tender, as they used to be when she came to say
"good night."  Mother is not demonstrative as a rule, so you simply love
it when she is.  She looks quite young, and she was the beauty of the
county when she was a girl, and I never did see in all my life anybody
so immaculately perfect in appearance!  Her dresses fit as if she had
been melted into them; her skirts stand out, and go crinkling in and out
into folds just exactly like the fashion-plates; her hair looks as if it
had been done a minute before--I don't believe she would have a single
loose end if she were out in a tornado.  It's the same, morning, noon
and night; if she were wrecked on a desert island she would be a vision
of elegance.  It's the way she was born.  I can't think how I came to be
her daughter, and I know I'm a trial to her with my untidiness.

We hugged each other, and she put her hands on each side of my face, and
we kissed and kissed again.  She is taller than I am, and very dark,
with beautiful aquiline features, and deep brown eyes.  She is very
slight--I'm sure my waist is about twice as big--and her hands look so
pretty with the flashing rings.  I'm awfully proud of my mother!

"My darling girl!  How rejoiced I am to have you back.  Sit down here
and let me see you.  How well you look, dear--not any thinner yet, I
see!  It will be delightful to have you at home for good, for Vere is
away so much that I have felt quite bereft.  Sit up, darling--don't
stoop!  It will be so interesting to have another girl to bring out!
There are plenty of young people about here now, so you need not be
dull, and I hope we shall be great companions.  You were a sad little
hoyden in the old days, but now that you have passed eighteen you will
be glad to settle down, won't you, dear, and behave like the woman you
are.  Have you no little brooch, darling, to keep that collar straight
at the neck?  It is all adrift, and looks so untidy.  Those little
things are of such importance.  I had such a charming letter from Miss
Martin, full of nice speeches about you.  She says you sing so sweetly.
You must have some good lessons, for nothing is more taking than a young
voice properly trained, and I hope you have no foolish nervousness about
singing in public.  You must get over it, if you have, for I rely on you
to help me when we have visitors."

"I want to help you, mother.  I will truly try," I said wistfully.  I
don't know why exactly, but I felt depressed all of a sudden.  I wanted
her to be so pleased at my return that she didn't notice anything but
just me, and it hurt to be called to order so soon.  I looked across the
room, and caught a glimpse of our two figures reflected in a glass--such
a big, fair, tousled creature as I looked beside her, and my heart went
down lower then ever.  I shall disappoint her, I know I shall!  She
expects me to be an elegant, accomplished young lady like Vere, and I
feel a hoyden still, and not a bit a grown-up woman; besides, father
said I was to keep young.  How am I to please them both, and have time
left over to remember Miss Martin's lessons?  It strikes me, Una
Sackville, you have got your work cut out.

Mother brought me up to see my room.  She has looked after it all
herself, and taken no end of trouble making the shades.  It looked sweet
in the sunshine, and I shall love sitting in the little round window
writing my adventures in this book; but now that it's dark I miss the
girls: I wonder what Lorna and Florence are doing now?  Talking of me, I
expect, and crying into their pillows.  It seems years since we parted,
and already I feel such miles apart.  It seems almost impossible to
believe that last night I was eating thick bread-and-butter for supper
and lying down in the middle bed in the bare old dormitory.  Now already
I feel quite grown up and responsible.  Oh, if I live to be a hundred
years old, I shall never, never be at school again!  I've been so happy.
I wonder, I wonder shall I ever be as happy again?



CHAPTER THREE.

                                                            _June 20th_.
I've been home a month.  I've got tails to my dresses and silk linings,
and my hair done up like the people in advertisements, and parasols with
frills, and a pearl necklace to wear at nights with real evening
dresses.  I wear white veils, too, and such sweet hats--I don't mind
saying it here where no one will see, but I really do look most awfully
nice.  I should just simply love to be lolling back in the victoria, all
frills and feathers, and the crocodiles to march by.  Wouldn't they
stare!  It was always so interesting to see how the girls looked grown
up.

The weather has been lovely, and I do think ours is the very dearest old
house in the world.  It is described in the guide-books as "a fine old
Jacobean mansion," and all sorts of foreign royal creatures have stayed
here as a place of refuge in olden days before father's people bought
it.  It is red brick covered with ivy, and at the right side the walls
go out in a great semicircle, with windows all round giving the most
lovely view.  Opposite the door is a beautiful old cedar, which I used
to love to climb as a child, and should now if I had my own way.  Its
lower branches dip down to the grass and make the most lovely bridge to
the old trunk.  On the opposite side of the lawn there's another huge
tree; hardly anyone knows what it is, but it's a Spanish maple really--
such a lovely thing, all shining silver leaves on dark stems.  I used to
look from one to the other and think that they looked like youth and
age, and summer and winter, and all sorts of poetical things like that.

On the south side there is another entrance leading down to the terrace
by a long flight of stone stairs, the balustrades of which are covered
by a tangle of clematis and roses.  When I come walking down those steps
and see the peacock strutting about in the park, and the old sundial,
and the row of beeches in the distance, I feel a thrill of something
that makes me hot and cold and proud and weepy all at the same time.
Father says he feels just the same, in a man-ey way, of course, and that
it is much the same thing as patriotism--love of the soil that has come
down to you from generations of ancestors, and that it's a right and
natural feeling and ought to be encouraged.  I know it is in him, for he
will deny himself anything and everything to keep the place in order and
give his tenants a good time, but--Resolution number two--I, Una
Sackville, solemnly vow to speak the plain truth about my own feelings
in this book, and not cover them up with a cloak of fine words--I think
there's a big sprinkling of conceit in my feelings.  I _do_ like being
the Squire's daughter, and having people stare at me as I go through the
town, and rush about to attend to me when I enter a shop.  Ours is only
a little bit of a town, and there is so little going on that people take
an extra special interest in us and our doings.  I know some of the
girls quite well--the vicar's daughter and the doctor's, and the Heywood
girls at the Grange, and I am always very nice to them, but I feel all
the time that I am being nice, and they feel it too, so we never seem to
be real friends.  Is that being a snob, I wonder?  If it is, it's as
much their fault as mine, because they are quite different to me from
what they are to each other--so much more polite and well-behaved.

I spend the mornings with father, and the afternoons with mother.  At
first she had mapped out my whole day for me--practising, reading,
driving, etcetera, but I just said straight out that I'd promised to go
the rounds with father, and I think she was glad, though very much
surprised.

"He will be so pleased to have you!  It's nice of you, dear, to think of
it, and after all it will be exercise, and there's not much going on in
the morning."

She never seemed to think I should enjoy it, and I suppose it would bore
her as much to walk round to the stables and kennels, and talk to the
keepers about game, and the steward about new roofs to cottages, and
cutting timber, as it does him to go to garden-parties and pay formal
calls.  It seems strange to live together so long and to be so
different.

I have not met many strangers as yet, because Vere is bringing down a
party of visitors for August, and mother is not in a hurry to take me
about until I have got all my things; but one morning, when I was out
with father, I met such a big, handsome man, quite young, with a brown
face and laughing eyes, dressed in the nice country fashion which I
love--Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers and leggings.  Father hailed him at
once, and they talked together for a moment without taking any notice of
me, and then father remembered me suddenly, and said--

"This is my youngest daughter.  Come home from school to play with me,
haven't you, Babs?" and the strange man smiled and nodded, and said,
"How do, Babs?" just as calmly and patronisingly as if I had been two.
For a moment I was furious, until I remembered my hockey skirt and cloth
cap, and hair done in a door-knocker, with no doubt ends flying about
all round my face.  I daresay I looked fourteen at the most, and he
thought I was home for the holidays.  I decided that it would be rather
fun to foster the delusion, and behave just as I liked without thinking
of what was proper all the time, and then some day he would find out his
mistake, and feel properly abashed.  His name is Will Dudley, and he is
staying with Mr Lloyd, the agent for the property which adjoins
father's, learning how to look after land, for some day he will inherit
a big estate from an uncle, so he likes to get all the experience he
can, and to talk to father, and go about with him whenever he has the
chance, and father likes to have him--I could tell it by the way he
looks and talks.  We walked miles that morning, over gates and stiles,
and across brooks without dreaming of waiting for the bridges, and I
climbed and splashed with the best, and Mr Dudley twinkled his eyes at
me, and said, "Well jumped, Babs!" and lifted me down from the stiles as
if I had been a doll.  He must be terrifically strong, for I am no light
weight, and he didn't seem to feel me at all.

After that morning we were constantly meeting, and we grew to be quite
friends.  He has thick, crinkly eyebrows, and is clean-shaven, which I
like in his case, as his mouth has such a nice expression.  He went on
treating me as a child, and father seemed to think it was quite natural.
He likes to pretend I am young, poor dear, so that I may be his
playmate as long as possible.

Yesterday father went in to see some cottagers, and Mr Dudley and I sat
outside on a log of wood, and talked while we waited for him like this.
He--patronisingly--

"I suppose it's a great treat for you to getaway from school for a time.
Where is your school?  Town or country?  Brighton--ugh!" and he made a
grimace of disgust.  "Shops--piers--hotels--an awful place!  Not a bit
of Nature left unspoiled; the very sea looks artificial and unlike
itself in such unnatural surroundings!"

"Plenty of crocodiles on the bank, however--that's natural enough!"  I
said pertly.  I thought it was rather smart, too, but he smiled in a
superior "I-will-because-I-must," sort of way, and said--

"How thankful you must be to get away from it all to this exquisite
calm!"

I don't know much about young men, except what I've seen of Spencer and
his friends, but they would call exquisite calm by a very different
name, so I decided at once that Mr Will Dudley must have had a secret
trouble which had made him hate the world and long for solitude.
Perhaps it was a love affair!  It would be interesting if he could
confide in me, and I could comfort him, so I looked pensive, and said--

"You do get very tired of the glare and the dust!  Some of the girls
wear smoked glasses in summer, and you get so sick of marching up and
down the front.  Do you hate Brighton only, or every towny place?"

"I hate all towns, and can't understand how anyone can live in them who
is not obliged.  I have tried it for the last five years, but never
again!"  He stretched his big shoulders, and drew a long breath of
determination.  "I've said `Good-bye' for ever to a life of trammelled
civilisation, with its so-called amusements and artificial manners, and
hollow friendships, and"--he put his hand to his flannel collar, and
patted it with an air of blissful satisfaction--"and stiff,
uncomfortable clothing!  It's all over and done with now, thank
goodness--a dream of the past!"

"And I am just beginning it!  And I expect to like it very much," I
thought to myself, but I didn't say so to him; and he went on muttering
and grumbling all the time he was rolling his cigarette and preparing to
smoke.

"You don't understand--a child like you.  It's a pity you ever should,
but in a few years' time you will be so bound round with conventions
that you will not dare to follow your own wishes, unless you make a bold
stroke for liberty, as I have done, and free yourself once for all; but
not many people have the courage to do that--"

"I don't think it takes much courage to give up what one dislikes, and
to do what one likes best," I said calmly; and he gave a little jump of
surprise, and stared at me over the smoke of the match with amused eyes,
just as you look at a child who has said a funny thing--rather
precocious for its age.

"Pray, does that wise remark apply to me or to you?" he asked; and I put
my chin in the air and said--

"It was a general statement.  Of course, I can't judge of your actions,
and, for myself, I can't tell as yet what I _do_ like.  I must try both
lives before I can decide."

"Yes, yes.  You must run the gauntlet.  Poor little Babs!" he sighed;
and after that we sat for quite an age without speaking a word.  He was
remembering his secret, no doubt, and I was thinking of myself and
wondering if it was really true that I was going to have such a bad
time.  That reminded me of Miss Martin and her advice, and it came to me
with a shock that I'd been home a whole month, and had been so taken up
with my own affairs that I had had no time to think of my "sister."  I
was in a desperate hurry to find her at once.  I always am in a hurry
when I remember things, and the sight of the cottages put an idea into
my head.

"Do you know the people who live in these cottages, Mr Dudley?  I knew
the old tenants, of course, but these are new people, and I have not
seen them.  Are they old or young, and have they any children?"

He puffed out words and smoke in turns.

"John Williams--_puff_--wife--_puff_--one baby, guaranteed to make as
much noise as five--it's a marvel it's quiet now--_puff_.  You can
generally hear it a mile off--"

"Is it ill, then, the poor little thing?"

"Healthiest child in the world to judge from its appearance and the
strength of its lungs!  Natural depravity, nothing else"--_puff_!

"And in the next house?"

"Thompson--oldish man--widower.  Maiden sister to keep the house in
order--Thompson, too, I suspect by the look of him.  Looks very sorry
for himself, poor soul!"

"What's the matter with him--rheumatism?  Is he quite crippled or able
to get about?"

"Thompson?  Splendid workman--agile as a boy.  It was his mental
condition to which I referred!"

"And in the end house of all?"

"Don't know the name.  Middle-aged couple, singularly uninteresting, and
two big hulking sons--"

Big--hulking!  It was most disappointing!  _No one_ was delicate!  I
twisted about on my seat, and cried irritably--

"Are they _all_ well, every one of them?  Are you quite sure?  Are there
no invalid daughters, or crippled children, nor people like that?"

"Not that I know of, thank goodness!  You don't mean to say you _want_
them to be ill?"  He stared at me as if I were mad, and then suddenly
his face changed, and he said softly, "Oh, I see!  You want to look
after them!  That's nice of you, and it would have been uncommonly nice
for them, too; but, never fear, you will find plenty of people to help,
if that's what you want.  Their troubles may not take quite such an
obvious form as crutches, but they are in just as much need of sympathy,
nevertheless.  In this immediate neighbourhood, for instance--" He
paused for a moment, and I knew he was going to make fun by the twinkle
in his eye and the solemn way he puffed out the smoke.  "There's--
myself!"  So I just paid him back for his patronage, and led up to the
mystery by saying straight out--

"Yes, I know!  I guessed by what you said about town that you had had
some disappointment.  I'm dreadfully sorry, and if there's anything at
all that I can do--"

He simply jumped with surprise and stared at me in dead silence for a
moment, and then--horrid creature!--he began to laugh and chuckle as if
it was the most amusing thing in the world.

"So you have been making up stories about me, eh?  Am I a blighted
creature?  Am I hiding a broken heart beneath my Norfolk jacket?  Has a
lovely lady scorned me and left me in grief to pine--eh, Babs?  I did
not know you were harbouring such unkind thoughts of me.  You can't
accuse me of showing signs of melancholy this last week, I'm sure, and
as to my remarks about town, they were founded on nothing more romantic
than my rooted objection to smoke and dust, and bachelor diggings with
careless landladies.  I assure you I have no tragic secrets to disclose!
I'm sorry, as I'm sure you would find me infinitely more interesting
with a broken heart."

"Oh, I'm exceedingly glad, of course; but if you are so happy and
contented I don't see how you need my help," I said disagreeably; and
just then father came out of the cottage, and we started for home.

Mr Dudley talked to him about business in the most proper fashion, but
if he caught my eye, even in the middle of a sentence, he would drop his
head on his chest and put on the most absurd expression of misery, and
then I would toss my head and smile a scornful smile.  Some day, when he
finds out how old I am, he will be ashamed of treating me like a child.

William Dudley is the first stranger mentioned in these pages.  For that
reason I shall always feel a kind of interest in him, but I am
disappointed in his character.



CHAPTER FOUR.

                                                            _July 10th_.
To-day I went a round of calls with mother, driving round the country
for over twenty miles.  It was rather dull in one way and interesting in
another, for I do like to see other people's drawing-rooms and how they
arrange the things.  Some are all new and garish, and look as if they
were never used except for an hour or two in the evening, and some are
grand and stiff like a hotel, and others are all sweet and chintzy and
home-like, with lots of plants and a scent of _pot-pourri_ in china
vases.  That's the sort of room I like.  I mean to marry a man who
belongs to a very ancient family, so that I may have lots of beautiful
old furniture.

Mother gave me histories of the various hostesses as we drove up to the
houses.

"A dreadfully trying woman, I do hope she is out."  "Rather amusing.  I
should like you to see her."  "A most hopeless person--absolutely no
conversation.  Now, darling, take a lesson from her and never, never
allow yourself to relapse into monosyllables.  It is such a hopeless
struggle if all one's remarks are greeted with a `No' or a `Yes,' and
when girls first come out they are very apt to fall into this habit.
Make a rule that you will never reply to a question in less than four
words, and it is wonderful what a help you will find it.

"Twist the ends of your veil, dear, they are sticking out...  Oh dear,
dear, she is at home!  I do have such shocking bad fortune."

She trailed out of the carriage sighing so deeply that I was terrified
lest the servant should hear.  I shall never call on people unless I
want to see them.  It does seem such a farce to grumble because they are
at home, and then to be sweet and pleasant when you meet.

Mrs Greaves was certainly very silent, but I liked her.  She looked
worn and tired, but she had beautiful soft brown eyes which looked at
you and seemed to say a great deal more than her lips.  Do you know the
kind of feeling when you like people and know they like you in return?
I was perfectly certain Mrs Greaves had taken a fancy to me before she
said, "I should like to introduce my daughter to you," and sent a
message upstairs by the servant.  I wondered what the girl would be
like; a young edition of Mrs Greaves might be pretty, but there was an
expression on mother's face which made me uncertain.  Then she came in,
a pale badly dressed girl, with a sweet face and shy awkward manners.
Her name was Rachel, and she took me to see the conservatory, and I
wondered what on earth we should find to say.  Of course she asked first
of all--

"Are you fond of flowers?" and I remembered mother's rule and replied,
"Yes, I love them."  That was four words, but it didn't seem to take us
much further somehow, so I made a terrific effort and added, "But I
don't know much about their names, do you?"

"Yes, I think I do.  I feel as if it was a kind of courtesy we owe them
for giving us so much pleasure.  We take it as a slight if our own
friends mispronounce or misspell our own names, and surely flowers
deserve as much consideration from us," quoth she.

Goodness! how frightfully proper and correct.  I felt so quelled that
there was no more spirit left in me, and I followed her round listening
to her learned descriptions and saying, "How pretty!"  "Oh, really!" in
the most feeble manner you can imagine.

All the while I was really looking at her more than the flowers, and
discovering lots of things.  Number one--sweet eyes just like her
mother's; number two--sweet lips with tiny little white teeth like a
child's; number three--a long white throat above that awful collar.
Quotient--a girl who ought to be quite sweet, but who made herself a
fright.  I wondered why!  Did she think it wrong to look nice--but then,
if she did, why did she love the flowers just for that very reason?
Rachel Greaves!  I thought the name sounded like her somehow--old-
fashioned, and prim, and grey; but the next moment I felt ashamed, for,
as if she guessed what I was thinking, she turned to me and said
suddenly--

"Will you tell me your name?  I ought to know it to add to my
collection, for you are like a flower yourself."

Wasn't it a pretty compliment?  I blushed like anything, and said--

"It must be a wild one, I'm afraid.  I look hot-housey this afternoon,
for I'm dressed up to pay calls, but really I have just left school, and
feel as wild as I can be.  You mustn't be shocked if you meet me in a
short frock some morning tearing about the fields."

She leant back against the stand, staring at me with such big eyes, and
then she said the very last thing in the world which I expected to hear.

"May I come with you?  Will you let me come too some day?"

Come with me!  Rachel Greaves, with her solemn face, and dragged-back
hair, and her proper conversation.  To tear about the fields!  I nearly
had a fit.

"I suppose you want to botanise?"  I asked feebly, and she shook her
head and said--

"No; I want to talk to you--I want to do just what you do when you are
alone."

"Scramble through the hedges, and jump the streams, and swing on the
gates, and go bird's-nesting in the hedges?"

She gave a gulp of dismay, but stuck to her guns.

"Y-es!  At least, I could try--you could teach me.  I've learned such a
number of things in my life, but I don't know how to play.  That part of
my education has been neglected."

"Wherever did you go to school?  What a dreadful place it must have
been!"

"I never went to school; I had governesses at home, and I have no
brothers nor sisters; I am very much interested in girls of my own age,
especially poor girls, and try to work among them, but I am not very
successful.  They are afraid of me, and I can't enter into their
amusements; but if I could learn to romp and be lively, it might be
different."

It was such a funny thing to ask, and she looked so terribly in earnest
over it, that I was simply obliged to laugh.

"Do you mean to say you want to learn to be lively, as a lesson--that
you are taking it up like wood-carving or poker-work--for the sake of
your class and your influence there?"

She blinked at me like an owl, and said--

"I think, so far as I can judge of my own motives, that that is a
truthful statement of the case!  I have often wished I knew someone like
you--full of life and spirit; but there are not many girls in this
neighbourhood, and I met no one suitable until you came.  It is a great
deal to ask, but if you would spend a little time with me sometimes I
should be infinitely grateful."

"Oh, don't be grateful, please, until you realise what you have to
endure.  Nothing worth having can be gained without suffering," I said
solemnly.  "I shall lead you a terrible dance, and you must promise
implicit obedience.  I'm a terrible bully when I get the chance."

I privately determined that I'd teach her other things besides play, and
we agreed to meet next morning at eleven o'clock to take our first walk.
Mother was much amused when I told her of our conversation.

"You'll soon grow tired of her, darling; she is impossibly dull, but a
good creature who can do you no harm.  You can easily drop her if she
bores you too much."

But I don't expect to be bored, I expect it will be very amusing.

                                                             _Next Day_.
It was!  She was there to meet me with a mushroom hat over her face,
looking as solemn as ever, and never in all my life did I see a poor
creature work so hard at trying to enjoy herself.  She runs like an
elephant, and puffs like a grampus; says, "One, two, three," at the edge
of the streams, then gives a convulsive leap, and lands right in the
middle of the water.  She was splashed from head to foot, and quite pink
in the cheeks imagining she was going to be drowned, and in the next
hedge her hat caught in a branch, and was literally torn from her head.
Then we sat down to consider the situation, and to collect the fallen
hairpins from the ground.

She has a great long rope of hair, and she twists and twists and twists
it together like a nurse wringing out a fomentation, so I politely
offered to fasten it for her, and loosened it out and pulled it up over
her forehead, and you wouldn't believe the difference it made.  We found
some wild strawberries, and ate them for lunch, and I wreathed the
leaves round her head, and when her fingers were nicely stained with the
juice, and she looked thoroughly disreputable, I held out the little
looking-glass on my chatelaine, and gave her a peep at herself, and
said--

"That's the result of the first lesson!  What do you think of the effect
on your appearance?"

"I beg your pardon!  I'm quite ashamed.  What have I been doing?" she
cried all in a breath, and up went both hands to drag her hair back, and
tear out the leaves, but I caught them in time and held them down.

"Implicit obedience, remember!  I like you better as you are.  It's such
pretty hair that it's a sin to hide it away in that tight little knot.
Why shouldn't you look nice if you can?"

That began it, and we had quite a solemn discussion, something like
this--

Rachel, solemnly: "It does not matter how we look, so long as our
characters are beautiful!"

Una: "Then why was everything on the earth made so beautiful if we were
not intended to be beautiful too?  How would you like it if everything
was just as useful, but looked ugly instead of pretty?  When you have
the choice of being one or the other it's very ungrateful to abuse your
talent!"

"Beauty a talent!  I have always looked upon it as a snare!  How many a
woman's life has been spoiled by a lovely face!"

"That's the abuse of beauty, not the use!"  I said, and felt quite proud
of myself, for it sounded so grand.  "Of course, if you were silly and
conceited, it would spoil everything; but if you were nice, you would
have far more influence with people.  I used to notice that with the
pretty girls at school, and, of course, there's mother--everyone adores
her, and feels repaid for any amount of trouble if she will just smile
and look pleased."

"Ah, your mother!  But there are not many like her.  You spoke of having
a choice, but in my own case, for instance, how could I--what could I
do?"

"You could look fifty thousand times nicer if you took the trouble.  I
thought so the first time I saw you, and now I know it.  Look in the
glass again; would you know yourself for the same girl?"

She peered at herself, and gave a pleased little smirk just like a human
being.

"It's the enjoyment lesson, and the red cheeks--but oh, I couldn't--I
really couldn't wear my hair like that!  It looks so terribly as if I--I
_wanted_ to look nice!"

"Well, so you do, don't you?  I do, frightfully!  I'd like to be
perfectly lovely, and so charming that everyone adored me, and longed to
be with me."

"Ah, that's different," she said softly, and her eyes went shiny and she
stared straight ahead at nothing, in the way people do who are thinking
nice thoughts of their own which they don't mean you to know.  "To be
loved is beautiful, but that is different from admiration.  We love
people for their gifts of mind and heart, not for their appearance."
She meandered on for quite a long time, but I really forget all she
said, for I was getting tired of moralising, and wondering what excuse I
could make to leave her and fly off home across the fields.  Then
suddenly came the sound of footsteps at the other side of the stile, and
who should come jumping over just before our very faces but Will Dudley
himself on his way home to lunch.  He stared for a moment, hardly
recognising the two hat-less, dishevelled mortals squatted on the grass,
and then came forward to shake hands.  The funny thing was that he came
to me first, and said, "How do you do?" and then just shook hands with
Rachel without ever saying a word.  She didn't say anything either, but
I could see she was horribly embarrassed, thinking of her hair and the
strawberry leaves, and he looked at her and looked again as if he could
not understand what had happened.

I thought it would be fun to tell him all about it when we reached the
cross-roads, and Rachel left us alone.  I was glad she was going another
way, because it's rather a nuisance having a stranger with you when you
want to talk, and I knew Mr Dudley very well by this time.  He would be
so amused at the idea of the enjoyment lesson.  I was looking forward to
our talk; but oh, dear, what horrid shocks one does get sometimes!  I
shall never, never forget my feelings when we got to the corner, and he
held out his hand to me--me--Una Sackville, and walked calmly off with
Rachel Greaves.

It was not as if he had been going in her direction; his way home was
with me, so why on earth should he choose to go off with her?  Are they
lovers, or friends, or what?  Why did he take no notice of her at first,
then suddenly become so anxious for her society?  It's not that I care a
scrap, but it seemed so rude!  I've been as cross as two sticks all day.
Nothing annoys me more than to be disappointed in my friends!

Eleven o'clock.  I was comfortably settled in bed when I suddenly
remembered resolution number two.  The real reason that I am annoyed is
that I am conceited enough to think I am nicer than Rachel, and to want
Mr Dudley to think so too.  How horrid it looks written down!  I
believe it will do me heaps of good to have to look at plain truths
about myself in staring black and white.  Perhaps Lorna is right after
all, and I have a greed for admiration!  I'll turn over a new leaf and
be humble from this day.



CHAPTER FIVE.

                                                            _July 15th_.
I was not in the least interested to know anything about what Will
Dudley and Rachel Greaves talked about together, but I was anxious to
find out if she had said anything to show him that I was really grown-
up, instead of the child he thought me; so the next time we met I asked
her plump and plain--

"What did you and Mr Dudley say about me the other morning?"

We were walking along a lane together, and she turned her head and
stared at me in blank surprise.

"About you?  The other morning?  We--we never spoke of you at all!"

Then I suppose I looked angry, or red, or something, for she seemed in a
tremendous hurry to appease me.

"We have a great many interests in common.  When we lived in town we
belonged to the same societies, and worked for the same charities.  It
is interesting to remember old days, and tell each other the latest news
we have heard about the work and its progress."

"Then you knew him before he came here?  He is not a new friend?"

"Oh, no--we have known him for years.  It was father who got him his
present position."

"And you like him very much?"

"Yes," she said quietly.  "Isn't it lovely to see the hedges covered
with the wild roses?  I think they are almost my favourite flower--so
dainty and delicate."

"Nasty, prickly things--I hate them!"  I cried; for I do detest being
snubbed, and she could not have told me more plainly in so many words
that she did not choose to speak of Will Dudley.  Why not?  I wonder.
Was there some mystery about their friendship?  I should not mind
talking about anyone I know, and it was really absurd of Rachel to be so
silent and reserved.  I determined not to ask her any more questions,
but to tackle Mr Dudley himself.

Two days after there was the garden party, where I knew we should meet.
He was bound to go, as it was on the estate where he was living, and I
was to make my first formal appearance in society, in the prettiest
dress and hat you can possibly imagine.  Mother was quite pleased with
me because I let her and Johnson fuss as much as they liked, and tie on
my white veil three times over to get it in the right folds.  Then I
looked in the glass at my sweeping skirts, and hair all beautifully done
up, and laughed to think how different I looked from Babs of the morning
hours.

We drove off in state, and I was quite excited at the prospect of the
fray; but I do think garden parties are dreadfully dull affairs!  A band
plays on the lawn, and people stroll about, and criticise one another's
dresses, and look at the flowers.  They are very greedy affairs, too,
for really and truly we were eating all the time--tea and iced coffee
when we arrived; ices, and fruits, and nice things to drink until the
moment we came away.  I don't mean to say that I ate straight on, of
course, but waiters kept walking about with trays, and I noticed
particularly what they were like, so as not to take two ices running
from the same man.  I had a strawberry, and a vanilla, and a lemon--but
that was watery, and I didn't like it.  I was talking to the hostess,
when I saw Mr Dudley coming towards us, and he looked at me with such a
blank, unrecognising stare that I saw at once he had no idea who I was.
Mrs Darcy talked to him for a moment while I kept the brim of my hat
tilted over my face, then she said--

"Don't you know Miss Sackville?  Allow me to introduce Mr Dudley, dear.
Do take her to have some refreshment, like a good man.  I am sure she
has had nothing to eat!"

I thought of the coffee, and the ices, and the lemonade and the
sandwiches, but said nothing, and we sauntered across the lawn together
talking in the usual ridiculous grown-up fashion.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Quite charming.  So fortunate for Mrs Darcy."

"Beautiful garden, isn't it?"

"Charming!  Such lovely roses!"

"Beautiful band, isn't it?"

"Oh, charming!  Quite charming!"

Then he seated me at a little table and provided me with an ice, (number
four), and stared furtively at me from the opposite side.  It _was_ fun.
I crinkled my veil up over my nose and tilted my hat over my forehead,
and shot a glance at him every now and then, to find his eyes fixed on
me--not recognising at all, but evidently so puzzled and mystified to
think who I could be.  Father had told him only a week before that Vere
would not be home for a month--and now who was this third Miss Sackville
who had suddenly appeared upon the scene?

"You have returned home rather sooner than you intended, haven't you?"
he inquired, and I shook my head and said--

"Oh, no, I kept to the exact date.  I always do!  What makes you think
otherwise?"

"I--er--I thought I heard you were not expected for some time to come.
You have been staying with friends?"

"Oh, a number of friends!  Quite a huge house party.  I feel quite lost
without them all."

He would have been rather surprised if I had explained that the party
consisted of forty women and no man, but that was not his business, and
it was perfectly true that I missed them badly.  All the Rachel
Greaveses in the world would never make up for Lorna and the rest!

"But you have your sister!" he said.  "I have seen a good deal of your
sister in her morning walks with Mr Sackville.  She is a charming
child, and most companionable; I am sure she will be a host in herself!"

"It's very good of you!  I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear you
say so!"  I said suavely; but do what I would, I could not resist a
giggle, and he stared at me harder than ever, and looked so confused.  I
was so afraid that he would find me out and spoil the fun that I
determined not to try to keep up the delusion any longer.  He was going
to cross-question me, I could see it quite plainly, so I lay back in my
chair, smoothed out my veil, and smiled at him in my most fascinating
manner.

"I'm so pleased that you have formed such a good opinion of me, Mr
Dudley!  I was really afraid you had forgotten me altogether, for you
seemed hardly to recognise me a few minutes ago."

He leant both arms on the table so that his face was quite near to mine.
"_Who are you_?" he asked, and I laughed, and nodded in reply.

"I'm Babs--Una Sackville is my name--England is my nation, Branfield is
my dwelling--"

"Don't joke, please.  I want to understand.  _You--are--Babs_!  Have you
been deliberately deceiving me, then?  Pray, what has been your object
in posing as a child all these weeks!"

That made me furious, and I cried hotly--

"I never posed at all--I never deceived you!  Father treats me as a
child, and you followed his example as a matter of course, and I was
very pleased to be friends in a sensible manner without any nonsense.
If I had said, `Please, I'm nineteen--I've left school, and am coming
out--this is a hockey skirt, but I wear tails in the evening,' you would
have been proper, and stiff, and have talked about the weather, and we
should have had no fun.  If anyone is to blame, it is you, for not
seeing how really old I was!"

He smiled at that, and went on staring, staring at my face, my hair, my
long white gloves, the muslin flounces lying on the ground round my
feet.

"So very old!" he said.  "Nineteen, is it?  And I put you down as--
fourteen or fifteen, at the most!  And so Babs has disappeared.  Exit
Babs!  I'm sorry.  She was a nice child; I enjoyed meeting her very
much.  I think we should have been real good friends."

"She has not disappeared at all.  You will meet her to-morrow morning.
There is nothing to prevent us being as good friends as ever," I
declared, but he shook his head in a mysterious fashion.

"I think there is!  There's a third person on the scene now who will
make it difficult--for me, at least--to go back to the same footing.
There's Una!" he said, and looked at me with his bright grey eyes, up
and down, down and up again, in a grave, quiet sort of way which I had
never seen before.  It made me feel nice, but rather uncomfortable, and
I was glad when he brightened up again, and said gaily--

"I owe a hundred apologies for my lack of ceremony to this fine, this
very fine, this super-fine young lady!  I'll turn over a new leaf for
the future, and treat you with becoming ceremony.  I can quite imagine
the disgust of the budding _debutante_ at my cavalier ways.  Confess now
that your dignity was sorely wounded?"

His eyes were twinkling again.  They are grey, and his face is so brown
that they look lighter than the skin.  I never saw anyone's eyes look
like that before, but it is awfully nice.  I thought there was a
splendid opening, so I said--

"No; I was never vexed but once.  I like being treated sensibly, but
that morning when you left me, and went out of your way with Rachel
Greaves--I was sorry then that you did not know that I was grown up."

"You thought if I had I would have walked with you instead?  Why?"

I blushed a little, and it seemed to me that he blushed too--his cheeks
certainly looked hot.  It was a horrid question to answer, and he must
have known for himself what I meant.  I really and truly don't think
many men would go out of their way for Rachel Greaves.  I answered by
another question--it was the easiest way.

"I didn't know then that you were old friends.  I suppose you get to
like her better when you know her well?"

"Naturally.  That is always the case with the best people."

"And she is--"

"The best woman I have ever met, and the most selfless!" he said
solemnly.  "Have you spoken to Rachel about me?  What has she told you?
I should like you to know the truth, though it is not yet general
property.  You can keep it to yourself for awhile?"

I nodded.  I didn't want to speak, for I felt a big, hard lump swelling
in my throat, and my heart thumped.  I knew quite well what he was going
to say, and I hated it beforehand.

"We are engaged to be married.  It will probably be an engagement for
years, for Rachel feels her present duty is at home, and I am content to
wait her pleasure.  I don't go up to the house very often, as the old
gentleman is an invalid, and dislikes visitors, but we understand one
another, and are too sensible to fret because we cannot always be
together.  Only when an opportunity occurs, as it did the other
morning-- Why--you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," I said slowly.  I was thinking it over, and
wondering, if I were ever engaged, if I should like my _fiance_ to be
content and sensible, and quite resigned to see me seldom, and to wait
for years before we could be married.  I think I would rather he were in
a hurry!

Oh, I wish I were selfless, too!  I wish I could be glad for them
without thinking of myself; but I do feel so lonely and out in the cold.
I'm thankful that Vere is coming home next week, and the house will be
filled with visitors.  Engaged people are no use--they are always
thinking about each other!



CHAPTER SIX.

                                                            _July 20th_.
Rachel was surprised when I told her that I knew her secret, and I don't
think she was pleased.

"Will told you!  Will told you himself!" she repeated, and stared at me
in a puzzled, curious fashion, as if she wondered why on earth he should
have chosen to make a confidante of me.  "It is hardly a regular
engagement, for father will not hear of my leaving home, and the waiting
may be so long that I have told Will it is not fair to bind him.  He
says he is content to wait, but we agreed to speak about it as little as
possible for some time to come."

"Oh, well, I'll keep the secret.  You need not be afraid that I shall
gossip about you," I told her.  She wears no ring on her engagement
finger, but always, always--morning, noon and night--there is a little
diamond anchor pinned in the front of her dress.  I suppose he has given
her that instead, as a symbol of hope--hope that in ten or a dozen
years, when she is an old thing over thirty, they may possibly be
married!  Well, I can imagine Rachel waiting twenty years, if it comes
to that, and keeping quite happy and serene meantime; but Will Dudley is
different--so quick and energetic and keen.  I could not have imagined
him so patient.

Yesterday Vere came home, bringing her friends with her, and already
Rachel and her love affair seems far away, and we live in such a bustle
and confusion that there is no time to think.  I'm rather glad, for I
was getting quite dull and mopey.  They arrived about five in the
afternoon, and came trooping into the hall, where tea was waiting.  Two
girls and three men, and Vere herself, prettier than ever, but with just
the old, aggravating, condescending way.

"Hallo, Babs!  Is that you transformed into a young lady in long
dresses, and your hair done up?  You dear, fat thing, how ridiculous you
look!" she cried, holding me out at arm's length, and laughing as if it
were the funniest joke in the world, while those three strange men stood
by staring, and I grew magenta with embarrassment.

One of the men was tall and handsome, with a long, narrow face, and
small, narrow eyes; he laughed with her, and I hated him for it, and for
having so little sympathy with a poor girl's feelings.  Another was
small, with a strong, square-set figure, and he looked sorry for me; and
the third looked on the floor, and frowned as if something had hurt his
feelings.  He was the oldest and gravest-looking of the three, and I
knew before he had been ten minutes in the room that he adored Vere with
his heart, and disapproved of her with his conscience, and was miserable
every time she did or said a thoughtless thing.

"I told you I had a smaller sister at home--here she is!  Rather bigger
than I expected, but not much changed in other respects.  Don't be shy,
Babs!  Shake hands nicely, and be friends!"  Vere cried laughingly,
taking me by the shoulders and pushing me gently towards where the men
stood; but, just as I was fuming with rage at being treated as if I were
two, father came suddenly from behind, and said in his most grand
seigneur manner--

"Allow me, Vere!  If an introduction is made at all, it is best to make
it properly.  Captain Grantly, Mr Nash, Mr Carstairs, I have the
honour of introducing you to my second daughter, Miss Una Sackville."

The change of expression on the men's faces was comical to behold.
Captain Grantly, the narrow-faced one, bowed as if I had been the Queen,
and the nice little man smiled at me as if he were pleased--he was Mr
Nash, and poor Mr Carstairs flushed as if he had been snubbed himself;
I was quite sorry for him.

The girls were very lively and bright, spoke in loud voices, and behaved
as if they had lived in the house all their lives, which is supposed to
be good manners nowadays.  Margot Sanders is tall and fair, and wears
eye-glasses, and Mary Eversley, who is "Lady Mary," would have been
considered very unladylike indeed at our polite seminary.

It seems to be fashionable nowadays for a girl to behave as much like a
man as possible, and to smoke and shout, and stand with her arms behind
her back, and lounge about anyhow on her chair.  Well, I won't!  I don't
care if it's fashionable or not!  I'd rather have been a boy if I'd had
the choice, but as I am a girl I'll make the best of it, and be as nice
a specimen as I can.  Lorna says a girl ought to be like a flower--
sweet, modest and fragrant; she's a bit sentimental when you get her
alone, but I agree with the idea, though I should not have expressed it
in the same way.  If I were a man I should hate to marry a girl who
smelt of tobacco and shrieked like a steam whistle.  I'd like a dear,
dainty thing with a soft voice and pretty, womanly ways.  I hereby vow
and declare that I will stick to my colours, and set an example to those
old things who ought to know better.  Lady Mary must be twenty-five if
she is a day.  I don't expect she will ever be married now.  With the
clear-sighted gaze of youth, I can see that she is hiding a broken heart
beneath the mask of mirth.  Life is frightfully exciting when you have
the gift of penetrating below the surface.

Will Dudley came to dinner; he was the only stranger, as he made the
number even.  I wore my new white chiffon, and thought I looked very
fine till I went downstairs and saw the others.  They were smart, and
Vere looked lovely, and did the honours so charmingly that even mother
seemed to make way for her.  Poor mother! she looked so happy; she dotes
on Vere, and is so proud of her; it does seem hard she doesn't have more
of her society!  I felt sad somehow, and sort of lonely as I watched
them together--Vere fussing round and saying pretty, flattering little
speeches, and mother smiling at her so tenderly.  I feel nice things,
too, but I can't say them to order; my lips seem all tight and horrid,
as if they wouldn't move.  I felt like the elder brother in the parable,
because I really have denied myself, and been bored fearfully sometimes
these last weeks doing fancy-work with mother, and driving about shut up
in a horrid, close carriage, while Vere has been gadding about and
enjoying herself; and then the moment she comes home I am nowhere beside
her!  Injustices like this sear the heart, and make one old before one's
time.

I suppose I looked sad, for Will Dudley crossed over the room to talk to
me.

"Aren't you well?" he asked, and his eyes looked so anxious and worried
that it quite comforted me.

"I have rather a headache," I began, without thinking of what I was
saying, and then, (somehow I never can help telling him exactly how I
feel), I stopped, and contradicted myself flat.  "I'm perfectly well,
but I think I'm jealous.  I have been the only child for so long, and
now my poor little nose is out of joint, and I don't like it a bit.  It
aches."

I thought he would sympathise and protest that I could never be
superseded, in his opinion at least, but he just sighed, and said
slowly--

"Yes, she is very lovely!  It must be a great responsibility to have a
face as beautiful as hers, with all the influence over others that is
its accompaniment!" and looked straight across the room to where Vere
stood beneath the shaded lamp.

She was not looking in our direction; but, as if she felt his gaze
without seeing it, she turned her head slowly round and raised her eyes
to his, and so they stood while you could have counted ten, staring,
staring, straight into each other's eyes, and I saw the colour fade
gradually out of Vere's face, as though she were frightened by what she
saw.  That is the way people fall in love!  I've read about it in books.
They sort of recognise each other when they meet, even if they are
perfect strangers, and Lorna says it is the soul recognising its mate.
But I know well enough that Vere would never satisfy Will Dudley, and,
besides, there is Rachel--poor patient Rachel, who trusts him so
faithfully.  I looked up quickly to see if he had turned pale also.  He
was rather white, but there was a curious little smile about the corners
of his lips which quietened my fears.  I should not have liked that
smile if I had been Vere.  There was something contemptuous in it
despite its admiration, and a sort of defiance, too, as if he were
quite, quite sure of himself and secure from all temptation; but then
they do begin like that sometimes, and the siren weaves on them her
spells, and they succumb.  I wonder how it will end with Vere and Will
Dudley!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

It is rather jolly having a house full of people; and father and mother
and Vere are so clever at entertaining.  There is never any fuss nor
effort, and people are allowed to go their own way, but there is always
something to do if they choose to do it.  I must say that, for grown-up
people, these visitors are very frivolous, and play about together as if
they were children.  Mr Nash began showing me tricks with pennies after
breakfast the first morning, and I was so interested learning how to do
them that it was half-past ten before I thought of joining father at the
stables.  It was too late then, and I wasn't altogether sorry, for it
was livelier going about with these new people, and it wasn't my fault,
for I should have gone if I'd remembered.  I was extra nice to father at
lunch to make up, and he didn't seem a bit vexed, so I needn't trouble
another day.  Really, I think it is my duty to help Vere all I can.  She
questioned me about Will Dudley the first time we were alone.  I knew
she would, and decided to tell her of his engagement.  I had been told
not to speak of it generally; but to my own sister it was different, and
I had a feeling that she ought to know.

"Who is that Mr Dudley?" she asked, and when I told her all I knew, she
smiled and dropped her eyes in the slow, self-confident fashion which
other people think so fascinating but which always make me long to shake
her.

"Really, quite an acquisition!" she drawled.  "A vast improvement on the
native one generally meets in these wilds.  We must cultivate him, Babs!
He makes our number even, so we can afford to spoil him a little bit,
as it is a convenience to ourselves at the same time.  It will be a
godsend for him to meet some decent people."

"As a matter of fact, he came to live in the country because he was sick
of society and society people.  He is not a country bumpkin, Vere, and
won't be a bit grateful for your patronage.  In fact, I don't believe he
will come oftener than once or twice.  When a man is engaged it's a bore
to him to have to--"

"Engaged!" she cried.  "Mr Dudley!  Who told you he was engaged?  I
don't believe a word of it.  Some stupid local gossip!  Who told you
that nonsense?"

"He told me himself!"

"He did?  My dear Babs, he was having a joke!  No man would confide such
a thing to a child like you!"

"You are mistaken there.  He has told me heaps of things besides this,
and I know the girl, and have spoken to her about it.  You know her,
too.  Rachel Greaves, who lives at `The Clift'."

"Rach-el Greaves!  Oh! oh!" cried Vere, and put her hands to her sides
in peals of derisive laughter.  "Oh, this is too killing!  And you
_believed_ it?  You dear, sweet innocent!  That man and--Rachel Greaves!
My dear, have you seen her hair?  Have you seen her hat?  Could you
really imagine for one moment that any man could be engaged to a
creature like that?"

"I don't imagine--I know!  They have been engaged for years.  It will be
years more before they are married, for old Mr Greaves won't give his
consent.  And Rachel won't leave home without it; but Mr Dudley is
quite willing to wait.  He says she is the best woman in the world."

"Oh, I daresay!  She is frumpy enough for anything; and you call that an
engagement?  My dear, he will no more marry her than he'll marry the
moon.  It's just a stupid platonic friendship, and as he has not known
anything else he thinks it is love.  Imagine being in love with that
solemn creature!  Imagine making pretty speeches and listening to her
correct copy-book replies!  Wait!  I should think she may wait!  She'll
have a surprise one of these days when he meets the right girl, and bids
Rachel Greaves a fond farewell!"

"He'll do nothing of the sort," I said hotly.  "I do hate you, Vere,
when you sneer like that, and make out that everyone is worldly and
horrible, like yourself!  Will Dudley is a good man, and he wants a good
woman for his wife--not a doll.  He'd rather have Rachel's little finger
than a dozen empty-headed fashion-plates like the girls you admire.  But
you don't understand.  Your friends are all so different that you cannot
understand an honest man when you meet him."

"Can't I?  What a pity!  Don't get into a rage, dear, it's so
unnecessary.  I'm sorry I'm so obtuse; but at least I can learn.  I'll
make it my business to understand Mr Dudley thoroughly during the
autumn.  It will be quite an occupation," replied Vere, with her head in
the air and her eyes glittering at me in a nasty, horrid, cold,
calculating "You-wait-and-see" kind of way which made me ill!  It was
just like Tennyson's Lady Clara Vere de Vere, who "sought to break a
country heart for pastime ere she went to town," for Vere would never be
content to marry Will Dudley, even if she succeeded in winning him from
Rachel.  Poor Rachel!  I felt so sorry for her; she has so little, and
she's so sweet and content, and so innocent that a serpent has entered
into her Eden.  It sounds rather horrid to call your own sister a
serpent, but circumstances alter cases, and it really is appropriate.  I
think Vere expected me to fly into another rage, but I didn't feel angry
at all, only sorry and ashamed, and anxious to know what I could do to
baulk her dark designs.

"I'm thankful I'm not a beauty!"  I said at last, and she stared for a
moment, and then laughed and said--

"Because of the terrible temptations which you escape?  Dear little
innocent!  Don't be too modest, however; you really have improved
marvellously these past few months.  If you could hear what the men said
about you last night--"

"I don't want to hear, thank you," I returned icily; and that was one
temptation overcome, anyhow, for I just died to know every single
remark!  It's awful to care so much about what people think about you,
as I do.  After she went away I sat down and reviewed the situation, as
they say in books, and mapped out a plan of action.  I wanted to feel
that I was doing some good to someone, so I decided then and there to be
a guardian angel to Will and Rachel.  It's wonderful what you can do,
even if you are only nineteen and a girl, if you set your mind to it,
and determine to succeed.  They have both been kind to me, and I am
their friend, and mean to help them.  I'd rather be flayed alive than
say so to a living soul, but I can now confess to these pages that I was
jealous of Rachel myself when I first heard of the engagement, and I
wondered, if Will had never seen her, if perhaps he--oh, a lot of silly,
idiotic things; for he is so different from the other men you meet that
you simply can't help liking him.  So now it will be a discipline for me
to have to forget myself, and try to keep them together.  Perhaps when
they are married they will know all, and bless my memory, and call one
of their children after me, and I shall be content to witness their
happiness from afar.  I've read of things like that, but I always
thought I'd be the married one, not the other.  You do when you are
young, but it's awful what sorrows there are in the world.  I am not
twenty yet, and already my life is blighted, and my fondest hopes laid
in the dust...

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Such ripping fun!  We are all going for a moonlight party up the river,
with hampers full of good things to eat at supper on the bank above the
lock.  We are taking rugs to spread on the grass, and Japanese lanterns
to make it look festive, and not a single servant, so that we shall do
everything ourselves.  We girls are all delighted, but I think the men--
Captain Grantly especially--think it's rather mad to go to so much
trouble when you might have your dinner comfortably at home.  Male
creatures are like that, so practical and commonplace, not a bit
enthusiastic and sensible like school-girls.  We used to keep awake
until one o'clock in the morning, and sit shivering in dressing-gowns,
eating custard, tarts and sardines, and thought it was splendid fun.  I
think a picnic where servants make the fire and pack away the dishes is
too contemptible for words.

Vere wanted Will Dudley to come with us, so I went round to the "The
Clift" that very afternoon and invited Rachel to come too.  I am as much
at liberty to invite my friends as she is to ask hers, and this was
meant to be a checkmate to her plans; but Rachel was too stupid for
words, and wouldn't be induced to accept.

"I always play a game with father in the evening," she said.  "He would
miss it if I went out."

"But he can't expect you never to go out!  He would appreciate you all
the more if you did leave him alone sometimes," I said, talking to
myself as much as to her, for it was four days since I had been a walk
with my father, and my horrid old conscience was beginning to prick.
"Do come, Rachel.  I want you particularly," but she went on refusing,
so then I thought I would try what jealousy would do.  "We shall be such
a merry party; Vere is prettier and livelier than ever, and her friends
are very amusing.  Lady Mary is very handsome, and she sings and plays
on the mandoline.  She is going to take it with her to-night.  It will
be so pretty, the sound of singing on the water, and she will look so
picturesque under the Japanese lamps."

She looked wistful and longing, but not a bit perturbed.

"I wish I could come!  It sounds charming.  I've hardly ever been on the
river, never in the evening; but I should be worrying about father all
the time.  He is old, you see, Una, and he has such bad pain, and his
days seem so long.  It must be so sad to be ill and know that you will
never get any better, and to have nothing to look forward to."  Her face
lit up suddenly, and I knew she was thinking of the time, years ahead,
when what she was looking forward to would come true.  "I really could
not neglect father for my own amusement."

"But you have someone else to think of!"  I reminded her cunningly.  "I
told you who was coming.  You ought to think of his pleasure."

"Oh, he will enjoy it in any case!  He loves being on the water; I am so
glad you asked him!" she cried, quite flushed with delight, if you
please, at the thought that Will was coming without her.  I did feel a
worm!  Never, no, never could I be like that.  If I were engaged to a
man and couldn't go anywhere, I should like him to stay at home too, and
think of me, and not dare to enjoy himself with other girls; but Rachel
is not like that.  Sometimes I wish she were just a wee, tiny bit less
sensible and composed.  I could love her better if she were.

We all went down to the boat-house at eight o'clock, we girls with long
coats over our light dresses, because it's silly to catch cold, and so
unbecoming, and on the way I told Will about Rachel.  He came at once
and walked beside me, and gave me such a nice look as he thanked me for
thinking of it.

"That was kind of you!  She would be pleased to be remembered, but this
sort of thing is out of her line.  She will be happier at home!"

Poor Rachel!  That's the worst of being chronically unselfish; in the
end people cease to give you any credit for it, and virtue has to be its
own reward, for you don't get any other.  I did think it was hard that
even Will should misjudge her so, and be so complacent about it into the
bargain, but it was hardly my place to defend her to him, of all people
in the world.

"You will come into my boat, of course," he said in his masterful way
when we drew near the ferry; but I had seen Vere divide parties before
now, and I knew very well I should not be allowed to go where I chose.
It was as good as a play to see how she did it, seeming to ponder and
consider, and change her mind half a dozen times, and to be so
spontaneous and natural, when all the time her plans had been made from
the very beginning.  Finally, she and Will took possession of the first
boat, with Lady Mary and Captain Grantly, who were always together, and
were too much taken up with their own society to have eyes for anyone
else.  Miss Talbot, Mr Nash, Mr Carstairs and I went into the second
boat--Miss Talbot furious because she felt it a slight to be put with a
child like me--Mr Carstairs depressed as he generally was, poor man!--I
with a heavy weight inside me, feeling all of a sudden as if I hated
parties and everything about them, and dear little Mr Nash, happy and
complacent, cracking jokes to which no one deigned to listen.  Isn't it
funny to think how miserable you can be when you are supposed to be
enjoying yourself?  I dare say if you only knew it, lots of people have
aching hearts when you envy them for being so happy.  The people on the
banks looked longingly at us, but three out of the four in our boat were
as cross and dissatisfied as they could be; and it made it worse to hear
them enjoying themselves in the other boat; Vere's trills of laughter,
and Lady Mary's gentlemanly "Ha, ha!" ringing out in response to the
murmur of the men's voices.  When you are on land with the wrong people
there is always the chance of a change, but you _do_ feel so "fixed" in
a boat!  I simply longed to reach the lock, and felt as cross as two
sticks, until suddenly I met Mr Carstairs' eyes, looking, oh, so sad
and hopeless, and I felt so sorry that I simply had to rouse up to cheer
him.  He must know perfectly well that Vere doesn't care for him, but he
seems as if he could not help caring for her, and staying on and on,
though he is miserable all the time, I like him!  He has a good look in
his face, and talks sensibly about interesting things, instead of
everlastingly chaffing or paying compliments, which seems to be the
fashion nowadays.  I think I shall favour his suit, and try to help him.

I talked, and he looked first bored, and then amused, and in the end
quite interested and happy, so that we drew up by the bank to join the
others in quite a cheerful mood, much to my relief.  It is humiliating
to look left out in the cold, however much you may feel it.

Vere was flushed, and unlike herself somehow.  She fussed over the
laying out of the supper, and it wasn't like Vere to fuss, and whenever
she wanted anything done she always turned first of all to Will Dudley,
and half the time he was looking the other way and never noticed what
she ask, when poor Mr Carstairs did it at once and got snubbed for his
pains.

I was the youngest, and had to do all the uninteresting things, such as
unpacking the spoons and forks, and taking the paper wrappings off the
tumblers, while the others laid out the provisions and quarrelled over
the best arrangement.  But it was fun when we all sat down and began to
eat.  The Japanese lanterns were tied to the trees overhead, and made
everything look bright and cheery, for the moon had hidden itself behind
the clouds, and it had been just a wee bit cheerless the last half-hour.
We heated the soup over a little spirit-lamp, and had lobster salad on
dainty little paper plates, and cold chicken and cutlets, and all sorts
of delicious sweets and fruit, and we all ate a lot, and groaned and
said how ill we should be in the morning, and then ate some more and
didn't care a bit.  It was almost as good as a feast in the dormitory.
Then we told funny stories, and asked riddles, and Lady Mary sang coon
songs to her mandoline, and I was enjoying myself simply awfully when
someone said--it was Mr Nash, and I shall never forgive him for it--

"Now it's your turn, Miss Una!  Your father is always talking of your
singing, yet we never seem to hear you.  Too bad, you know!  You can't
refuse to-night, when we are all doing our best to amuse each other.
Now, then, what is it to be?"

I was horrified!  I love singing, but it seemed so formidable with no
accompaniment, and no piano behind which to hide my blushes, but the
more I protested, the more they implored, until Vere said quite
sharply--

"For goodness' sake, child, do your best, and don't make a fuss!  Nobody
expects you to be a professional!"

"Start ahead, and I'll vamp an accompaniment.  It will be better than
nothing," said Lady Mary kindly, and Will whispered low in my ear:
"Don't be nervous.  Do your best.  Astonish them, Babs!"  And I did.
That whisper inspired me somehow, and I sang "The Vale of Avoca,"
father's favourite ballad, pronouncing the words distinctly, as the
singing mistress always made us do at school.  I love the words, and the
air is so sweet, and just suits my voice.  I always feel quite worked up
and choky when I come to the last verse, but I try not to show it, for
it looks so silly to cry at yourself.

There was quite a burst of applause when I finished.  The men clapped
and called out "Bravo!  Bravo!"  Lady Mary said, "You little wretch!
You do take the wind out of my sails.  Fancy having to be bothered to
sing with a voice like that!  Gracious!  I should never leave off!" and
Vere laughed, and said in her sweetest tones, "But, for pity's sake,
don't turn sentimental, Babs!  It's so absurdly out of keeping!  Stick
to something lively and stirring--something from the comic operas!  That
would be far more in your line, don't you think so, Mr Dudley?"

Will was leaning back on his elbow, resting his head on his hand.

"It's a question of taste," he said lazily.  "Some people are fond of
comic operas.  Personally, I detest them; but I don't profess to be a
judge.  I only know what I like."

"A sentimental ballad, for example?"

"Occasionally.  Not always, by any means."  He seemed determined not to
give a straight-forward answer, and Vere turned aside with a shrug and
began to talk to Mr Carstairs.  She always takes refuge with him when
other people fail her.  I felt all hot and churned up with the
excitement of singing, and then with rage at being snubbed in that
public fashion.  It spoiled all the pleasure and made me wonder if I had
really made an exhibition of myself, and they were only pretending to be
pleased.

The others were chattering like magpies; only Will Dudley and I were
silent.  I felt his eyes watching me, but I wouldn't look at him for
quite a long time, till at last I simply had to turn round, when he
smiled, such a kind nice smile, and said--

"Well, better now?  Got the better of the little temper?"

"I don't know; partly, I suppose, but I do hate to be snubbed.  I didn't
want to sing.  I did it to be polite; and it's horrid to think I made an
idiot of myself."

Silence.  It was no use.  I _had_ to ask him--

"Did I make an idiot of myself?"

"You know you didn't."

"Did you--did you think it was nice?"

"Yes."

That was all.  Not another word could I get out of him, but I felt
better, for it sounded as if he really meant it, and I cared for his
opinion most of all.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

                                                          _August 15th_.
It is three weeks since the moonlight picnic, and so many things have
happened since then, such awful, terrible things, that I don't know how
to begin to tell them.  I didn't think when I began this diary how
thrilling it was going to be before I'd got half way through; but you
never know what is going to happen in this world.  It's awful how
suddenly things come.  I don't think I can ever again feel confident and
easy-going, as I used to do.  You read in books sometimes, "She was no
longer a girl, she was a woman," and it is like that with me.
Everything seems different and more solemn, and I don't think I can ever
frivol again in quite the same whole-hearted way.

To begin at the beginning: we had a very lively time for the next week,
and I grew quite fond of Vere's friends, even Lady Mary, whom I hated at
first, and they all made a fuss of me, and made me sing every night till
I felt quite proud.  I invited Rachel over and over again, but she would
never accept our invitations; but Will came often, either to dinner or
lunch, or for an odd call, and Vere neglected everyone for him, and was
so fascinating that I was in terror all the time.  He admired her, of
course; he would have been blind if he hadn't, but I could not decide if
he liked her or not.  Sometimes I saw him smiling to himself in the
queer, half-scornful way he had done when they first met, and then I was
sure he did not; but at other times he would watch her about the room,
following every movement as if he couldn't help himself, and that's a
bad sign.  Lorna has a sister who is married, and she knew the man was
going to propose, because he looked like that.  Somehow I never had a
chance of a quiet talk, when I could have given him a hint, and it was
thinking about that and wondering how I could see him alone which made
me suddenly remember that it was a whole week and more since I had been
a walk with father.  I went hot all over at the thought.  It was ghastly
to remember how I had planned and promised to be his companion, and to
care for him first of all, and then to realise how I had forsaken him at
the very first temptation!  He was so sweet about it, too, never
complaining or seeming a bit vexed.  Parents are really angels.  It must
be awful to have a child, and take such trouble with it all its life,
and then to be neglected for strangers.  I hadn't the heart to write in
my diary that night.  I was too ashamed.  I was worse than Vere, for I
had posed as being so good and dutiful.  I won't make any more vows, but
I confess here with that I am a selfish pig, and I am ashamed of myself.

The next morning I could hardly wait until breakfast was over, I was so
anxious to be off.  I got my cap and ran down to the stable and slipped
my arm in father's as he stood talking to Vixen.  He gave a little start
of surprise--it hurt me, that start!--looked down at me and said,
smiling--

"Well, dear, what is it?"

"Nothing.  I'm coming with you!"  I said, and he squeezed my hand
against his side.

"Thank you, dear, but I'm going a long round.  I won't be back until
lunch.  Better not leave your friends for so long."

"Vere is with them, father.  I want to come."

"What's the matter?  Not had a quarrel, have you?  Has Vere been--"

"No, no, she hasn't!  _Nothing_ is the matter, except that I want you,
and nobody else.  Oh, father, don't be so horribly kind!  Scold me--call
me a selfish wretch!  I know I have neglected you, dear.  There was
always something to do, and I--forgot, but really and truly I remembered
all the time.  It isn't nonsense, father, it's true.  Can you
understand?"

"I've been nineteen myself, Babs; I understand.  Don't worry, darling.
I missed you, but I was glad that you were happy, and I knew your heart
was in the right place.  We won't say anything more about it, but have a
jolly walk and enjoy ourselves."

Oh, it is good to have someone who understands!  If he had scolded or
been reproachful I should have felt inclined to make excuses, but when
he was so sweet and good I just loved him with all my heart, and prayed
to be a better daughter to him all my life.

We had lovely walks after that, and on the third morning we met Will
Dudley, and once again he and I sat on a log waiting for father while he
interviewed a tenant.  My heart quite thumped with agitation as I
thought that now was the time to lead the conversation skilfully round
to Vere, and insinuate delicately that she had a mania for making people
fall in love with her, and that it didn't always mean as much as it
seemed when she was sweet and gushing.  It wasn't exactly an easy thing
to do, but you can't be a guardian angel without a little trouble.

"So you have torn yourself away from your friends this morning," he said
at last.  "How is it that you were allowed to escape?  What is the
special campaign for killing time to-day, if one may ask?"

"You may ask, but it's rude to be sarcastic.  You are often lazy
yourself, though in a different fashion.  You love to lie on your back
on the grass and do nothing but browse and stare up at the sky.  You
have told me so many times."

"Ah, but what of my thoughts?  Under a semblance of ease I am in reality
working out the most abstruse problems.  I did not mean to be sarcastic;
I inquired in all seriousness how your valuable company could be
spared."

"For the best of all reasons--because nobody wanted it!  Captain Grantly
wants Lady Mary, Lady Mary wants Captain Grantly.  Miss Talbot wants
someone she can't get, but it doesn't happen to be me; the rest all want
Vere, and have no thought for anyone else.  Men always do want to be
with Vere.  Wherever she goes they fall in love with her and follow her
about.  She is so lovely, and she--she likes to be liked.  Everyone says
she is so charming and irresistible--they have told her so since she was
a child--and she likes to prove that it was true.  If--if anyone seems
to like anyone else better it--sort of--worries her, and makes her feel
neglected."

"I see."

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

"Pleasant for him!"

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

"Naturally so."

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

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

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

"Naturally it would be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER NINE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TEN.

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

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

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

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

"And mother and father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face set, but he said calmly--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

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

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

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

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

She spoke first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mean--?"

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWELVE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this she smiled more provokingly than ever.

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

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

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

"Babs, _don't_!" she gasped, and her face was convulsed with emotion.
For one breathless moment, as we clutched hands and drew close together,
I thought the breakdown had come at last, but she fought down her sobs,
crying in tones of piteous entreaty--

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y-es!"

"And selfish?"

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

"And a flirt?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

But she called out at that, interrupting him sharply--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Una!"

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

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

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

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

  "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_.
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!  They _all_ had 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 suffered _anguish_!  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 I _should_ have 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.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

                                                       _September 23rd_.
The next morning we went to a paperhanger's shop and asked to see the
very newest and most artistic designs in stock.  There were lots of
lovely things, but after great discussion we decided on a thick white
paper, perfectly plain, except in each corner of the room, where there
was a sort of conventional rose tree, growing up about seven feet high,
with outstanding branches laden with the most exquisite pink roses.  The
white of the background was partly tinged with blue, with here and there
a soft, irregular blue like a cloud.  Looking up suddenly, you might
imagine you were in the open air in the midst of a rose garden, and that
would be a very pleasant delusion in Onslow Square.

The salesman asked how many pieces he should send, and whether we wished
it hung at once.  When I said we intended to hang it ourselves, he
said--

"Oh, indeed, madam!" and looked unutterable things.

We were so quelled that we did not dare to ask him about the enamel and
paste as we intended, but bought those at a modest little shop further
on, and went home rejoicing.

Mrs Forbes had laughed and shaken all over in the most jovial manner
when we told her of our plans, but she didn't approve of the white paper
and paint, because, forsooth, it would get soiled.  Of course it would
get soiled!  Things always do sooner or later.  Old people are so
dreadfully prudent that they get no pleasure out of life.  When this
paper is shabby Lorna can get a new one, or she may be married, or dead,
or half a dozen different things.  It's absurd to plan years ahead.  I
cheered up poor Lorna, who is of a sensitive nature and easily
depressed, and when she recovered asked what she thought we ought to do
next.

"The first thing to settle," she said decidedly, "is Midas!  He can help
us in a dozen ways if he will, for he is really wonderfully handy for a
boy of his age.  He will do nothing unless we consult him formally, and
make a definite business arrangement, but it pleases him and won't hurt
us, as it will be only a few coppers.  He is saving up for a motor-car
at the present moment, and Wallace says that by steady attention to
business he really believes he will get one by the time he is sixty."

We called Midas in and consulted him professionally.  He is tall and
lanky, and has pale blue eyes with long light eyelashes.  You would
think to look at him that he was a gentle, unworldly creature, addicted
to poetry, but he isn't!  He sat astride the table and viewed the
landscape o'er.

"The first thing will be to take every stick of furniture out of the
room, and have the carpet up.  I know what girls are when they do jobs
of this kind.  You will be up to your eyes in paste, and it won't be
safe to leave anything within touching distance.  The furniture must be
removed and stored.  I'll store it for you in my room.  Then you'll need
a ladder, and some planks for the lengths of paper to lie on, while you
paste 'em.  I'll hire you the old shutter from the drawing-room."

"The shutters are as much mine as yours," said Lorna.  "I don't need to
hire them; I can have them if I want!"

"That's where you show your ignorance, my dear.  They are in my
possession, and I won't give them up without compensation.  Then you'll
need a man to assist in the hanging!"

"Say a boy at once, and name your price, and be done with it.  You are a
regular Shylock!"

Midas grinned as if pleased with the compliment, drew a pocket-book and
a stubby end of a pencil from his pocket, and began alternately stroking
his chin and jotting down words and figures.  Lorna grimaced at me
behind his back, but kept a stern expression for his benefit.  I suppose
she knew that if he saw her smile prices would go up.  Presently he drew
a line, tore the leaf out of the book and handed it across with a bow.

"My estimate, ladies!  It is always more satisfactory to have an
agreement beforehand."

I peeped over Lorna's shoulder and read--

Estimate For Proposed Renovations.

+==========================================+=+=+
|To Removal of furniture                   |1|9|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|Storage of same at rate of 6 pence per day|1|6|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|Restoration of same                       |1|9|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|Impliments                                |1|0|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|Man's time                                |1|3|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|Sundrys                                   | |6|
+------------------------------------------+-+-+
|                                          |7|9|
+==========================================+=+=+

It was quite a formidable total, but Lorna was evidently accustomed to
extortionate demands, and began beating him down without delay.

"Well, of all the outrageous pieces of impudence!  Seven and ninepence,
indeed!  You must have taken leave of your senses.  If you think I am
going to pay you four or five shillings for carrying a few odds and ends
of furniture along the passage, you are mightily mistaken!  And we
should have to help you, too, for you couldn't manage alone.  If we
asked Wallace he'd do it at once, without any pay at all."

"Drink to me only with thine eyes!" chanted the little wretch, folding
his arms and gazing fixedly at me with a life-like assumption of
Wallace's attitude and expression, which sent Lorna into fits of
laughter, and made me magenta with embarrassment.  "If you like to wait
until Wallace has time to run your errands and see you through your
difficulties, you will get your room finished by Christmas--with luck!
I am sorry you think my charges high, but I'm afraid I don't see my way
to reduce 'em."

"Midas, don't be a goose!  We will pay you twopence an hour for your
time, and twopence a day for storage--that's the limit.  That disposes
of the first four items.  As for the rest, we had better understand each
other before we go any further.  Kindly distinguish between implements
and sundries."

"Is this an Oxford local, or is it a conversation between a brother and
sister?"  Midas demanded, throwing back his head, and mutely appealing
to an unseen arbiter in the corner of the ceiling.  "If you can't
understand a simple thing like that, it doesn't say much for your
education.  It is easily seen _you_ were never a plumber!  I thought we
were going to come to a friendly agreement, but you are so close and
grasping, there is no dealing with you.  Look here, will you give me
half-a-crown for the job?"

I gasped with surprise at this sudden and sweeping reduction of terms,
but Lorna said calmly--

"Done!  A halfpenny discount if paid within the hour!" and they shook
hands with mutual satisfaction.

"Cheap at the price!" was Lorna's comment, as the contractor left the
room, and before the next few days were over I heartily agreed with this
opinion.  Midas was an ideal workman, grudging neither time nor pains to
accomplish his task in a satisfactory manner.  His long arms and strong
wrists made light of what would have been heavy tasks for us, and the
dirtier he grew the more he enjoyed it.  It must be dreadful to live in
a town!  Lorna assured me plaintively that the room had been thoroughly
spring-cleaned at Easter, but I should have thought it had happened
nearer the Flood.  I swallowed pecks of dust, and my hands grew raw with
washing before we began to paint.  I thought we should never have
finished enamelling that room.  The first coat made hardly any
impression on the background, and we had to go over it again and again
before we got anything like a good effect.  To a casual observer it
looked really very nice, but we knew where to look for shortcomings, and
I grew hot whenever anyone looked at a certain panel in the door.

Then we set to work on the paper.  First you cut it into lengths.  It
seems quite easy, but it isn't, because you waste yards making the
patterns meet, and then you haven't enough, and you go into town to buy
more, and they haven't it in stock, and it has to be ordered, and you
sit and champ, and can't get any further.

Then you make the paste.  It smells horrid, and do what you will, cover
yourself as best you can, it gets up to the eyes!  We wore two old
holland skirts of Lorna's, quite short and trig, and washing shirts, and
huge print wrappers; but before we had been working for an hour our
fingers were glued together; then we yawned or sneezed and put our hands
to our faces, and _they_ were stickied.  Then bits of hair--"tendrils"
as they call them in books--fell down, and we fastened them up, and our
hair got as bad.  We were spectacles!

A kettle was kept on the hob, and we were continually bathing our hands
in hot water, for, of course, we dared not touch the outside of the
paper unless they were quite clean, and the table wanted washing before
each fresh strip was laid down, as the paste had always oozed off the
edges of the last piece.  There is one thing sure and certain: I shall
never take up paper-hanging as a profession.

The hanging itself is really rather exciting.  Midas climbed to the top
of the ladder and held the top of the strip in position; Lorna crouched
beneath, and guided it in the way it should go, so as to meet the edge
of the one before, and I stood on a chair and smoothed it down and down
with a clean white cloth.  Doing it with great care like this, we got no
wrinkles at all, and when the first side of the room was finished, it
looked so professional that we danced--literally danced--for joy.

By the end of the afternoon it was done, and so were we!  Simply so
tired we could hardly stand, but mentally we were full of triumph, for
that room was a picture to behold.  We ran out into the passage and
brought in everyone we could find, servants and charwoman included.
Then they made remarks, and we stood and listened.

The cook said, "My, Miss Lorna, wouldn't the pattern go round?"  The
charwoman said, "I like a bit of gilding meself.  It looks 'andsome."
The parlourmaid said, "How will the furniture look against it, miss?"
which was really the nastiest hit of all; only the little Tweeny stared
and flushed, and rolled her hands in her apron, and said, "All them
roses on the wall!  It would be like a Bank-'oliday to sit aside 'em!"

Tweeny has the soul of a poet.  I bought her some flowers the very next
time I went out.  Wallace came in and twiddled his moustache, and said--

"By Jove, is it really done!  Aren't you dead beat?  I say, Miss
Sackville, don't do any more to-day.  It's too bad of Lorna to work you
like this.  I shall interfere in my professional capacity."

He was far too much engrossed in Una Sackville to have any eyes for the
paper.

Mrs Forbes thought, like the cook, that it was a pity that the pattern
didn't go round; and the dear old doctor tip-toed up and down, jingled
the money in his pockets, and said--

"Eh, what?  Eh, what?  Something quite novel, eh!  Didn't go in for
things of this sort in my young days.  Very smart indeed, my dear, very
smart!  Now I suppose you will be wanting some new fixings," (his hand
came slowly out of his waistcoat pocket, and my hopes ran mountains
high).  "Mustn't spoil the ship for a penn'orth of tar, you know.
There, that will help to buy a few odds and ends."

He put something into Lorna's hand; she looked at it, flushed red with
delight, and hugged him rapturously round the neck.  After he had gone
she showed it to me with an air of triumph, and it was--half-a-
sovereign!  I expected several pounds, and had hard work not to show my
disappointment, but I suppose ten shillings means as much to Lorna as
ten pounds to me.  Well, I am not at all sure that you don't get more
fun out of planning and contriving to make a little money go a long way,
than in simply going to a shop and ordering what you want.  Lorna's
worldly wealth amounted, with the half-sovereign, to seventeen and six-
pence, and with this lordly sum for capital we set to work to transform
the room.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

I have told all our experiences in papering the room together, because
they seemed to come better that way; but, of course, lots of other
things have been happening at the same time.  One evening we went to a
concert, and another time some friends came in after dinner, and we
played games and had music.  I sang a great deal, and everyone seemed to
like listening, and my dress was the prettiest in the room, and all the
men wanted to talk to me, and it was most agreeable.

On Sunday we went to an ugly town church, but the vicar had a fine, good
face, and I liked his sermon.  He seemed to believe in you, and expect
you to do great things, and that is always inspiring.  Some clergymen
keep telling you how bad you are, and personally that puts my back up,
and I begin to think I am not half so black as I am painted; but when
this dear man took for granted that you were unselfish and diligent, and
deeply in earnest about good things, I felt first ashamed, and then
eager to try again, and fight the sins that do so terribly easily beset
me.  I sang the last hymn in a sort of fervour, and came out into the
cool night air, positively longing for a battle in which I could win my
spurs, and oh dear, dear, in ten minutes' time, before we were half-way
home, I was flirting with Wallace, and talking of frivolous worldly
subjects, as if I had never had a serious thought in my life!

It's so terribly hard to remember, and keep on remembering when one is
young, but God must surely understand.  I don't think He will be angry.
He knows that deep, deep down I want most of all to be good!

Wallace is nice and kind and clever, and I like him to like me, but I
could never by any possibility like him--seriously, I mean!  I can't
tell why; it's just one of the mysterious things that comes by instinct
when you grow up to be a woman.  There is a great gulf thousands of
miles wide between the man you just like and the man you could love; but
sometimes the man you could love doesn't want you, and it is wrong even
to think of him, and then it's a temptation to be extra nice to the
other one, because his devotion soothes your wounded feelings.

I suppose Miss Bruce would call it love of admiration, and wish me to
snub the poor fellow, and keep him at arm's length, but I don't see why
I should.  It would be conceited to take for granted that he was
seriously in love, and I don't see why I shouldn't enjoy myself when I
get a chance.  It's only fun, of course, but I do enjoy playing off
little experiments upon Wallace, to test my power over him, and then to
watch the result!  For example, at lunch-time I express a casual wish
for a certain thing, and before four o'clock it is in my possession; or
I show an interest in an entertainment, and tickets appear as if by
magic.  It is quite exciting.  I feel as if I were playing a thrilling
new game.

The room is almost furnished, and it looks sweet.  One can hardly
believe it is the same dreary little den that I saw on that first
evening.  We stole, (by kind permission), one or two chairs, a writing-
table, and a dear little Indian cabinet from the overcrowded drawing-
room, and with some help from Midas manufactured the most scrumptious
cosy-corner out of old packing-cases and cushions covered with rose-
coloured brocade.  We put a deep frill of the same material, mounted on
a thin brass rail, on the wall above the mantelpiece, and arranged
Lorna's best ornaments and nick-nacks against this becoming background.
It did not seem quite appropriate to the garden idea to hang pictures on
the walls, which is just as well, as she hasn't got any, but I bought
her a tall green pedestal and flower-pot and a big branching palm as my
contribution to the room, and as she says, "It gives the final touch of
luxury to the whole."  I could wish for a new fender and fire-irons, and
a few decent rugs, but you can't have everything in this wicked world,
and really, at night when the lamp-light sends a rosy glow through the
newly-covered shade, (only muslin, but it looks like silk!) you could
not wish to see a prettier room.

Lorna is awfully sweet about it.  She said to me, "It was your idea,
Una.  I shall always feel that it was your gift, and every pleasant hour
I spend here will be another link in the chain which binds us together.
This visit of yours will be memorable, in more ways than one!" and she
looked at me in a meaning fashion which I hated.  How more ways than
one, pray?  I hope to goodness she is not getting any foolish notions in
her head.  She might know me better by this time.

I don't know why it is, but I am always depressed after a letter from
home.  Mother reports that there is no improvement in Vere's health, and
that her spirits are variable--sometimes low, sometimes quite bright and
hopeful.  Mr Dudley is very good in coming to see her, and his visits
always cheer her up.  He asked after me last time, hoped that I was
enjoying myself and would not hurry back.  I am not wanted there
apparently, and here they all love having me, and implore me to stay on.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to, but I've decided that I will since that
last letter arrived.  I told Mrs Forbes this morning that I would stay
a fortnight longer, and she kissed me and looked quite unreasonably
relieved.  I can't see how it matters much to her!

Such a curious thing happened that night, when Wallace and I were
talking about books, and discussing the heroine in a novel which he had
given me to read.

"Did she remind you of anyone?" he asked, and when I said "No," "Why,
she is you to the life!  Appearance, manner, character--everything.  It
might have been meant for a portrait," he declared.  "I was reading it
over last night, and the likeness is extraordinary."

I privately determined to read the book over again on the first
opportunity to discover what I seemed like to other people.  The heroine
is supposed to be very pretty and charming, but personally I had thought
her rather silly, so I did not know whether to feel complimented or not.
I determined to introduce the subject to Lorna, and see if she could
throw any light upon it, and she did!  More light than I appreciated!

"Oh, I liked Nan very well," she said, "but not nearly so much as
Wallace did.  He simply raved about her and declared that if he ever met
a girl like that in real life he should fall desperately in love with
her on the spot.  She is his ideal of everything that a girl should be."

"Oh!"  I said blankly.  For a moment I felt inclined to tell Lorna
everything, but something stopped me, and I am thankful that it did.  It
would be so horrid to feel she was watching all the time.  For once in
my life I was glad when she went away, and I was left alone to think.

"Desperately in love!"  Can Wallace really be that, and with me?  It
makes me go hot and cold just to think of it, and my heart thumps with
agitation.  I don't feel happy exactly, but very excited and important.
I have such a lonely feeling sometimes, and I do so long for someone to
love me best of all.  At home, though they are all kind enough, I am
always second fiddle, if not third, and it is nice to be appreciated!  I
could never care for Wallace in that way, but I like him to like me.  It
makes things interesting, and I was feeling very flat and dejected, and
in need of something to cheer me up.  Of course, I don't want to do
anything wrong, but Wallace is so young, only twenty-four, and has no
money, so he couldn't think of being married or anything silly like
that; besides, I've heard it is good for boys to have a fancy for a nice
girl--it keeps them steady.

In any case, I have promised to stay on for another fortnight, and I
couldn't alter my mind and go away now without making a fuss, and if I
stay I can't be disagreeable, so I must just behave as if Lorna had
never repeated that stupid remark.  I dare say, if the truth were known,
Wallace has fancied himself in love with half-a-dozen girls before now,
and it would be ridiculous of me to imagine anything serious.  Anyway, I
don't care.  I have thought of nothing but other people for months back,
and they don't seem to miss me a bit, but only hope I won't hurry back.
I'm tired of it.  Now I am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what
happens!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

It is ten days since I wrote anything in this diary, and to-night, when
I opened it in my misery, hoping to find some comfort in writing down my
thoughts, the first thing that met my eyes were those dreadful words, "I
am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what happens."  Enjoy myself,
indeed!  I have never been so miserable in my life.  I never knew before
what misery meant, even on that awful night of the fire, when we didn't
know whether Vere would live or die.  Troubles with which one has
nothing to do, which come, as it were, straight from God, can never make
one feel like this.  There is no remorse in them, and no guilt, and no
burning, intolerable shame.

What would Miss Bruce think of her pupil now?  What would father think?
What would Rachel--"the best woman in the world"--think of me to-night?

I am going to make myself write it all down, and then, if I ever try to
gloss it over to myself or others in the future, this written account
will be here to give me the lie.  Here it is, then, bold and plain--

"I have broken a man's heart for the sake of a little fun and excitement
for myself, and as a sop to my wounded vanity!"

It makes me shiver to read the words, for I did not realise the full
meanness of what I was doing until the end came, and I woke with a shock
to see myself as I really am.  All these last ten days I have been
acting a part to myself as well as to others, pretending to be
unconscious of danger, but I knew--oh, I knew perfectly well!  I think a
girl must always know when a man loves her.  I knew it by the tone of
Wallace's voice, by the light in his eyes, by the change which came over
his looks and manner the moment I appeared.  It was like a game, a
horrible new game which fascinated me against my will, and I could not
bear to end it.  Every night when I said my prayers I determined to turn
over a new leaf next day, but when the next day came I put on my
prettiest clothes and did my hair the way he liked it best, and sang his
favourite songs, and was all smiles and sweetness.  Oh, what a Pharisee
I am!  In this very book I have denounced Vere for her flirtations and
greed of admiration, and then I have succumbed to the very first
temptation, without so much as a struggle.  I shall never, never be able
to hold up my head again.  I feel too contemptible to live.

Last night things came to a crisis.  Wallace and Lorna and I went to a
party given by some intimate family friends.  Wallace had asked me in
the morning what colour I was going to wear, and just before dinner he
came into the drawing-room and presented me with a spray of the most
lovely pink roses.  I think he expected to find me alone, but the whole
family was assembled, and it was most embarrassing to see how seriously
they took it.  At home we have loads of flowers in the conservatories,
but sometimes one of Vere's admirers sends her a lot of early violets,
or lilies of the valley, great huge boxes which must cost a small
fortune, but no one thinks anything of it, or pays any attention beyond
a casual remark.  Here, however, it was different.

"Roses!" ejaculated Lorna, in a tone of awe-stricken astonishment.

Midas whistled softly, and Mrs Forbes looked first at Wallace and then
at me--in a wistful, anxious kind of way, which made me feel inclined to
run home on the spot.  I determined to make some excuse and depart
suddenly some day soon, while Wallace was out on his rounds, but it was
too late.  I was not allowed to escape so easily as that.

During the evening Wallace took me into the conservatory to see the
flowers, and it was not my fault that everyone went out and left us
alone.  I tried to be cold and chilling, but that only made him anxious
to discover what was wrong.

"It is my fault!  I know quite well it is my fault," he cried, bending
over me, his face so drawn and puckered with anxiety that he looked
quite old.  "I am a stupid, blundering fellow, and you have been an
angel to be so sweet and forbearing.  I am not fit to come near you, but
I would rather cut off my right hand than hurt you in any way.  You know
that, don't you, Una?"

He had never called me Una before, and he looked so different from the
calm, complacent youth I had known a few weeks before--so much older and
more formidable, that it was difficult to believe it could be the same
person.  I was frightened, but tried hard to appear cool and self-
possessed.

"I am not vexed at all.  On the contrary, I am enjoying myself very
much.  The flowers are lovely.  I always--"

It was no use.  He seized my hand, and cried pleadingly--

"Don't put me off, Una; don't trifle with me.  It's too serious for
that.  You are cold to me to-night, and it has come to this, that I
cannot live when you are not kind.  What has changed you since this
afternoon?  Were you vexed with me for bringing you those roses?"

"Not in the least, so far as I am concerned; but your people seemed
astonished.  It made me feel a little awkward."

He looked at once relieved and puzzled.  "But they know!" he cried.
"They know quite well.  They would not be astonished at my giving you
anything.  Has Lorna never told you that she knows?"

"I really fail to understand what there is to know," I said, sitting up
very straight and stiff, looking as haughty and unapproachable as I
possibly could.  It was coming very close.  I knew it, though I never
had the experience before, and I would have given anything in the world
to escape.  Oh, how can girls like to have proposals from men whom they
don't mean to accept?  How can they bring themselves to boast of them as
if they were a triumph and a pride?  I never felt so humiliated in my
life as I did when I sat there and listened to Wallace's wild words.

"What is there to know?  Only that I love you with all my heart and
strength--that I have loved you ever since the moment I first saw your
sweet face.  You did not seem like a stranger, for I had been waiting
for you all my life.  Oh, Una, these few weeks have been like a dream of
happiness.  I never knew what it was to live before.  You are so--"

I haven't the heart to repeat all the praises the poor fellow lavished
upon me while I sat listening in an agony of shame, feeling more and
more miserable every moment, as I realised that, in spite of his
agitation, he was by no means despondent as to the result of his wooing.
He seemed more anxious to assure me of his devotion than to question me
about mine, as if he imagined that my coldness was caused by pique or
jealousy.  I drew away my hands, and tried to stop him by vague murmurs
of dissent, but it was no use, he only became more eager and determined.

"We all love you, Una.  My mother thinks you the most charming girl she
has ever met.  She was speaking of you to me only last night; she feels
naturally a little sad, poor mother! to know that she is no longer the
first consideration to her boy, but she quite understands.  And the
pater, too--he is in love with you himself.  Who could help it,
darling?"

"Oh, stop, stop!  I can't bear it.  You must not talk like that," I
cried desperately.  "You are taking everything for granted, and it is
impossible, quite impossible.  I don't want to marry anyone.  I'm too
young.  I must wait for years before I can even think of such a thing."

He looked actually relieved, instead of disappointed, as my words
evidently removed one big difficulty from his path.

"I couldn't ask you to marry me yet, dearest.  I have my way to make,
and could not provide a home that would be worthy of you for some years
to come; but as you say, we are both young, and can afford to wait; and
oh, Una, I could work like ten men with such a prospect to inspire me.
I will get on for your sake; it is in me, I know it is--I shall
succeed!"

"I hope you may, I'm sure," I said, nearly crying with agitation and
misery.  "But you must not think of me.  I have nothing to do with it.
I like you very much, but I couldn't marry you now or ever--I never
thought of such a thing--it's quite impossible.  You must, please,
please, never speak of it again!"

Even then he wouldn't understand, but preferred to think that I was shy,
nervous, coy--anything rather than simply and absolutely truthful.  He
began again in a humble, pleading voice, which tore my heart.

"I know it seems presumption to ask so much.  I am an insignificant
nobody, and you might marry anyone you liked.  In every sense of the
word but one I am a wretched match for you, but love counts for
something, and you will never find anyone to love you more.  I'd give my
very life to serve you, and I will give it, if you will trust yourself
to me!  My father was no older than I am when he became engaged, and he
told me only the other day that he looked back on that hour as the
beginning of his success.  He would be glad to see me engaged also."

"Have you spoken about me to him, then, as well as to your mother?"  I
demanded testily.  I felt so guilty about my own conduct that it was a
relief to be able to find fault with someone else, and I worked myself
up into quite a show of indignation.  "You must have made very sure of
my answer to be ready to discuss me in such a general fashion.  It would
have been more courteous to wait until you had my permission.  You have
placed us both in a most awkward position, for, as I said before, I
could never marry you.  It is quite impossible.  I like you very much,
but not in that way.  Let us be friends, and forget everything else.  We
were so happy as we were--it is such a pity to spoil it all like this."

"Spoil it!" he repeated blankly.  He had grown quite white while I was
speaking, and his eyes had a dazed, startled expression.  "Does it spoil
things for you, Una, to know that I love you?  But you have known that
for a long time--everyone in the house found it out, and you could not
have helped seeing it, too.  You say I have made too sure of you.
Forgive me, darling, but if I have done so it is only because I know you
are too sweet and good to encourage a man when there was no hope.  I am
more sorry than I can say if I have annoyed you by speaking to my
parents, but the mater naturally spoke to me when she saw how things
were going, and I had to consult my father about ways and means.  Una,
darling, you don't mean it.  You can't mean to break my heart after
leading me on all these weeks?"

"I never led you on!"  I cried vainly.  "I was only nice to you as I
would have been to anyone else.  I knew you liked me; but everyone who
is kind and attentive does not want to marry one as a matter of course.
It would be horrid to expect it.  Lorna is my friend, and you are her
brother, so of course--"

He looked me full in the face and said slowly--

"It will be difficult to believe--but if you will tell me just once
quite simply and plainly, I will take your word, Una.  Don't protest,
please--tell me truthfully, once for all: did you, or did you not, know
I loved you with all my heart?"

I wanted to say "No."  In a sense I could have said it truthfully
enough, for I had no definite knowledge, but I remembered what Lorna had
told me about the heroine in the novel; I remembered Mrs Forbes's
wistful manner, and oh, a dozen little incidents too small to be written
down, when Wallace's own manner had told the truth only too plainly.  He
was staring at me, poor boy, with his wan, miserable eyes, and I could
not tell a lie.  I began to cry in a feeble, helpless kind of way, and
faltered out, "I--I thought you did, but I couldn't be sure.  You know I
couldn't be sure, and it was only for a little while!  I am going home
so soon that I didn't think it could matter."

He leant forward, leaning his head on his hands.

"Shall I tell you how much it matters?" he asked huskily.  "It matters
just this, that you have spoilt my life!  There was not a happier, more
contented fellow living than I was--before you came.  I loved my work,
and loved my home.  I intended to succeed in my profession, and the
future was full of interest.  I would not have changed places with any
man on earth.  Now!" he held out his right hand and snapped his fingers
expressively, "it is over; the zest is out of it all if you are not
there.  If I had met you anywhere else it might have been easier, but
you have come right into the middle of my life, and if I would I shall
not be able to forget you.  Every morning when I come down to breakfast
I shall look across the table and imagine you sitting facing me; I shall
see you wherever I go--like a ghost--in every room in the house, in
everything I do.  That is the price I have to pay for your amusement.
You have made a fool of me, you whom I thought the type of everything
that was true and womanly.  You knew that I loved you, but it didn't
matter to you what I suffered.  You were going home soon--you would not
see it.  It didn't matter!"

"No, no, no!"  I cried in agony.  "It isn't true.  I am bad enough, but
not a heartless monster.  I will tell you the whole truth.  I was
miserable myself when I came here; ill and tired out, and sore because--
because they didn't care for me at home as much as I wanted.  I always
want people to like me.  I did at school--Lorna will tell you that I
did; and when you were nice to me it cheered me up, and made me happy
again.  I never dreamt that it was serious until a little time ago--last
week--and even then I did not think you could possibly want to marry
me--you were too young--you had no home--"

"No, that is true.  I am no match for Miss Sackville.  I was a fool to
forget it.  Thank you for reminding me," he interrupted bitterly.

Poor boy--oh, poor boy, he looked so miserable--it made me ache to see
his white, changed face.  He looked so handsome, too; so much more of a
man than he had ever done before.  I looked at him and wondered why it
was that I could not care for him as he wished.  Had I been too hasty in
deciding that it was impossible?  He wanted me, and no one else did; and
it would be nice to be engaged and have someone to love me best of all.
Perhaps I should grow to love him too; I always do like people who like
me; and Lorna would be so pleased.  She would be my real sister, and
could come and stay with me in my own home.  I was so upset and
miserable, so stung by Wallace's taunt about his poverty, that I was
just in the mind to be reckless.  His hand lay limply by his side, and
in a sudden gush of tenderness and pity I slid my arm beneath it and
said softly, "Don't be cross with me!  I never thought for one moment if
you were poor or rich.  That doesn't matter a bit.  If I have made you
miserable, I am miserable too.  If you want me to be engaged to you--I
will, and I'll try to like you.  Please, please do not look like that!
If I promise it will be all right, and you will forgive me for being so
thoughtless, won't you, Wallace?"

He turned his head and stared at me steadily.  The anger died out of his
face, but he looked dreadfully sad.

"Poor Una," he said, "how little you understand!  Do you think I am such
a cad as to accept such an offer as that?  I love you and want you to be
happy, not miserable as you would certainly be if you were engaged to a
man you had to `try to like.'  Thank you for the offer all the same.  It
will comfort me a little to remember that at any rate you felt kindly
towards me.  It is no use saying any more.  My dream is over, and I
shall have to bear the awakening as well as I can.  A fellow cannot
expect to have everything his own way.  I don't want to whine.  Shall we
go back to the house?"

"In a minute--one minute--only tell me first that you forgive me, and if
there is nothing at all that I can do to help you, and show how
wretchedly, wretchedly sorry I am!"

"Forgive you?" he repeated sadly.  "I love you, Una.  I can forgive you,
I expect, a good deal more easily than you will forgive yourself.  Yes,
there is something you can do--if you ever discover that another poor
fellow is in love with you--and you are the sort of girl whom men will
love--remember me and spare him this experience.  Don't go on being
`nice' to him.  That kind of niceness is the worst form of cruelty."

I hung my head and could not answer.  To think that "that boy," as I had
contemptuously called him, should have behaved in such a manly, generous
fashion!  I felt utterly ashamed and despicable.  It was he who is a
thousand times too good for me!



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

We were very silent driving home in the brougham, and I refused to go
into Lorna's room, as I always did before going to bed, saying that I
was too tired to talk.  She looked anxious, but did not try to persuade
me.  I afterwards learnt that she went to Wallace instead, and sat up
with him for the greater part of the night.

I lay wide awake tossing and crying until five o'clock, when I fell
asleep, and did not wake until nine.  Lorna did not come to see me, and,
though I dreaded her coming, I felt miserable because she stayed away.
Every single morning she had come into my room and hugged and kissed me,
and we had walked down to breakfast arm-in-arm.  She must have been
very, very angry to omit that ceremony!

I took a long time to dress, for I wanted Wallace to be safely started
on his rounds before appearing downstairs, and at last, just as I was
feeling that I could not respectably linger another moment, the door
opened, and there, at last, stood Lorna.

She had been crying dreadfully.  I could see that at a glance, for the
eyelids were swollen and puffy, just as they used to be the first
morning after our return to school.  Mine were swollen, too, and we
stood staring miserably at each other, but not approaching a step
nearer, until at last she said coldly--

"Mother sent me upstairs to ask if you would prefer to have your
breakfast in bed.  She thought you were not up."

"Oh, yes, I have been waiting.  Lorna, don't look at me like that!"  I
cried desperately.  "I'm miserable too, and you ought not to turn
against me--you are my friend."

"Wallace is my brother," said Lorna simply.  Her lip quivered.  "I sat
up with him until four o'clock this morning.  He has always been such a
happy, cheerful boy.  I did not know he could be so miserable.  If you
could have seen and heard him talk, you would have felt broken-hearted
for him--even you!"

"Even you!"  I repeated reproachfully.  "Am I a monster, Lorna, that you
talk to me like that?  Can't you understand that I feel a hundred times
worse than you can possibly do?  I never, never thought that when I was
in trouble you would be the first person to turn against me."

"Neither did I.  I have been too fond of you, Una.  I admired you so
much, and was so proud of having you for my friend that I have been
unjust to other people for your sake.  I often took your part at school
when I knew you were in the wrong, simply because I was afraid of making
you angry.  It was cowardly of me, and this is my reward!  Oh, Una, you
say you are sorry, but you knew it was coming!  You are too clever not
to have seen it long ago.  If it had been another man I should have
spoken out, but a brother is almost like oneself, so one can't
interfere.  But I hinted--you know I hinted, Una--and I saw by your face
that you understood.  If you didn't care for him, why didn't you go home
when it was first arranged?  We all took it as a good sign when you
agreed to stay on, and Wallace was so happy about it.  Poor boy!  He
will never be happy again.  He says he will go abroad, and father has
been looking forward all these years to his help.  It will break his
heart if he loses Wallace!"

Everyone was broken-hearted, it seemed, and they all blamed me, and said
it was my fault.  I felt inclined to jump out of the window, and put an
end to it at once.  I did turn towards it, and I must have looked pretty
desperate, for Lorna came forward quickly, and took hold of me by the
arm.

"Come down and talk to mother.  She is all alone, and she is old and
will understand better than I do.  Oh, Una, I shall always love you!  I
shan't be able to help it, whatever you have done.  I didn't mean to be
unkind, but I am--so--miserable!"

I gripped her hand, but couldn't speak; we were both struggling not to
cry all the way downstairs, and I couldn't eat any breakfast; I felt as
if I could never eat again.  Mrs Forbes came into the room just as I
left the table, and Lorna went out at once, as if by a previous
arrangement.  It was awful!  Mrs Forbes looked so old and ill and
worried, and she was so kind.  I could have borne it better if she had
been cross to me.

"Sit down, dear.  Come close to the fire, your hands feel cold," she
said, pushing me gently into an easy chair, and poking the coals into a
blaze.  "You and I want a little talk to each other, I think, and we
shall be quite uninterrupted here.  My poor boy has told me of his
disappointment, but, indeed, he did not need to tell me.  I could see
what had happened by his face.  I am very disappointed, too.  I thought
he would have very different news to tell me, and I should have been
very happy to welcome you as a daughter.  We have known you by name for
so many years that you did not seem like a stranger even when you first
arrived, and we have been very happy together these five weeks--"

"Oh, very happy!  I have had a lovely time.  I shall never forget how
happy I have been."

She looked at me anxiously, her eyebrows knitted together.

"Then if you have been so happy, I do not see why-- Let us speak out,
dear, and understand each other thoroughly.  My boy and I have always
been close friends, and if I am to be of help or comfort to him now I
must understand how this trouble has come about.  Wallace is not
conceited--he has a very modest estimation of his own merits, but he
seems to have expected a different answer.  Sometimes in these affairs
young people misunderstand each other, and little sorenesses arise,
which a few outspoken words can smooth away.  If I could act as
peacemaker between you two, I should be very thankful.  My children's
happiness is my first consideration nowadays.  If there is anything I
can do, just tell me honestly.  Speak out as you would to your own
mother."

But I had nothing to tell.  I shook my head, and faltered nervously--

"No, there is nothing--we have had no quarrels.  I like Wallace very
much, oh, very much indeed, but not--I could never--I couldn't be
anything more than his friend."

"Is there then someone else whom you care for?"

There were several people, but I couldn't exactly say so to her--it
seemed so rude.  Wallace was a nice, kind boy, but he couldn't compare
for interest with--Jim Carstairs, for instance, dear, silent, loyal,
patient Jim, who gives all, and asks nothing in return, or even jolly
little Mr Nash, who is always happy and smiling, and trying to make
other people happy.  I like them both better than Wallace, to say
nothing of-- And then a picture rose before me of a tall, lean figure
dressed in a tweed shooting-suit, of a sunburnt face, out of which
looked blue eyes, which at one moment would twinkle with laughter, and
at the next grow stern and grave and cold.  They could soften, too, and
look wonderfully tender.  I had seen them like that just once or twice
when he looked at me, and said, "Una!" and at the remembrance, for some
stupid reason the blood rushed to my face, and there I sat blushing,
blushing, blushing, until my very ears tingled with heat.

I said nothing, and Mrs Forbes said nothing, but looking up at the end
of a horrid silence, I saw that her face had entirely changed in
expression since I had seen it last.  All the softness had left it; she
looked the image of wounded dignity.

"I understand!  There is nothing more to say, then, except that if you
were so very sure of your own feelings, I cannot understand how it is
that you have allowed the matter to get this length.  I am thankful to
know that my boy's principles are strong enough to prevent his
disappointment doing him any real harm.  It might have been very
different with many young men.  At the best it is a hard thing for us to
see his young life clouded, and you will understand that it is our duty
to protect him from further suffering.  You will not think me
inhospitable if I suggest that your visit had better come to an end at
once."

My cheeks burnt.  It was humiliation indeed to be told to go in that
summary fashion, but I knew I deserved it, and I should have been
thankful to leave that very moment.

"I will go to-day.  There is a train at one o'clock.  I can send a
telegram from the station, and tell mother I am coming.  I will go up-
stairs now and pack," I cried, and she never protested a bit, but said
quite quietly that she would order a cab to take me to the station.
Talk about feeling small!  I simply cringed as I went out of that room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The carriage was waiting for me at the station at the end of a miserable
journey, but no one was in it.  I had hoped that father would come to
meet me.  I could have spoken to him, and he would have understood.
John said he was out for the day with a shooting-party, and when I
reached the house another disappointment awaited me, for I was met by an
announcement that mother also had been obliged to go out to keep an
engagement.

"She hopes to be home by five o'clock," said the servant.  "Miss Vere
and Lady Mary are in the blue sitting-room.  Mr Dudley has just come to
call."

I had forgotten that Lady Mary was staying at the house, and it made me
feel as if I were more superfluous than ever, for Vere would not need me
when she had her best friend at hand, and, somehow or other, Will Dudley
was just the last person in the world I wanted to see just then.  There
was nothing for it, however; I had to go upstairs and stand the horrible
ordeal of being cross-questioned about my unexpected return.

"Don't tell me it is an outbreak of small-pox!" cried Lady Mary,
huddling back in her chair, and pretending to shudder at my approach.
"That's the worst of staying in a doctor's house--you simply court
infection!  If it's anything interesting and becoming, you may kiss me
as usual, but if it's small-pox or mumps, I implore you to keep at the
other end of the room!  I'm not sure that mumps wouldn't be the worse of
the two.  I can't endure to look fat!"

"Has Lorna turned out a villain in disguise?  Have you quarrelled and
bidden each other a tragic farewell?" asked Vere laughingly.

She looked thinner than ever, but her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes
as bright as stars.  As for Will Dudley, he stared at the pattern of the
carpet, and his eyebrows twitched in the impatient way I know so well.
I think he saw that I was really in trouble, and was vexed with the
girls for teasing me.

"Thank you, everyone was quite well when I left.  You need not be afraid
of infection, and Lorna is nicer than ever.  We have certainly not
quarrelled."

"Then why this thusness?" asked Lady Mary, and Vere burst into a laugh.

"Scalps, Babs, scalps!  I see it all!  My mind misgave me as soon as I
heard of the fascinating Wallace.  And was it really so serious that you
had to fly at a moment's notice?"

I simply got up and marched out of the room.  It was too much to bear.
I sat in my own room all alone for over an hour, and hated everybody.
Oh, I _was_ miserable!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                                _11 PM._
I have been thinking seriously over things, and have decided to put away
this diary, and not write in it any more for six months or a year.  It
will be better so, for at present I am in such a wretched, unsettled
state of mind that what I write would not be edifying, but only painful
to read in time to come.

I've been reading over the first few pages to-night, and they seem
written by quite a different person--a happy, self-confident, complacent
Una, who felt perfectly satisfied of coming triumphantly through any and
every situation.  This Una is a very crestfallen, humble-minded
creature, who knows she has failed, and dreads failing again; but I want
to be good, through it all I long to be good!  O dear God, who loves me,
and understands, take pity on me, and show me the way!



CHAPTER TWENTY.

                                                            _June 15th._
To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at the
Moat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in the
old haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money and
mother's beautiful taste can make them.  I felt a sort of rush of
happiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehow
or other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and write
the history of the year.

It has been a long, long winter.  We spent three months in Bournemouth
for Vere's sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our way
home.  He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles were
slow affairs, that it was a great thing to keep up the general health,
that he was glad we had been to Bournemouth, and that no doubt the
change home would also be beneficial.  Fresh air, fresh air--live as
much in the fresh open air as possible during the summer-- Then he
stopped, and Vere looked at him steadily, and said--

"You mean that I am worse?"

"My dear young lady, you must not be despondent.  Hope on, hope ever!
You can do more for yourself than any doctor.  These things take time.
One never knows when the turn may come," he said, reeling off the old
phrases which we all knew so well--oh, so drearily well--by this time.

Vere closed her eyes and turned her head aside with the saddest, most
pitiful little smile.  She has been very good on the whole, poor dear,
during the winter--less cynical and hard in manner, though she still
refuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anything
like pity.

The night after that doctor's visit I heard a muffled sound from her
room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong.  She was
sobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound of
which haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead of
shaking me off, she clung to me with the energy of despair.

"What is it, darling?"  I asked, and she panted out broken sentences.

"The doctor!  I have been longing to see him; I thought I was better,
that he would be pleased with my progress, but it's no use--I can see it
is no use!  He has no hope.  I shall be like this all my life.  Babs,
_think_ of it!  I am twenty-three, and I may live until I am seventy--
upon this couch!  Oh, I shall go mad--I am going mad--I can't bear it a
moment longer.  The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but if
it goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old--an
old, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with no
one to care for me!  Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but father
and mother will be dead, and you will be married in a home of your own,
and Spencer very likely at the other end of the world, and--"

"And Jim?"  I asked quietly.

"Ah, poor Jim!  He must marry, too; it isn't fair to let him wreck his
life.  He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays.  Men
don't like invalids.  They are sorry for them, and pity them.  Will
Dudley, for instance--he only comes to see me as a charity--because I am
ill, and need amusing--"

"He is engaged to another girl, Vere.  Surely you don't want him to come
for love?"

She flushed a little, but her face set in the old defiant fashion, and
she said obstinately--

"He would have loved me if I had been well!  Rachel Greaves will never
satisfy him.  He cares for her as a sister rather than as a wife.  If I
were well again, and gay and bright as I used to be--"

"He would care for you less than he does now.  You don't understand,
Vere; but I am certain that Mr Dudley will never desert Rachel for
another girl.  He may not be passionately in love with her, perhaps it
is not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admiration
for her character, and would rather die than disappoint her in any way."

"You seem to know a great deal about it.  How can you be sure that you
understand him better than I do?" she asked sharply, and I could only
say in reply--

"I don't know; but I _am_ sure!  I think one understands some people by
instinct, and he and I were friends from the moment we met.  Besides, I
know Rachel better than you do, and had more opportunity of watching her
life at home.  I say her life, but she has practically no life of her
own--it is entirely given up for others.  Think what she gives up, Vere!
She could have been married years ago, and had a happy home of her own,
but she won't leave her father, though he is so cross and disagreeable
that most people would be thankful to get away.  She has the dullest,
most monotonous time one can imagine, and hardly ever sees Will alone;
but she is quite happy--not resigned, not forbearing nor any pretence
like that, but really and truly and honestly happy.  I call it splendid!
There are lots of people in the world who have hard things to bear, and
who bear them bravely enough, but they are not _happy_ in doing it.
Rachel is--that's the wonderful thing about her!"

"I wonder if she could make me happy.  I wonder if she could tell me how
to like lying here!" said poor Vere with a sob, and the idea must have
grown in her mind, for a week after our return home she said suddenly,
"I want to see Rachel Greaves!" and nothing would satisfy her but that
she must be invited forthwith.

Rachel came.  I had not seen her for some months, and I thought she
looked thin and pale.

As we went upstairs together our two figures were reflected in the big
mirror on the first landing--one all grey and brown, the other all
white, and pink, and gold.  I felt ashamed and uncomfortable at the
contrast in our appearance, but Rachel didn't; not a bit!  She just
looked round at me, and beamed in the sweetest way, and said--

"You are more like a flower than ever, Una!  It _is_ nice to see you
again!" and she meant it, every word.  She really is too good to live!

I took her to Vere's room, and was going to leave them alone, but Vere
called me back, and made me stay.  She said afterwards that she wanted
me to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything which
she forgot.  There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost no
time in stupid trivialities.

"I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularly
to ask you a question.  I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get no
better.  I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to be
like this all my life.  I have lain here with that thought to keep me
company until I can bear it no longer.  I feel sometimes as if I am
going out of my senses.  I must find something to help me, or it may
really come to that in the end.  I keep up pretty well during the day,
for I hate being pitied, and that keeps me from breaking down in public;
but the nights--the long, long endless nights!  Nobody knows what I
endure in the nights!  You are so good--everyone says you are so good--
tell me how to bear it and not mind!  Tell me what I am to do to grow
patient and resigned!"

"Dear Vere, I have never been tried as you are.  I have had only one or
two short illnesses in my life--I have never known the weariness and
disappointment--"

"No, but you have other trials.  You have so much to bear, and it is so
dull and wretched for you all the time," interrupted Vere quickly, too
much engrossed in her own affairs to realise that it was not the most
polite thing in the world to denounce another girl's surroundings.  As
for Rachel, she opened her eyes in purest amazement that anyone should
imagine she needed pity.

"I?  Oh, you are mistaken--quite, quite mistaken.  I have the most happy
home.  Everyone is good and kind to me; I have no troubles, except
seeing dear father's sufferings; and so many blessings--so much to be
thankful for!"

"You mean your engagement?  Mr Dudley is charming, and I am sure you
are fond of him, but you can't be married while your father lives, and--
and--one never knows what may happen.  Suppose--changes came--"

Vere stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and, by a curious
impulse, Rachel turned suddenly and looked at me.  Our eyes met, and the
expression in hers--the piteous, shrinking look--made me rush hotly into
the breach.

"You are talking nonsense, Vere!  You don't know Mr Dudley as Rachel
does.  You don't understand his character."

"No," said Rachel proudly, "you don't understand.  It is quite possible
that we may never marry--many things might happen to prevent that, but
Will would never do anything that was mean and unworthy.  The changes,
whatever they were, could not affect my love for him, and it is that
that makes my happiness--"

"Loving him!  Not his loving you!  Rachel, are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure.  Think just for a moment, and you will see that it must
be so.  It is pleasant to be loved, but if you do not love in return you
must still feel lonely and dissatisfied at heart.  If you love, you care
so much, so very, very much for the other's welfare, that there is
simply no time left to remember yourself; or, if you did, what does it
matter?  What would anything matter so long as he were well and happy?"

Her face glowed with earnestness and enthusiasm--what a contrast from
Vere's fretful, restless expression, which always seems asking for
something more, something she has not got, something she cannot even
understand.  Even Vere realised the difference, and her fingers closed
over Rachel's hand with an eloquent pressure.  Vere never does things by
halves, and even her apologies are graceful and pretty.

"Ah, Rachel," she said, "I see how foolish I was to expect you to answer
my question in a few short words.  We speak different languages, you and
I, and I can't even understand your meaning.  I wish I could, Rachel--I
wish I could!  The old life is out of reach, and there is nothing left
to take its place.  Can't you teach me your secret to help me along?"

Rachel flushed all over her face and neck.  Now that she was asked a
direct question she was obliged to answer, but her voice was very shy
and quiet, as if the subject were almost too sacred to be discussed.

"I think the secret lies in the way we look at life--whether we want our
own way, or are content to accept what God sends.  If we love and trust
Him, we know that what He chooses must be best, and with that knowledge
comes rest, and the end of the struggle--"

"Ah," sighed Vere, "but it's not the end with me!  I believe it, too,
with my head, but when the pain comes on, and the sleepless nights, and
the unbearable restlessness that is worst of all--I forget!  I can't
rest, I _can't_ trust, it is all blackness and darkness.  I must be very
wicked, for even when I try hardest I fail."

"Dear Vere," said Rachel softly, "don't be too hard on yourself!  When
people are tired and worn with suffering they are not responsible for
all they say and do.  I know that with my own dear father.  When he is
cross and unreasonable we are not angry, we understand and pity, and try
to comfort him, and if we feel like that, poor imperfect creatures as we
are, what must God be, Who is the very heart of love!  He is your
kindest judge, dear, for He knows how hard it is to bear."

"Thank you!" whispered Vere brokenly.  She put her hand up to her face,
and I could see her tremble.  She could not bear any more agitation just
then, so I signalled to Rachel, and we gradually turned the conversation
to ordinary topics.

Eventually Will arrived, and we had tea and some rather strained small
talk, for Vere was quiet and absent-minded, and somehow or other Will
rarely speaks to me directly nowadays.  He is always perfectly nice and
polite, but he does avoid me.  I don't think he likes me half as much as
he did at first.

How suddenly things happen in life!  At the moment when you expect it
least, the scene changes, and the whole future is changed.  As we were
sipping our tea and eating cakes, Burrows, the parlourmaid, opened the
door, and announced in her usual expressionless voice--

"If you please, marm, a messenger has come to request Miss Greaves to
return home at once.  Mr Greaves has had a sudden stroke--"

We all stood up quickly, all save poor Vere, who has to be still
whatever happens.  Rachel turned very white, and Will went up to her,
and took her hand in his.  He looked at me, and I guessed what he meant,
and said quickly--

"The motor-car!  It shall come round at once, and you will be home in
five minutes.  I'll go round to the stables!"

I rushed off, thankful to be able to help, and to put off thinking as
long as possible, but even as I ran the thought flew through my head.  A
stroke!  That was serious--very serious in Mr Greaves's weakened
condition.  I could tell from Burrows' manner that the message had been
urgent.  Perhaps even now the end of the long suffering _was_ at hand--
the end of something else, too; of what had seemed an hour ago a
practically hopeless engagement!



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

                                                          _August 12th._
It is a long time since I opened this diary, for I have grown out of the
habit of writing, and it is difficult to get into it again.

Mr Greaves died the very night of his seizure, and immediately after
his funeral Mrs Greaves collapsed and has been an invalid ever since.
It seemed as if she had kept up to the very limit of her endurance, for
as soon as the strain was over her nerves gave way in a rush, and
instead of the gentle, self-controlled creature which she has been all
her life, she is now just a bundle of fancies, tears and repinings.  It
is hard on Rachel, but she bears it like an angel, and is always patient
and amiable.  I wondered at first if she and Will would marry soon and
take Mrs Greaves to live with them; I asked Rachel about it one day
when we were having a quiet chat, and she answered quite openly:

"Will wished it.  He thought he could help me to cheer mother, but she
won't hear of it for the next twelve months at least, and, of course, I
must do as she prefers.  We have waited so long that another year cannot
make much difference."

I wondered if Will were of the same opinion, but did not dare to ask
him.  As I said before, he avoids me nowadays and does not seem to care
to talk to me alone.  Perhaps it is better so, but I can't help being
sorry.  I have wondered sometimes if the dull, aching feeling which I
have when he passes me by is anything like what poor Wallace Forbes felt
about me.  If it is, I am even more sorry for Wallace than before.  Of
course, I am not in love with Will--I couldn't be, for he is engaged to
Rachel, and I have known it from the first, but I can't help thinking
about him, and watching for him, and feeling happy if he comes, and
wretched if he stays away.  And I know his face by heart and just how it
looks on every occasion.  His eyes don't twinkle nearly so much as they
did; he is graver altogether, except sometimes when I have a mad mood
and set myself to make him frisky too.  I can always succeed, but I
don't try often, for I fancy Rachel doesn't like it.  She can't frisk
herself, poor dear, and it must feel horrid to feel left out in the cold
by your very own _fiance_.  I should hate it myself.

At the beginning of this month I had a great treat.  Lorna came to stay
with me for three days.  She was visiting a friend twenty miles off, and
came here in the middle of her visit just for that short time, so that
there need be no necessity for Wallace to know anything about it.  Of
course, she came with her parents' consent and approval, and oh, how
thankful I was to see her and to look upon her coming as a sign that
they were beginning to forgive me.  Of course we talked shoals about
Wallace, for I just longed to know how he was faring.

"My dear, it was awful after you left--positively awful!"  Lorna said.
"Wallace went about looking like a ghost, and mother cried, and father
was worried to death.  Wallace declared at first that he would go
abroad, but father told him that it was cowardly to throw up his work
for the sake of a disappointment, however bitter, and mother asked if he
really cared so little for his parents that he could forsake them in
their old age for the sake of a girl whom he had only known a month.  He
gave way at last, as I knew he would, and set to work harder than ever.
He was very brave, poor old boy, and never broke down nor made any fuss,
but he was so silent!  You would not have known him.  He never seemed to
laugh, nor to joke, nor take any interest in what was going on, and the
whole winter long he never once entered my little den, where we had had
such happy times.  I suppose it reminded him too much of you.  This
spring, however, he has been brighter.  I insisted on his taking me to
the tennis club as usual, and though he went at first for my sake he
enjoys it now for his own.  We meet so many friends, and he can't help
being happy out in the sunshine with a lot of happy boys and girls all
round.  He was quite keen about the tournament, and had such a pretty
partner.  He always walked home with her after the matches."

"How nice!"  I said, and tried to be pleased and relieved, and succeeded
only in feeling irritated and rubbed the wrong way.  How mean it sounds!
How selfish, and small, and contemptible!  I just intend to _make_
myself feel glad, and to hope that Wallace may see more and more of that
pretty girl, and like her far better than me, and be right down thankful
that I refused him.  So now, Una Sackville, you know what is expected of
you!

Vere liked Lorna, and was amused to see us frisking about together.  The
afternoon before Lorna left we were chasing each other round the room in
some mad freak when, turning towards Vere's couch, I thought I saw her
head raised an inch or so from the pillow in her effort to follow our
movements.  My heart gave a great thud of excitement, but I couldn't be
sure, so I took no notice, but took care to retire still further into
the corner.  Then I looked round again, and, yes! it was perfectly true,
her head was a good three inches from the couch, and she was smiling all
the time, evidently quite free from pain.

"Oh, Vere!"  I cried; "oh, darling, darling Vere!" and suddenly the
tears rolled down my cheeks, and I trembled so that I could hardly
stand.  Lorna could not think what had happened, neither could Vere
herself, and I tried hard to calm myself so as not to excite her too
much.

"You raised your head, Vere!  Oh, ever so high you raised it!  You were
watching us, and forgot all about yourself, and it didn't hurt you a
bit--you smiled all the time.  Try again if you don't believe me--try,
darling.  You can do it, if you like!"

Her breath came short with nervousness and agitation, but she clenched
her hands and with a sudden effort her head and neck lifted themselves
one, two, a good three or four inches from their support.  Oh, her face!
The sight of it at that moment was almost enough to make up for those
long months of anxiety.  It was illuminated; it shone!  All the weary
lines and hollows disappeared, the colour rushed to her cheeks; it was
the old, lovely, radiant Vere, whom we had thought never to see again.

I can't describe what we did next.  Mother came in and cried, father
came in and clapped his hands, and asked mother what on earth she meant
by crying, while the tears were rolling down his own dear old nose in
the most barefaced manner all the time.  I danced about the house and
kissed everyone I met, and the servants cried and laughed, and the old
family doctor was sent for and came in beaming and rubbing his hands
with delight.  He said it was a wonderful improvement, and the best
possible augury of complete recovery, and that now the first step had
been taken we could look forward to continuous improvement.

Oh, how happy we were!  I don't think any of us slept much that night;
we just lay awake and thanked God, and gloated over the glad news.  All
the next day Vere's face shone with the same wonderful incredulous joy.
Hope had been very nearly dead for the last few months, and the sudden
change from despair to practical certainty was too great to realise.  It
seemed as if she did not know how to be thankful enough.  She said to me
once--

"I am going to get well, Babs, but I must never forget this experience!
As long as I live I shall keep this couch in my bedroom, and when I have
been selfish and worldly I shall lay down straight on my back as I have
done all these months and stay there for an hour or two, just to make
myself remember how much I have been spared, and how humble I ought to
be.  And if you ever see me forgetting and going back to the old
thoughtless ways, you must remind me, Babs; you must speak straight out
and stop me in time.  I want to look back on this illness and feel that
it has been the turning-point in my life."

Later on the same day she said suddenly--

"I want Jim!  Please send for Jim."  And when he came, rushing on the
wings of the express next day, she was so sweet and kind to him that the
poor fellow did not know whether he was standing on his head or his
heels.

It was characteristic of Jim that when recovery seemed certain he should
say no more about his own hopes.  He had been anxious enough to offer
his love in the dark days of uncertainty, and all the year long a day
had never passed without bringing Vere some sign of his remembrance--a
letter, or a book, or a magazine, or flowers, or scent, or chocolates.
The second post never once came in without bringing a message of love
and cheer.  He came down to see us, too, once a month at least, and
sometimes got very little thanks for his pains, but that made no
difference to his devotion.  Now for the first time he was silent and
said not one word of love.

Vere told me all about it afterwards, not the nice private little bits,
of course, but a general outline of the scene between them, and I could
imagine how pretty it must have been.  Vere is bewitching when she is
saucy, and it is, oh, so good to see her saucy again!

"There sat Jim like a monument of propriety," she said, dimpling with
amusement at the remembrance, "and do what I would I could not get him
on to personal topics.  I gave him half a dozen leads, but the wretch
always drifted on to the weather, or politics, or books, and I could not
corner him.  Then at last I said mournfully, `Haven't you brought me a
_cadeau_, Jim?  I looked forward to a _cadeau_.  Is there nothing you
want to give me?'  He apologised profusely, said there had been no time
before catching the train, but if there was anything at all that I
fancied when he went back to town he would be only too charmed.  I
looked down and twiddled my fingers, and said bashfully, `Well, Jim, I
should like--a ring--!'"

Dear old Jim!  Dear old loyal, faithful Jim!  How I should have loved to
see his face at that moment!



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

                                                        _September 5th._
Every day Vere seems to improve.  It is simply wonderful how she has
bounded ahead after the first start.  Hope and happiness have a great
deal to do with it, the doctor says, and the expectation of being
better, which has taken the place of the old despair.  She looks
deliciously happy, and satisfied, and at rest, while as for Jim--he is
ten years younger at the very least, and can hardly believe that his
good fortune is true, and not a dream.

Needless to say he bought the ring at once--such a beauty!  A great big
pearl surrounded with diamonds.  I mean to have the twin of it when I am
engaged myself.  Vere wears it hung on a chain round her neck for the
present, but as soon as she can walk it is to go on her finger, and the
engagement will be announced.  She has been propped up on her couch
higher and higher every day, and yesterday she actually sat on a chair
for half an hour, and felt none the worse.

We are all so happy that we don't know what to do--at least, I am
miserable enough sometimes when I am alone, and begin thinking of
myself.  When Vere marries and goes away I shall be horribly dull, and
when Rachel marries I wonder where they will live--the Dudleys, I mean!
_The Dudleys_!  Will is heir to an old bachelor uncle who has a place in
the North.  That's the reason why he is learning to be an agent here, so
that he may know how to manage his own land when he gets it.  I think,
on the whole, I would rather he and Rachel went quite away, but how flat
and uninteresting everything would be!  I shall have to go about with
father more than ever, but we shall never meet Will striding about in
his tweed suit and deerstalker cap; he will never join us any more and
have nice long talks.  Oh, dear!  Why do people want to marry other
people in this world?  Why can't they all go on as they are, being
friends and having a good time together?  Captain Grantly married Lady
Mary at Easter, and I suppose Wallace will marry the pretty girl next,
and Lorna will write to say she is engaged, and can't be bothered with
me any more.

I shall never marry.  I could never induce myself to accept a second-
best as Vere has done.  That sounds horrid, and, of course, she declares
now that she never cared for another man, but I know better!  She was in
love with Will at one time, but she knew it was hopeless, and Jim's
devotion during all those weary months was enough to melt a heart of
stone.

Vere wished Rachel to be told of her engagement at once, and despatched
me to the Grange to carry the news, and, as Will Dudley happened to be
there at the time, he was really obliged to walk home with me, so far,
at least, as our paths lay together.  It was the first time we had been
really alone for an age, and we were both rather silent for the first
part of the walk.  Then we began talking of the engagement, and got on
better.  Will had been a little uncertain in his congratulations, and he
explained why.

"Carstairs is a splendid fellow.  I admire him immensely, and there is
no doubt about his feelings.  He has adored your sister for years, but--
she never appeared to me to appreciate his devotion!"

I smiled to myself, recalling Vere's rhapsodies of an hour ago.

"By her own account she has never thought of anyone else, nor cared for
anyone else, nor wished for anyone else, but has adored him all the time
she was snubbing him and flirting with other men.  Curious, isn't it?
The funny part of it is she really and truly believes that it is true."

"For the moment--yes.  I can understand that.  She is altogether in a
highly nervous, exalted condition, and feels that the first act of
convalescence ought to be to reward his long waiting.  My only fear is
that when she gets back to a normal condition she may realise that what
she feels is more gratitude and affection than love."

"I don't think so, and you wouldn't either if you saw them together.  I
detest lovers as a rule, they are so dull and self-engrossed; but it is
pretty to watch Vere and Jim.  She is so saucy and domineering, and he
is so blissfully happy to be bullied.  Oh, yes, I am sure it is all
right!  I am sure they will be happy."

"God grant it!" he said solemnly.  "Everything depends upon the truth of
their feelings for each other.  If that is right, nothing else will have
power to hurt them seriously.  If it is not--" He broke off, looking so
serious that I felt frightened, and said nervously:

"But, surely--even at the worst, gratitude and affection would be a good
foundation!"

"For everything else, but not for marriage.  It is a ghastly mistake to
imagine that they can ever take the place of love.  Never fall into that
error, Babs, however much you may be tempted.  Never let any impulse of
gratitude or pity induce you to promise to marry a man if you have no
warmer feeling.  It would be the most cruel thing you could do, not only
for yourself, but for him!"

"I have fallen into it once already, but he would not have me," I said,
recalling my hasty speech to Wallace Forbes, and at that Will's face lit
up with sudden animation, and he cried eagerly:

"Was that the explanation?  I guessed, of course, that something had
happened while you were away last autumn.  You remember I was calling on
your sister at the time of your unexpected return, and you have never
been quite the same since?  Whatever happened then has changed you from
a girl into a woman."

I sighed, as I always did when I recalled that miserable incident.

"I am glad you think so.  I want to be changed.  Please don't think me
the heroine of an interesting romance.  I was a selfish wretch, and
amused myself by flirting without thinking of anything but my own
amusement.  I was very down on my luck just then, and had got it into my
head that no one cared for me, and when--he--_did_, it cheered and
soothed my feelings, so I let things drift until it was too late.  Do
you despise me altogether, or can you understand that, bad as it was, it
wasn't so hopelessly bad as it sounds?"

"I understand better than you think, perhaps.  And you repented in
sackcloth and ashes, and were ready to make a sacrifice of yourself by
way of reparation?  Thank heaven he was man enough to refuse that offer!
Whatever happens to the rest of us, you, at least, must be happy.  You
were meant for happiness, and must not throw it aside.  I shall probably
leave this place soon, and we may seldom meet in the future, but I
should like to think of you in the sunshine.  Promise me to be happy,
Babs!  Promise me that you will be happy!"

He turned towards me with a violence of voice and manner so unlike his
usual composed, half-quizzical manner, that I was quite aghast, and did
not know how to reply.  For the first time a doubt of his own happiness
sprang into my mind, and once there it seemed to grow bigger and bigger
with every moment that passed.  He did not speak like a happy man; he
did not look like a man whose heart was at rest.  Looking at him
closely, I saw a network of lines about his mouth, which I had never
noticed before; his eyes looked tired and sunken.  He has changed since
I saw him first a year ago, and yet there seems nothing to account for
it, for his circumstances are all the same.  Is he depressed because
Rachel still puts off their marriage?  Oh, if I were in her place I
could not endure to see him looking ill and sad, and still leave him
alone!  Nothing should keep me away!  I'd jump over the moon to get to
his side!

We stood still in the middle of the quiet path and stared at each other.
I don't know what he was thinking, but my own thoughts made me blush
and change the subject hurriedly.

"Oh, I mean to be happy!  I have had so much anxiety and trouble this
last year that I'm just bubbling over with pent-up spirits.  This
engagement has put the finishing touch to my self-control, and I must do
something at once to let off steam.  Did you hear me ask Rachel to go
over to Farnham with us to-morrow?  Father and mother and I are going to
do it in record time in the new motor, and Rachel is coming, too.  She
has never been in a motor, and is eager to see what it is like.  It's
quite a triumph to get her to accept an invitation, isn't it?  You can
come, too, if you like; there's room for another, and the more the
merrier.  Do come, and let us all be happy together!  We could have such
a merry day!"

He hesitated for a moment, then laughed in a sort of reckless way, and
cried loudly:

"Yes, let us be happy!  It is only for one day.  Let us throw care to
the winds, and think of nothing but our own enjoyment.  Oh, yes, I'll
come!  We will have a happy day, Babs--a happy day together!"

So now it is all arranged, and I am longing for the time to come.  We
three will sit together on the back seat and talk all the time, and, as
Will says, I shall just forget everything in the world I don't care to
remember, and enjoy every minute of the time.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

                                                 _September 6th, 11 PM._
Here I am back in my own room; at least, I suppose it is me.  I have
been staring at myself in the glass, and I look much the same.  No one
who didn't know would guess what had happened to me during the last few
hours, and that to myself I feel all new and strange--a Una Sackville
who was never really alive until to-day.

I ought to be desperately miserable, and I am, but I am happy, too; half
the time I am so happy that I forget all about the past and the future,
and remember only the present.  To-morrow morning, I suppose, I shall
begin worrying and fighting against fate, but for to-night I am
content--so utterly, perfectly content that there is no room to want
anything more.  I'll begin at the beginning, and tell it straight
through to the end.

We started off for our ride at twelve o'clock this morning in the
highest of spirits, for the sun was shining, the sky was a deep
cloudless blue, and, better than all, Vere had taken her first walk
across the floor, supported by father on one side, and Jim on the other,
and had managed far better than any of us had expected.  She and Jim had
arranged to have lunch together in the garden, and she waved her hand to
us at parting, and cried airily:

"Perhaps I may stroll down to the Lodge to meet you on your return!"

Father and mother looked at one another when they were outside the door,
so happy, poor dears, that they hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry,
and then out we went into the sunshine, where the motor was throbbing
and bumping as if it were impatient to be off.  When I invent a motor
I'll make one that can be quiet when it stands.  I'm not a bit nervous
when once we are started, but I hate it while we are waiting, and the
stupid thing behaves as if it were going to blow up every moment.

Rachel was waiting for us, and flushed to the loveliest pink when Will
appeared and she discovered that he was to be one of the party.  Father,
mother and the chauffeur sat on the front seat, Rachel and I on the one
behind, with Will in the middle, and the luncheon-baskets were packed
away behind.  I had a mad turn, and was quite "fey," as the Scotch say.
I kept them laughing the whole time, and was quite surprised at my own
wit.  It seemed as if someone else was talking through my lips, for I
said the things almost before I thought of them.

We rushed along through beautiful country lanes, through dear, sleepy
little villages, and along the banks of the river.  The motor behaved
beautifully, and neither smelt nor shook; it was quite intoxicating to
fly through the air without any feeling of exertion, and Rachel herself
grew almost frisky in time.

At two o'clock we camped out, and had a delicious luncheon; then off we
started again, to take a further circuit of the country, and have tea at
a quaint old inn on the way home.  All went well until about four
o'clock, when we began to descend a long, steep hill leading to a
riverside village.  Father told the chauffeur to take it as slowly as
possible, but we had not covered a quarter of the way when--something
happened!  Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the machine seemed
to leap forward like an arrow from a bow, and rush down the hill, more
and more quickly with every second that passed.  We all called out in
alarm, and the chauffeur turned a bleached face to father, and said
shakily:

"It's gone, sir!  The brake has gone.  I can't hold her!"

"Gone?  Broken?  Are you sure--perfectly sure?"

"Quite sure, sir.  What shall I do?  Run through the village and chance
the river, or turn up the bank?"

We knew the village--one long, narrow street crowded with excursionists,
with vehicles of all descriptions, with little children playing about.
At the end the road gave a sharp turn close to the water's edge.  On the
other hand the bank was high and steep, and in some places covered with
flints.

Father looked round, and his face whitened, but he said firmly:

"We will not risk other lives besides our own.  If that is the choice,
run her up the bank, Johnson!"

"Right, sir!" said the chauffeur.

It all happened in a moment, but it seemed like hours and hours.  The
machine shook and quivered, and turned unwillingly to the side.  The
bank seemed to rush at us--to grow steeper and steeper; to tower above
our heads like a mountain.  My heart seemed to stop beating; a far-away
voice said clearly in my brain, "_This is death_!" and a great wave of
despair rolled over me.  I turned instinctively towards Will, and at the
same moment he turned towards me, and his eyes were bright and shining.

"Una, Una!" he cried, and his arms opened wide and clasped me in a
tight, protecting embrace.  There was a crash and a roar, a feeling of
mounting upwards to the skies, and then--darkness!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next thing was waking up feeling heavy and dazed, staring stupidly
at my coat-sleeve, and wondering what it was, and how I came to be
wearing such an extraordinary night-gown.  Then I tried to move the arm,
and it was heavy and painful; and suddenly I remembered!  I was not dead
at all, not even, it appeared, seriously hurt.  But the others?  I sat
up and glanced fearfully around.  The motor lay half-way up the bank, a
shattered mass.  Father was on his knees beside mother, who was moaning
in a low, unconscious fashion.  Will was slowly scrambling to his feet,
holding one hand to his back.  Rachel lay white and still as death, but
her eyes were open, and she was evidently fully conscious.  The
chauffeur was dreadful to look at, with the blood pouring from his head,
but he, too, moaned, and moved his limbs.  Nobody was dead!  It was
almost too wonderful to be believed.  I dragged myself across to mother,
and she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at the sight of our anxious
faces.  Her dear hands were terribly cut; she winced with pain as she
sat up, and was evidently badly bruised, but it was such bliss to see
her move and hear her speak that these seemed but light things.  Father
rushed to the motor, managed to extricate a flask from the scattered
contents, and went round administering doses of brandy to us all in
turns.  He had ricked his knee, and hobbled about like an old man.  Will
had a bad pain in his back, and a cut on his forehead.  My left arm was
useless.  Rachel seemed utterly stunned, and unable to speak or move,
and the poor chauffeur was unconscious, having fallen on his head on a
mass of flints.

By this time the accident had become known, and the village people came
trooping up the hill, bringing stretchers with them, for, as they
afterwards explained, they expected to find us all dead.  The chauffeur
and Rachel were carried in front, but the rest of us preferred to hobble
along on our own feet, mother leaning on father's arm, Will and I, one
on each side, never once glancing in the other's face.  It was awful to
be alive, and to remember that last moment when we had forgotten
everything in the world but our two selves.  I felt like a murderess
when I looked at Rachel's still face, and hated myself for what I had
done.  Yet how could I help it?  When you face death at the distance of
a few seconds, all pretence dies away, and you act unconsciously as the
heart dictates.  I wanted Will--and--_Will wanted me_!  Oh, it is
wonderful, wonderful to think of!  All these months when he has avoided
me, and I thought he liked me less, has he really been loving me, and
trying to get over it in loyalty to poor, dear Rachel?  And was that
what it meant when he called me "Una!" and his voice lingered over the
word?

Looking back now, I can understand lots of things which puzzled and
worried me at the time.  I think he began to love me almost at the very
first, as I did him.  But oh, Rachel, Rachel--dear, sweet, unselfish
Rachel!  I'd rather die than steal your happiness from you!  Did she
hear, I wonder?  Did she _see_?  Father and mother were too much
engrossed in themselves to know anything about it--perhaps she, too, was
too excited to notice.  Yet, surely in that awful moment she would turn
to Will for comfort, and when she saw him absorbed in me, forgetting her
very existence, she must understand.  Oh, she must!

I was terrified to meet her eyes when at last we reached the parlour of
the inn, and the doctor came to attend to us all in turns.  She was
lying on the sofa, and when I made myself go over to speak to her, my
heart gave a great throb of thankfulness, for she smiled at me, very
feebly, but as sweetly as ever, and pressed my hand between hers.  She
shook her head when I asked her a question, and seemed as if she could
not bear to talk.  The doctor was puzzled by her condition; he could
find no real injuries, but said she was evidently suffering from shock,
and must be kept as quiet as possible until she recovered her nerve.  We
were sponged, bandaged, plastered, and fortified with tea, and a
wretched livid-looking party we were!  No one could possibly have
recognised us as the same people who had set out so gaily four hours
before.

The doctor was anxious that we should telegraph home, and spend the
night at the inn, but we had two more invalids to consider--Mrs Greaves
and Vere, neither of whom were fit to be left alone in suspense, so we
chartered a big covered omnibus, borrowed dozens of pillows and
cushions, and set out to drive the remaining ten miles, leaving the
chauffeur to be taken to the village hospital.  Mother, Rachel and I lay
full length along the seats, the two men banked themselves up with
pillows, and endured the shaking as best they could, and so at last we
reached our separate homes.  I have been sitting here by my desk
thinking, thinking, thinking for over an hour, and it all comes to the
same thing.

I have made one man unhappy through my selfish vanity; I will not ruin a
woman's life into the bargain.  Rachel is my friend, and I will be truly
and utterly loyal to her.  So far my conscience is clear of offence
where she is concerned, for if I have loved Will it has been
unconsciously, and without realising what I was doing.  I have never,
never tried to attract him nor take him from her in any way.  I have
looked upon him as much out of my reach as if he had been a married man,
but after this things will be different.  I know the danger that is
before us both, and shall have to watch myself sternly every minute of
the time.

I suppose I shall be an old maid now, for I can't imagine caring for
anyone after Will.  Father and mother will be glad, and I'll try to be a
comfort to them, but it will be dreadful getting old, and ugly, and
tired and ill, and never having a real home of my own, and someone to
like me _best_.  Preachey people would say that it is wrong of me to
want to be first, and that I should be quite content to take a lower
place, but I can't think that can be true where love is concerned, else
why did God put this longing in women's hearts?  Anyway, I've found out
that love--the _best_ kind of love--is His gift, and if it comes to me
at all it shall _be_ as His gift.  I won't steal it!  Poor, darling,
unselfish Rachel, for your sake I must guard my thoughts as well as my
deeds.

I think perhaps I'd better not write any more in this diary for a time.
It would be difficult to write of just ordinary things without referring
to the one great subject, and that is just what I must not do.  My
business is to forget, not to remember.  I must not allow myself to
think!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

                                                          _January 1st._
I must begin to write again in my poor, neglected diary, for things are
happening so fast that if I do not keep a record of them as they pass I
shall forget half that I want to remember.

The last entry was written on the evening after the motor accident,
nearly four months ago, so I must go back to that day and tell what
happened in the interval.

We were all invalided more or less for a few weeks, but providentially
there were no serious developments; even the poor chauffeur recovered
and seemed as well as ever.  Rachel was the longest in gaining strength,
and the doctor was worried about her, for she seemed listless and
uninterested in what was going on, so different from her usual happy
self.  He said she had evidently had a severe nervous shock, and that
that sort of thing was often more difficult to overcome than more
tangible injuries.  A nurse came down from London to look after her and
her mother, and finally they went off to Bournemouth, where they intend
to remain until the worst of the winter is over.

I was relieved to feel convinced that Rachel knew nothing of what had
occurred at that last dreadful moment, for her ignorance seemed proved
by the fact that she was absolutely the same in manner both to Will and
myself! in fact, if anything, I think she was more affectionate to me
than she had ever been before.  I _was_ thankful!  It would have been
dreadful to feel that we had any part in bringing about her illness.  As
for Will, I kept carefully out of his way, and hoped we need never,
never refer to what had passed; but he evidently felt differently, and
one day when he knew where I was bound he deliberately waylaid me and
had it out.  I never lifted my eyes from the ground, so I don't know how
he looked, but his voice told plainly enough how agitated he was
feeling.

"There is something I have to say, and the sooner it is said the better
for both of us," he began.  "I owe you an explanation for what
occurred--that day.  I should like you to understand that I hardly knew
what I was about.  It seemed as if it might be the last moment of life,
and I turned instinctively to you.  Otherwise I would never, never--"

"Oh, I know!"  I cried brokenly.  "I understand it all, and if there is
any blame it is mine as much as yours, for I forgot, too.  We must never
refer to it again, and we had better see each other as seldom as
possible.  It will be easier that way."

He was silent for a moment or two, then he sighed heavily and said:

"It will not be easy any way, Una, but it must be done.  I can't blame
myself altogether for what has happened.  Our hearts are not always in
our own keeping, and mine went out to you from the first.  I did not
realise it for a time, but when I did, I did not trifle with temptation.
I kept out of your way, as you must have noticed.  All last winter I
fought a hard fight.  It would have been harder still if I had guessed
that--you cared!  The trouble began in mistaking friendship for love,
but until I met you I was quite content.  I had no idea that anything
was lacking."

"And you will be happy again.  Rachel is better than I am in every
possible way, and is more worthy of you.  I am a selfish, discontented
wretch.  If you knew what I was really like, you would wonder how you
could ever have cared for me at all, and when you leave this place it
will be easy to forget--"

"I shall never forget," he said shortly.  "Una, I must tell you all that
is in my mind.  I believe in honesty in love as in all other matters,
and if circumstances were different I should go straight to Rachel and
tell her.  How, unconsciously to myself, my heart had gone out to you,
and that in that supreme moment we turned instinctively to each other,
and I knew that my love was returned, and I would ask her for my
liberty.  In nine out of ten cases I am sure that would be the right
thing to do, but--this is the tenth!  Rachel has had years of trouble
and anxiety, and now her own health is broken.  I could not put another
burden upon her.  Through these last days of misery and uncertainty what
has comforted me most has been to realise that she has no idea of what
happened.  She must have been taken up with her own thoughts--praying,
no doubt, for our safety, not her own.  Rachel never thinks of herself,
so I must think for her.  With her father gone, her mother invalided,
she has no one left but me, and I can't desert her."

"I should hate you if you did!"  I cried eagerly.  "I, too, have been
thankful that she knows nothing, and she must never know, you must never
let her guess.  There could be no happiness for us if we broke her
heart.  You used to call her the best woman in the world, and she is so
sweet and gentle that you could not possibly live with her and remain
unhappy.  In years to come you will be thankful it has happened like
this."

"In any case it is the right thing to do," he said, sighing.  "As you
say, we should only suffer if we thought of ourselves first.  If one
tries to grasp happiness at the expense of another's suffering it only
collapses like a bubble, and leaves one more wretched than before.  You
and I are not unprincipled, Una, though we did forget ourselves for that
one moment, and the remembrance of Rachel would poison everything.
Perhaps, after all, it is as well that we know our danger, for we shall
be more careful to keep out of temptation.  I shall try to persuade her
to marry me as soon as possible, and after that we shall live near my
uncle.  I shall have a busy, active life, and, as you say, one of the
sweetest women in the world for my wife.  She has been faithful to me
for so many years that I should be a scoundrel if I did not make her
happy."

I did not say anything--I couldn't!  I seemed to see it all stretched
out before me--Will being married, and going to live far, far away, and
settling down with his wife and children, and forgetting that there was
a Una in the world.  I tried to be glad at the thought; I tried _hard_,
but I was just one big ache, and my heart felt as if it would burst.
Honestly and truly, if by lifting up a little finger at that moment I
could have hindered their happiness, nothing would have induced me to do
it, but it is difficult to do right _cheerfully_.

We stood silently for a long time, until Will said brokenly: "And what
will--you do, Una?"

"Oh, I shall do nothing.  I shall stay at home--like the little pig," I
said, trying to laugh, and succeeding very badly.  "I shall help Vere
with her marriage preparations, and visit her in her new home, and take
care of the parents in their old age.  Father says there ought always to
be one unmarried woman in every family to play Aunt Mary in time of
need.  I shall be the Sackville Aunt Mary."

He turned and walked up and down the path.  I stole a glance at him and
saw that he was battling with some strong emotion, then our eyes met,
and he came forward hastily and stood before me.

"Oh, it is hard that I should have brought this upon you!  I who would
give my right hand to ensure your happiness.  Have I spoilt your life,
Una?  Will you think hardly of me some day, and wish that we had never
met?"

Then at last I looked full in his face.

"No, Will," I said; "that day will never come.  I have known a good man,
and I am proud that he has loved me, and prouder still that he is true
to his word.  Don't worry about me.  I shall try to be happy and brave,
and make the most of my life.  It will be easier after you have left.
We must not meet like this again.  I could not bear that."

"No, we must not meet.  I could not bear it either, but I am glad that
we have spoken out this once.  God bless you, dear, for your sweet
words.  They will be a comfort to remember.  Good-bye!"

We did not even shake hands; he just took off his cap and--went!  I had
a horrible impulse to run after him, take him by the arm, and make him
stay a little longer, only five minutes longer, but I didn't.  I just
stood perfectly still and heard his footsteps crunch down the path.
Then the sound died away, and it seemed as if everything else died with
them.  I did not feel brave at that moment.  There seemed nothing left
in the whole wide world that was worth having.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

About the middle of September Will went away to pay a visit to his
uncle.  He called to say good-bye when he knew I was out, so we did not
meet again, and no one had any idea of what had happened.  Isn't it
strange how far away you feel at times from even your nearest relations?

  "Not e'en the dearest heart and next our own,
  Knows half the reason why we smile or sigh!"

as it says in the "Christian Year."  A girl's parents think: "She has a
comfortable home, and nice food and clothes, and we are always thinking
of her; she ought to be happy, and if she isn't she is a naughty,
ungrateful child!"  They don't remember that the child is a woman, and
wants her very own life!  And other people say: "She is a well-off girl,
that Una Sackville, she has everything that money can buy!" but money
can't take the ache out of your heart.  And your sister thinks that you
should be so excited and eager at the prospect of being her bridesmaid,
that your cup of happiness ought to simply pour over on the spot.  Ah,
well, perhaps it's just as well to keep your troubles to yourself!

The old uncle was weak and failing, so Will stayed on with him until
Christmas.  I suppose he was glad of the excuse.  He never wrote, but
Rachel sent me a note now and then, and mentioned that he had been down
to Bournemouth several times, but she is a poor correspondent at the
best of times, and her letters seemed emptier than ever.  When Lorna
writes, you feel as if she were speaking, and she tells you all the
nice, interesting little things you most want to hear, but Rachel's
letters are just a dull repetition of your own.

"Dearest Una,--I am so glad to hear you are keeping well, and feeling
happier about your sister's health.  It is very nice to know that dear
Mrs Sackville is so much stronger this winter, and that your father is
full of health and vigour.  So you are expecting a visit from your
soldier brother, and are all greatly excited at the prospect of seeing
him after so many years, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."  What is one to
do with people who write like that?  Just at the end she would say,
"Will paid us a flying visit last week, and promised to come again next
Saturday.  Believe me, dear Una..."  Her letters left me as hungry and
dissatisfied as when they arrived, but they brought all the news I had
for three long months.

At home the atmosphere was very bright and cheery, for Vere improved so
quickly that she and Jim actually began to talk of marriage in the
summer.  The old doctor came up and croaked warnings when he heard of
it.  He said that Vere would need care for a long time to come, and that
in his opinion it would be wiser to wait until she was perfectly
strong--say a matter of two or three years longer; but Jim just laughed
in his face, and said he flattered himself that he could take better
care of his wife than anyone else could possibly do.  So it was settled,
and the astounding marvel has come to pass that Vere is so engrossed in
thinking about Jim and their future life together, that she is
comparatively indifferent to clothes.  When I sounded her as to
bridesmaids' costume, she said: "Oh, settle it yourself, dear.  I don't
mind, so long as you are pleased!"  Two years ago she would have
insisted on my wearing saffron, if it had been the fashionable colour,
and have worried the whole household into fits about the shape of the
sleeves!  She is so loving and sweet to mother, too, not only in words,
but in a hundred taking-pains kind of ways, and she never jeers or hurts
my feelings as she used to do.  Jim is going to have a very nice wife,
and he deserves it, dear old patient thing!

In November, just as it was all settled about the wedding, Spencer came
home from Malta, and stayed for a month.  We were all simply bursting
with pride over him, and the whole neighbourhood came up in batches to
do obeisance.  Why one should be prouder of a soldier who has never even
seen a fight than of a nice, hard-working clerk, I can't think, but the
fact remains that you _are_, and I did wish it were the fashion for
Spencer to wear his lovely uniform, instead of a dull grey tweed suit
like anybody else!  The whole family was busy and happy and engrossed in
the present.  Nobody guessed what years those weeks seemed to me.  I was
quite bright all day long, but when I got to bed...

So the time went on, one day after another.  Spencer went back to Malta,
and Jim came down to stay for Christmas, also Lady Mary and her husband,
and I sat up in my room making presents, and trying to live in the
present and not look ahead.  Then Christmas morning came, and among a
stack of cards was a letter from Rachel--an extraordinary letter!

"I am quite well again," she wrote, "but mother is very frail, and takes
cold at every change in the weather.  Even this sheltered place seems
too bleak for her, and we are seriously contemplating going abroad--not
to the Continent, but a much longer journey--to South Africa itself!
You may have heard that mother spent her early life at the Cape, and now
that father has gone it is only natural that she should wish to spend
her last years near her brothers and sisters.  It will be a wrench for
me to leave England, and all the dear friends who have been so kind to
me, but I feel more and more strongly that it is the right thing to do.
We shall try to sell the Grange, but shall, of course, come back for a
few weeks after the New Year to pack up and make final arrangements, if,
as I think probable, our plans are settled by that time."

The letter went on to discuss other subjects, but I could not bring my
mind to attend to them.  I just sat staring at that one paragraph, and
reading it over again and again and again.

Going to the Cape!  To spend her mother's last days!  Mrs Greaves was
not an old woman.  She might easily live for another ten or fifteen
years.  Did Rachel seriously mean to imply that she herself was going to
remain in South Africa all that time?  And what about Will?  Was he
supposed to wait patiently until she returned, or to expatriate himself
in order to join her?  I felt utterly bewildered, and the worst of it
was that there was no one near who could throw any light on the subject,
or answer one of my questions.  At one moment I felt indignant with
Rachel for making no mention of Will's interest; at the next I marvelled
how a mother, so kind and devoted as Mrs Greaves, could possibly demand
such a sacrifice of her daughter.  What would Will say when the project
was unfolded to him?  After his long waiting he would be quite justified
in taking a strong position and refusing to be put aside any longer.
From what I knew of him, I fancied that he would do so--I hoped he
would.  Nothing could be more trying and dangerous for him or for me
than a long, dragging engagement, with Rachel at the other side of the
world--an engagement which held him bound, yet left him practically
free.

I knew that Will was to spend Christmas at Bournemouth, and wondered if
he would call on us on his return to discuss the astonishing news, but
though father met him once or twice, he never came near the house until
this morning, this wonderful never-to-be-forgotten morning when Bennett
came to me as I was writing in the library and said that Mr Dudley had
called to see me, and was waiting in the drawing-room.

To see me!  Not mother, nor father, nor Vere, but me!  My heart gave a
great leap of excitement, and I trembled so violently that I could
hardly walk across the floor.  It must be something extraordinary indeed
which brought Will on a special mission to me!

He was standing by the fireplace as I entered the room, and the moment
he saw me he darted forward and seized my hands in both his.  The last
time we had met he would not even shake hands at parting.  I remembered
that with another thrill of excitement; then he drew me towards the
fireplace and began speaking in quick, excited tones--

"Una, it is all over!  Rachel has set me free!  It is her own doing,
entirely her own wish.  I had no idea of it until Christmas Eve, when
she sent me a letter telling me that she was going to South Africa with
her mother, and could not continue our engagement.  She asked me not to
come to Bournemouth as arranged, but I went all the same.  I could not
accept a written word after all these years.  I wanted to satisfy myself
that she was in earnest."

"And was she?"

"Absolutely!  I could not touch her decision--sweet and gentle and
kindly as ever, but perfectly determined to end it once for all."

"Do you think that Mrs Greaves--"

"No, she has had nothing to do with it.  The decision was as great a
surprise to her as to me.  She told me that she would never have
consented to the South African scheme if Rachel had not first confided
in her that she wished to break her engagement, and would be glad to be
out of England.  I think she is genuinely sorry.  She and I were always
good friends."

"Then why--why--why--"

"A matter of feeling entirely.  Stay, I will give you her letter to
read.  It will explain better than I can, and there is nothing that she
could mind your seeing."

He took an envelope from his coat pocket, unfolded the sheet of paper
which it contained, and held it before me.  I was so shaky and trembling
that I don't think I could have held it myself.  It was dated December
23rd, and on the first page Rachel spoke of the proposed journey in
almost the same words which she had used in her letter to me, written on
the same date.  Then came the surprise.

"You will wonder, dear Will, if I am altogether forgetting you and your
claims in the making of these plans; indeed, I never can be indifferent
to anything which concerns your happiness, but I have something to say
to you to-night which cannot longer be delayed.  I am going to ask you
to set me free from our engagement.  I have come to the conclusion that
I have been mistaken in many things, and that it would not be a right
thing for me to become your wife.  Please don't imagine that I am
disappointed in you, or have any sins to lay to your charge.  I am
thankful to say that my affection and esteem are greater now than on the
day when we were engaged, and I should be deeply grieved if I thought
there could ever be anything approaching a quarrel between us.  I want
to be good, true friends, dear Will, but only friends--not lovers.  I
see now that I should never have allowed anything else, but you must be
generous, dear, and forgive me, as you have already forgiven so many
failings.

"Don't try to dissuade me.  You know I am not given to rash decisions,
and I have thought over nothing else than this step for some weeks past.
I know I am right, and in the future you will see it too, however
strangely it strikes you now.  It would perhaps be better if you did not
come here to-morrow as arranged--"

The rest of the letter I knew already, so I did not trouble to look at
it, but turned back and read the last paragraphs for the second time, "I
have been mistaken in many things!"  "My affection is greater than on
the day when we were engaged."  "I have thought over nothing else for
some weeks past."  Those three sentences seemed to stand out from the
rest, and to print themselves on my brain.  I looked anxiously in Will's
face, and saw in it joy, agitation, a wonderful tenderness, but no
shadow of the suspicion which was tearing at my own heart.  How blind
men are sometimes, especially when they don't care to see!

"She has never loved me!" he declared.  "She had, as she says, an
affection for me as she might have had for a friend, a brother--an
affection such as I had for her, but she does not know--we neither of us
knew the meaning of--love!"

I looked at the carpet, and there rose before me a vision of Rachel's
face when Will appeared unexpectedly on the scene; when she heard the
tones of his voice in the distance; when she watched him out of sight
after he had said "Good-bye."  In his actual presence she was quiet and
precise, but at these moments her eyes would shine with a deep glow of
happiness, her lips would tremble, and her cheeks turn suddenly from
white to pink.  Not love him--Rachel not love Will!  Why, she adored
him!  He was more to her than anything and everybody in the world put
together.  She might be able to deceive him, but nothing could make me
believe that she had broken off the engagement for her own happiness.
She was thinking of someone else, not herself.  Who was it?  Ah, that
was the question.  Her mother, or Will, Will and perhaps--me!  Was it
possible that she had been conscious of what had happened on the
afternoon of the motor accident, and that, in consideration of our
feelings, she had kept her own counsel until a sufficient time had
elapsed to enable her to end her engagement in a natural manner?  Anyone
who knew Rachel as I do would realise in a flash that it was just
exactly what she would do in the circumstances.  Then, if this were
indeed the case, the nervous shock which prostrated her for so long was
not physical, but mental.  Oh, poor Rachel!  Yet you could smile at me,
and be sweet and gentle in the first moments of your agony!  It was all
I could do to keep back the tears, as I thought of what she must have
endured during these last three months; but through all my agitation one
determination remained unshaken: I must not let Will see my suspicions;
Rachel's secret must be loyally guarded.  He was talking incessantly--a
quick, excited stream of words.  I came back from my dreams to pick up a
half-finished sentence--

"Too good to be true.  She has filled so large a place in my life.  I
have such a strong admiration for her that it would have been a real
pain to have parted coldly.  But to keep her as my friend, to know that
her affection is unchanged, and yet to be free to seek my own happiness
is such a marvellous unravelling of the skein that I can hardly realise
my good fortune.  I came back last night, and could hardly wait until
this morning to tell you my news.  Una, you understand!  I ask nothing
of you to-day, it is not the time to speak of ourselves.  I shall go
back to my uncle, and stay with him for the next few months.  He is very
frail, and my place seems to be with him at present, but in the spring,
if I come back in the spring, will you see me then?  Will you let me
tell you--"

I moved away from him hurriedly.

"No, no--don't say it!  Say nothing to-day, but just `Good-bye.'  I
don't want to think of the future--it's too soon.  You said we must not
think of ourselves."

"I did.  You are quite right, but sometimes it is difficult to be
consistent.  You are not angry with me for coming to-day?"

He held out his hand as he spoke, and--I was inconsistent, too!  I laid
mine in it, and we stood with clasped fingers, quite still and silent
for a long, long time, but I think we said many things to each other,
all the same.

Then Will went away--my Will!--and I came upstairs to my room, and sat
down all alone.  No, that is not true--I can never fed alone now as long
as I live!



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

                                                         _January 20th_.
Mrs Greaves and Rachel came home after the New Year and set to work at
once to break up the old home.  All the furniture is to be sold by
auction, and the house is to be sold too, or let upon a very long lease.
I wanted to see Rachel, but dreaded seeing her, at the same time, so at
last I sent a letter asking when I might come, and she wrote back a dear
little affectionate note fixing the very next afternoon.  When I arrived
she took me upstairs to the sitting-room where I used to spend my days
when my ankle was bad, and fussed over me in just the same old way.  She
looked--different!  Just as sweet, just as calm, but--oh, I can't
describe it, as if something had gone which had been the mainspring of
it all.

I should never have dared to mention Will, but she began almost at once
to speak of the broken engagement, quite calmly and quietly, repeating
that it was the best thing for both, and that she should be perfectly
content if she were satisfied about Will's future.

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to hear that Will is happily
married and settled down.  He has been too long alone, and would so
thoroughly appreciate a home of his own.  I have done him a great
injustice by condemning him to so many lonely years, but our engagement
need be no hindrance now.  It was known to very few people, and,"--she
smiled a little sadly--"even those who did know refused to take it
seriously.  They saw at once what I was so slow in discovering--that we
were unsuited to each other.  We were thrown together at a time when he
was depressed and lonely, otherwise the engagement could never have
happened.  It was a great mistake, but it is over now, and he must not
suffer from its consequences.  I am going away, but I shall wait to hear
of his happiness, and I hope it may come soon."

Our eyes met.  I looked at her steadily, and the colour rose in her
cheeks and spread up to the roots of her hair.  She shrank back in her
chair and put up her hands as if to ward me off, but I just sank on my
knees before them and held them tightly in mine.

"Oh, Rachel!"  I cried.  "I know, I know!  You can't deceive me, dear.
You have done this for our sakes, not your own.  Oh, I hoped you had
been too much engrossed to notice what happened that day.  When you said
nothing about it, I was so relieved and thankful, for truly, Rachel, it
was only an impulse.  Nothing of the sort had ever happened before--not
a word or a look to which you could have objected.  You believe that,
don't you, dear?  Say you believe it."

Her fingers tightened round mine.

"Indeed, indeed, I do!  You have been all that is true and loyal, and so
has Will.  There is no one to blame but myself.  I knew from the first
that he was attracted to you, and that you suited him better than I
could ever do; but I shut my eyes--I did not want to see.  Don't be
sorry for what happened; it is a great blessing for us all that I was
not allowed to deceive myself any longer.  You say it was only an
impulse.  Ah, Una, but the impulse which made him turn to you and forget
me is too clear a warning to be neglected.  It showed how his heart lay
better than any deliberate action."

I could not deny it.  I did not want to deny it, deeply as I felt for
her suffering.  I laid my head in her lap, so that she should not see my
face, and begged her to forgive me.

"I feel such a wretch to take my happiness at the expense of yours.  You
are an angel, Rachel, to be so sweet and forgiving.  I should be a fury
of rage and jealousy if I were in your place, but you give it all up
without a murmur."

She smiled at that--such a sad little smile.

"I have nothing to give.  It was yours all the time.  When I found that
out, I could not be mean enough to hold an empty claim.  I never meant
you to know my real reason, but since you have found it out for
yourself, you must promise me not to let it interfere with Will's
happiness.  Don't let me feel that he has to suffer any more because of
me.  Never let him suspect the truth.  He has such a tender heart that
it would trouble him sorely if he knew that I had discovered his secret,
and I don't want any shadow on our friendship.  Promise me, Una, that
you will never let him know."

"I promise, Rachel.  I had made up my mind about that long ago."

I did not tell her that in making my decision I had considered her
feelings, not his.  I had imagined that for her pride's sake she would
not wish him to know her real reasons for breaking off the engagement.
But Rachel herself had no thought of her pride; her anxiety was simply
and wholly for Will's comfort.

I looked up at her in a passion of admiration, and in that moment a
question which had tormented me for weeks past seemed to find its
solution.

"Rachel," I cried, "I know now why this has happened!  I have been
wondering how anyone so good and unselfish as you could be allowed to
have such a trouble as this, and how it could be for the best that you
are passed over for a creature like me, but I can understand now.  You
are too valuable to be shut up in just one home; so many people need
you--you can help so wonderfully all round that you are kept free for
the general good.  The world needs you.  You belong to the world."

Her face lit up with happiness.

"Oh, Una, what a lovely thought!  I shall remember that, and it will be
such a comfort.  Kiss me, dear.  I am so glad that it is you.  I am so
thankful that Will has chosen someone whom I can love."

We talked a good deal more, and she said a lot of lovely things that I
shall remember all my life.  It was as though she were giving over the
charge of Will into my hands, and they are such hasty incapable hands
that they need all the guiding they can get.  She told, me all about him
as she had known him all these years--his good qualities, which I was to
encourage; his weaknesses, which I was to discourage; his faults, (ah!
Will dear, they were nothing compared to mine), which I was to help him
to fight.  She looked upon it all so seriously, that marriage seemed to
become a terrible as well as a beautiful thing.  Can it really be true
that I have such wonderful power to influence Will for good or evil?
Oh, I must be good, I must, I must, for his welfare is fifty thousand
times dearer to me than my own!

After this I was constantly at the Grange, and worked like a charwoman
helping to pack, and getting ready for the sale.  I think I was really
of use, for Rachel has not much taste, and I re-arranged things so that
they looked ever so much more attractive, and so brought bigger prices.
We had very happy times together, and were quite merry, sometimes
sitting down to tea on the top of boxes, with our dresses pinned up and
covered with aprons, but we never spoke of Will again.  That was
finished.  The last two nights they were in England Mrs Greaves and
Rachel spent in our home, and I drove down and saw them off at the
station.  I knew who was going to meet them at the other end, but even
then we did not mention him.  Rachel just clung tightly to me, and
whispered "_Remember_!" and that said everything.  Then the train puffed
slowly out of the station, and I caught one glimpse of her white, white
face through the window.  Oh! if I live to be a hundred I shall never,
never forget her, and I shall love her more than anyone else except my
very own people, but I don't think I shall ever see Rachel again in this
world!

                                                            _June 25th_.
Vere's wedding eve.  My poor neglected diary must come out of hiding to
hear the record of a time so wonderful to her and to me.  I have had
very little leisure for thinking of my own affairs since Rachel left,
for a wedding means a tremendous amount of work and management, when it
involves inviting relations from all parts of the world, buying as many
clothes as if you were never expected to see a shop again, and choosing
and furnishing a brand-new house.  Neither mother nor Vere are strong
enough to do much running about, so all the active preparations fell to
me, and I had to go up to town to scold dressmakers and hurry up
decorators, and threaten cabinet makers, and tell plumbers and
ironmongers that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and match
patterns, and choose trimmings, and change things that wouldn't do,
until Vere said, laughingly, that the wedding seemed far more mine than
hers.  It kept me so busy that I had no time to dream until I went to
bed at nights and then I used to be awake for hours, thinking of Rachel
away at the other side of the world, happy in her mother's restored
health, and, to judge from the tone of her letters, thoroughly enjoying
the complete change of scene after the very quiet life she had led these
last years; thinking of Lorna, my dear old faithful Lorna, as good a
friend to me as ever, in spite of all the trouble I caused her.  It is a
year ago now since that wretched affair, and Wallace seems almost his
old self again, she says, so I hope he will soon have forgotten all
about me.  I feel hot and cold whenever I think about it.  It is
_wicked_ to play at being in love!  Suppose I had accepted Wallace out
of pique, as I thought of doing for a few mad moments; suppose I had
been going to marry him to-morrow--how awful, how perfectly awful I
should feel now!  How different from Vere, whose face looks so sweet and
satisfied that it does one good to look at her.

I have been slaving all day long arranging flowers and presents, and
after tea mother just insisted that I should come up to my room to rest
for an hour, so here I am, sitting on the very same chair on which I sat
in those far-away pre-historic ages when I began this diary, a silly bit
of a girl just home from school.  I am not so very ancient now as years
go, but I have come through some big experiences, and to-day especially
I feel full of all sorts of wonderful thoughts and resolutions, because
to-morrow--to-morrow, Will is coming, and we shall meet again!

I think Vere guesses, I am almost sure that she does, for she and Jim
made such a point of his coming to the wedding, and she gave me his note
of acceptance with such a sympathetic little smile.  Oh, how anxious I
had been until that letter arrived, and now that it is all settled I can
hardly rest until to-morrow.  Rest!  How can I rest?  He arrives late
to-night, so we shall meet first of all in church.  I shall feel as if,
like Vere, I am going to meet my bridegroom.  It will seem like a double
wedding--hers and mine.

                                                      _The Wedding Day_.
It has all passed off perfectly, without a single hitch or drawback.  To
begin with, the weather was ideal, just a typical warm June day, with
the sky one deep, unclouded blue.  As I looked out of my window this
morning the lawns looked like stretches of green velvet, bordered with
pink and cream, for it is to be a rose wedding, and the date was fixed
to have them at their best.  The house is full of visitors, and
everybody seemed overflowing with sympathy and kindness.

It must be horrid to be married in a place where you are not known, or
in a big town where a lot of strangers collect to stare at you, as if
you were part of a show.  This dear little place is, to a man, almost as
much interested and excited as we are ourselves; the villagers are all
friends, for either we have known them since they were babies, or they
have known us since we were babies, which comes to the same thing.  The
old almshouse women had a tea yesterday, and sat in the gallery in
church, and the Sunday-school children had a tea to-day, and lined the
church path and scattered roses.  The Mother's Meeting was in the
gallery, too, and the Band of Hope somewhere else, and the Girls'
Friendly by the door.  The whole place was _en fete_, with penny flags
hanging out of the cottage windows, and streamers tied across the High
Street.  It all felt so nice, and kind, and homey.

There were eight bridesmaids, and we really _did_ look nice, in white
chiffon dresses, shepherdess hats wreathed with roses, and long white
staves wreathed with the same.

As for Vere, she was a vision of loveliness, all pink and white and
gold.  We walked together downstairs into the hall, where father was
waiting to receive us.  Poor father! the tears came into his eyes as he
took her hand, and looked down at her.  It must be hard to bring up a
child, and go through all the anxiety and care and worry, and then, just
when she is old enough to be a real companion, to have to give her up,
and see her go away with a "perfect stranger," as Spencer says.

Last night, when I was going to bed, father held me in his arms, and
said:

"Thank heaven, I shall have you left, Babs!  It will be a long time
before I can spare you to another man."

And I hugged him, and said nothing, for I knew...  Ah! well, they did it
themselves once on a time, so they can't be surprised!

The church was crowded with people, and everybody turned to stare at us
as we came in, but I saw only one face--Will's face--with the light I
most loved shining in his eyes.  I stood at Vere's side, and heard her
repeat her vows in sweet, firm tones, which never faltered, but Jim's
voice trembled as he made that touching promise of faithfulness "in
sickness and in health," and I saw his hand tighten over hers.

It was like a dream--the swelling bursts of music, the faces of the
clergy; behind all, the great stained window, with the Christ looking
down...  Then the wedding march pealed out, we took our places in the
carriages, and drove home once more.

Vere and her husband stood beneath one of the arches of the pergola, to
receive the congratulations of their friends, a picture couple, as happy
as they were handsome.  The sky was like a dome of blue, the scent of
roses was in the air, and Will came to meet me across the green, green
grass.

"Una!" he cried.  "_At last_!" and clasped my hand in his.

Oh, I am terribly happy!  I should like everyone in the world to be as
happy as I am to-day!

THE END.