_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!