_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?"