"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!