_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!