_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--"