it is rather jolly having a house full of people; and father and mother and vere are so clever at entertaining. there is never any fuss nor effort, and people are allowed to go their own way, but there is always something to do if they choose to do it. i must say that, for grown-up people, these visitors are very frivolous, and play about together as if they were children. mr nash began showing me tricks with pennies after breakfast the first morning, and i was so interested learning how to do them that it was half-past ten before i thought of joining father at the stables. it was too late then, and i wasn’t altogether sorry, for it was livelier going about with these new people, and it wasn’t my fault, for i should have gone if i’d remembered. i was extra nice to father at lunch to make up, and he didn’t seem a bit vexed, so i needn’t trouble another day. really, i think it is my duty to help vere all i can. she questioned me about will dudley the first time we were alone. i knew she would, and decided to tell her of his engagement. i had been told not to speak of it generally; but to my own sister it was different, and i had a feeling that she ought to know.

“who is that mr dudley?” she asked, and when i told her all i knew, she smiled and dropped her eyes in the slow, self-confident fashion which other people think so fascinating but which always make me long to shake her.

“really, quite an acquisition!” she drawled. “a vast improvement on the native one generally meets in these wilds. we must cultivate him, babs! he makes our number even, so we can afford to spoil him a little bit, as it is a convenience to ourselves at the same time. it will be a godsend for him to meet some decent people.”

“as a matter of fact, he came to live in the country because he was sick of society and society people. he is not a country bumpkin, vere, and won’t be a bit grateful for your patronage. in fact, i don’t believe he will come oftener than once or twice. when a man is engaged it’s a bore to him to have to—”

“engaged!” she cried. “mr dudley! who told you he was engaged? i don’t believe a word of it. some stupid local gossip! who told you that nonsense?”

“he told me himself!”

“he did? my dear babs, he was having a joke! no man would confide such a thing to a child like you!”

“you are mistaken there. he has told me heaps of things besides this, and i know the girl, and have spoken to her about it. you know her, too. rachel greaves, who lives at ‘the clift’.”

“rach–el greaves! oh! oh!” cried vere, and put her hands to her sides in peals of derisive laughter. “oh, this is too killing! and you believed it? you dear, sweet innocent! that man and—rachel greaves! my dear, have you seen her hair? have you seen her hat? could you really imagine for one moment that any man could be engaged to a creature like that?”

“i don’t imagine—i know! they have been engaged for years. it will be years more before they are married, for old mr greaves won’t give his consent. and rachel won’t leave home without it; but mr dudley is quite willing to wait. he says she is the best woman in the world.”

“oh, i daresay! she is frumpy enough for anything; and you call that an engagement? my dear, he will no more marry her than he’ll marry the moon. it’s just a stupid platonic friendship, and as he has not known anything else he thinks it is love. imagine being in love with that solemn creature! imagine making pretty speeches and listening to her correct copy-book replies! wait! i should think she may wait! she’ll have a surprise one of these days when he meets the right girl, and bids rachel greaves a fond farewell!”

“he’ll do nothing of the sort,” i said hotly. “i do hate you, vere, when you sneer like that, and make out that everyone is worldly and horrible, like yourself! will dudley is a good man, and he wants a good woman for his wife—not a doll. he’d rather have rachel’s little finger than a dozen empty-headed fashion-plates like the girls you admire. but you don’t understand. your friends are all so different that you cannot understand an honest man when you meet him.”

“can’t i? what a pity! don’t get into a rage, dear, it’s so unnecessary. i’m sorry i’m so obtuse; but at least i can learn. i’ll make it my business to understand mr dudley thoroughly during the autumn. it will be quite an occupation,” replied vere, with her head in the air and her eyes glittering at me in a nasty, horrid, cold, calculating “you-wait-and-see” kind of way which made me ill! it was just like tennyson’s lady clara vere de vere, who “sought to break a country heart for pastime ere she went to town,” for vere would never be content to marry will dudley, even if she succeeded in winning him from rachel. poor rachel! i felt so sorry for her; she has so little, and she’s so sweet and content, and so innocent that a serpent has entered into her eden. it sounds rather horrid to call your own sister a serpent, but circumstances alter cases, and it really is appropriate. i think vere expected me to fly into another rage, but i didn’t feel angry at all, only sorry and ashamed, and anxious to know what i could do to baulk her dark designs.

“i’m thankful i’m not a beauty!” i said at last, and she stared for a moment, and then laughed and said—

“because of the terrible temptations which you escape? dear little innocent! don’t be too modest, however; you really have improved marvellously these past few months. if you could hear what the men said about you last night—”

“i don’t want to hear, thank you,” i returned icily; and that was one temptation overcome, anyhow, for i just died to know every single remark! it’s awful to care so much about what people think about you, as i do. after she went away i sat down and reviewed the situation, as they say in books, and mapped out a plan of action. i wanted to feel that i was doing some good to someone, so i decided then and there to be a guardian angel to will and rachel. it’s wonderful what you can do, even if you are only nineteen and a girl, if you set your mind to it, and determine to succeed. they have both been kind to me, and i am their friend, and mean to help them. i’d rather be flayed alive than say so to a living soul, but i can now confess to these pages that i was jealous of rachel myself when i first heard of the engagement, and i wondered, if will had never seen her, if perhaps he—oh, a lot of silly, idiotic things; for he is so different from the other men you meet that you simply can’t help liking him. so now it will be a discipline for me to have to forget myself, and try to keep them together. perhaps when they are married they will know all, and bless my memory, and call one of their children after me, and i shall be content to witness their happiness from afar. i’ve read of things like that, but i always thought i’d be the married one, not the other. you do when you are young, but it’s awful what sorrows there are in the world. i am not twenty yet, and already my life is blighted, and my fondest hopes laid in the dust...

such ripping fun! we are all going for a moonlight party up the river, with hampers full of good things to eat at supper on the bank above the lock. we are taking rugs to spread on the grass, and japanese lanterns to make it look festive, and not a single servant, so that we shall do everything ourselves. we girls are all delighted, but i think the men—captain grantly especially—think it’s rather mad to go to so much trouble when you might have your dinner comfortably at home. male creatures are like that, so practical and commonplace, not a bit enthusiastic and sensible like school-girls. we used to keep awake until one o’clock in the morning, and sit shivering in dressing-gowns, eating custard, tarts and sardines, and thought it was splendid fun. i think a picnic where servants make the fire and pack away the dishes is too contemptible for words.

vere wanted will dudley to come with us, so i went round to the “the clift” that very afternoon and invited rachel to come too. i am as much at liberty to invite my friends as she is to ask hers, and this was meant to be a checkmate to her plans; but rachel was too stupid for words, and wouldn’t be induced to accept.

“i always play a game with father in the evening,” she said. “he would miss it if i went out.”

“but he can’t expect you never to go out! he would appreciate you all the more if you did leave him alone sometimes,” i said, talking to myself as much as to her, for it was four days since i had been a walk with my father, and my horrid old conscience was beginning to prick. “do come, rachel. i want you particularly,” but she went on refusing, so then i thought i would try what jealousy would do. “we shall be such a merry party; vere is prettier and livelier than ever, and her friends are very amusing. lady mary is very handsome, and she sings and plays on the mandoline. she is going to take it with her to-night. it will be so pretty, the sound of singing on the water, and she will look so picturesque under the japanese lamps.”

she looked wistful and longing, but not a bit perturbed.

“i wish i could come! it sounds charming. i’ve hardly ever been on the river, never in the evening; but i should be worrying about father all the time. he is old, you see, una, and he has such bad pain, and his days seem so long. it must be so sad to be ill and know that you will never get any better, and to have nothing to look forward to.” her face lit up suddenly, and i knew she was thinking of the time, years ahead, when what she was looking forward to would come true. “i really could not neglect father for my own amusement.”

“but you have someone else to think of!” i reminded her cunningly. “i told you who was coming. you ought to think of his pleasure.”

“oh, he will enjoy it in any case! he loves being on the water; i am so glad you asked him!” she cried, quite flushed with delight, if you please, at the thought that will was coming without her. i did feel a worm! never, no, never could i be like that. if i were engaged to a man and couldn’t go anywhere, i should like him to stay at home too, and think of me, and not dare to enjoy himself with other girls; but rachel is not like that. sometimes i wish she were just a wee, tiny bit less sensible and composed. i could love her better if she were.

we all went down to the boat-house at eight o’clock, we girls with long coats over our light dresses, because it’s silly to catch cold, and so unbecoming, and on the way i told will about rachel. he came at once and walked beside me, and gave me such a nice look as he thanked me for thinking of it.

“that was kind of you! she would be pleased to be remembered, but this sort of thing is out of her line. she will be happier at home!”

poor rachel! that’s the worst of being chronically unselfish; in the end people cease to give you any credit for it, and virtue has to be its own reward, for you don’t get any other. i did think it was hard that even will should misjudge her so, and be so complacent about it into the bargain, but it was hardly my place to defend her to him, of all people in the world.

“you will come into my boat, of course,” he said in his masterful way when we drew near the ferry; but i had seen vere divide parties before now, and i knew very well i should not be allowed to go where i chose. it was as good as a play to see how she did it, seeming to ponder and consider, and change her mind half a dozen times, and to be so spontaneous and natural, when all the time her plans had been made from the very beginning. finally, she and will took possession of the first boat, with lady mary and captain grantly, who were always together, and were too much taken up with their own society to have eyes for anyone else. miss talbot, mr nash, mr carstairs and i went into the second boat—miss talbot furious because she felt it a slight to be put with a child like me—mr carstairs depressed as he generally was, poor man!—i with a heavy weight inside me, feeling all of a sudden as if i hated parties and everything about them, and dear little mr nash, happy and complacent, cracking jokes to which no one deigned to listen. isn’t it funny to think how miserable you can be when you are supposed to be enjoying yourself? i dare say if you only knew it, lots of people have aching hearts when you envy them for being so happy. the people on the banks looked longingly at us, but three out of the four in our boat were as cross and dissatisfied as they could be; and it made it worse to hear them enjoying themselves in the other boat; vere’s trills of laughter, and lady mary’s gentlemanly “ha, ha!” ringing out in response to the murmur of the men’s voices. when you are on land with the wrong people there is always the chance of a change, but you do feel so “fixed” in a boat! i simply longed to reach the lock, and felt as cross as two sticks, until suddenly i met mr carstairs’ eyes, looking, oh, so sad and hopeless, and i felt so sorry that i simply had to rouse up to cheer him. he must know perfectly well that vere doesn’t care for him, but he seems as if he could not help caring for her, and staying on and on, though he is miserable all the time, i like him! he has a good look in his face, and talks sensibly about interesting things, instead of everlastingly chaffing or paying compliments, which seems to be the fashion nowadays. i think i shall favour his suit, and try to help him.

i talked, and he looked first bored, and then amused, and in the end quite interested and happy, so that we drew up by the bank to join the others in quite a cheerful mood, much to my relief. it is humiliating to look left out in the cold, however much you may feel it.

vere was flushed, and unlike herself somehow. she fussed over the laying out of the supper, and it wasn’t like vere to fuss, and whenever she wanted anything done she always turned first of all to will dudley, and half the time he was looking the other way and never noticed what she ask, when poor mr carstairs did it at once and got snubbed for his pains.

i was the youngest, and had to do all the uninteresting things, such as unpacking the spoons and forks, and taking the paper wrappings off the tumblers, while the others laid out the provisions and quarrelled over the best arrangement. but it was fun when we all sat down and began to eat. the japanese lanterns were tied to the trees overhead, and made everything look bright and cheery, for the moon had hidden itself behind the clouds, and it had been just a wee bit cheerless the last half-hour. we heated the soup over a little spirit-lamp, and had lobster salad on dainty little paper plates, and cold chicken and cutlets, and all sorts of delicious sweets and fruit, and we all ate a lot, and groaned and said how ill we should be in the morning, and then ate some more and didn’t care a bit. it was almost as good as a feast in the dormitory. then we told funny stories, and asked riddles, and lady mary sang coon songs to her mandoline, and i was enjoying myself simply awfully when someone said—it was mr nash, and i shall never forgive him for it—

“now it’s your turn, miss una! your father is always talking of your singing, yet we never seem to hear you. too bad, you know! you can’t refuse to-night, when we are all doing our best to amuse each other. now, then, what is it to be?”

i was horrified! i love singing, but it seemed so formidable with no accompaniment, and no piano behind which to hide my blushes, but the more i protested, the more they implored, until vere said quite sharply—

“for goodness’ sake, child, do your best, and don’t make a fuss! nobody expects you to be a professional!”

“start ahead, and i’ll vamp an accompaniment. it will be better than nothing,” said lady mary kindly, and will whispered low in my ear: “don’t be nervous. do your best. astonish them, babs!” and i did. that whisper inspired me somehow, and i sang “the vale of avoca,” father’s favourite ballad, pronouncing the words distinctly, as the singing mistress always made us do at school. i love the words, and the air is so sweet, and just suits my voice. i always feel quite worked up and choky when i come to the last verse, but i try not to show it, for it looks so silly to cry at yourself.

there was quite a burst of applause when i finished. the men clapped and called out “bravo! bravo!” lady mary said, “you little wretch! you do take the wind out of my sails. fancy having to be bothered to sing with a voice like that! gracious! i should never leave off!” and vere laughed, and said in her sweetest tones, “but, for pity’s sake, don’t turn sentimental, babs! it’s so absurdly out of keeping! stick to something lively and stirring—something from the comic operas! that would be far more in your line, don’t you think so, mr dudley?”

will was leaning back on his elbow, resting his head on his hand.

“it’s a question of taste,” he said lazily. “some people are fond of comic operas. personally, i detest them; but i don’t profess to be a judge. i only know what i like.”

“a sentimental ballad, for example?”

“occasionally. not always, by any means.” he seemed determined not to give a straight-forward answer, and vere turned aside with a shrug and began to talk to mr carstairs. she always takes refuge with him when other people fail her. i felt all hot and churned up with the excitement of singing, and then with rage at being snubbed in that public fashion. it spoiled all the pleasure and made me wonder if i had really made an exhibition of myself, and they were only pretending to be pleased.

the others were chattering like magpies; only will dudley and i were silent. i felt his eyes watching me, but i wouldn’t look at him for quite a long time, till at last i simply had to turn round, when he smiled, such a kind nice smile, and said—

“well, better now? got the better of the little temper?”

“i don’t know; partly, i suppose, but i do hate to be snubbed. i didn’t want to sing. i did it to be polite; and it’s horrid to think i made an idiot of myself.”

silence. it was no use. i had to ask him—

“did i make an idiot of myself?”

“you know you didn’t.”

“did you—did you think it was nice?”

“yes.”

that was all. not another word could i get out of him, but i felt better, for it sounded as if he really meant it, and i cared for his opinion most of all.