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—”

but she called out at that, interrupting him sharply—

“don’t say it! don’t suggest for a moment that it is possible! oh, jim, you don’t believe it! you don’t really think i could be like this all my life? i will be very good, and do all they say, and keep quiet and not excite myself. i will do anything—anything—but i must get better in the end! i could not bear a life like this!”

“the doctors all tell us you will recover in time, darling, but it’s a terribly hard waiting. i wish i could bear the pain for you; but you will let me do what i can, won’t you, vere? i am a dull stick. no one knows it better than i do myself, but make use of me just now; let me fetch and carry for you; let me run down every few weeks to see you, and give you the news. it will bind you to nothing in the future. whatever happens, i should be grateful to you all my life for giving me so much happiness.”

“dear old jim! you are too good for me. how could i possibly say ‘no’ to such a request?” sighed vere softly. i think she was very nearly crying just then, but i made another desperate effort to interest myself in maud, and soon afterwards he went away.

vere looked at me curiously when i returned to the seat by her side, and i told her the truth.

“i tried to read, i did, honestly, but i heard a good deal! it was your own fault. you wouldn’t let me go away.”

“then you know something you may not have known before—how a good man can love! i have treated jim carstairs like a dog, and this is how he behaves in return. i don’t deserve such devotion.”

“nobody does. but i envy you, vere. i envy you even now, with all your pain. it must be the best thing in the world to be loved like that.”

“sentimental child!” she said, smiling; but it was a real smile, not a sneer; and when mother came up a few minutes later, vere looked at her anxiously, noticing for the very first time how ill and worn she looked.

“you looked fagged, mother dear. do sit still and rest,” she said, in her old, caressing manner. mother flushed, and looked ten years younger on the spot.