The Heart of Una Sackville Part 10

I shall never forget that scene. It was like treading on sacred ground to be there when Mr Carstairs went forward to take Vere's hand, yet, of course, it would not have done to leave them alone. His face was set, poor fellow, and he couldn't speak. I could see the pulse above his ear beating like a hammer, and was terrified lest he should break down altogether. Vere would never have forgiven that! She thanked him in her pretty society way for all his "favaws," the flowers, and the books, and the letters, all "so amusing, don't you know!" (as if his poor letters could have been amusing!) and behaved really and truly as if they had just met in a ball-room, after an ordinary separation.

"It's quite an age since I saw you; and now, I suppose, it is a case of 'How do you do, and good-bye,'" she said lightly. "You must be longing to get away from this dull place, to pay some of your postponed visits."

"They will have to be postponed a little longer. Dudley is good enough to say he can put me up another week or two, and I should like to see you settled at Bylands. There--there might be something I could do for you," returned the poor man wistfully, but she would not acknowledge any need of help.

"Dearie me! Have you turned furniture remover? Are you proposing to pack me with the rest of our belongings?" she cried, lifting her chin about a quarter of an inch in feeble imitation of her old scornful tilt.

It was very pitiful to see her do it, and Mr Carstairs' lip twitched again, and he turned and began talking to mother, leaving the coast clear for Will Dudley. He looked flushed, but his eyes were curiously bright and determined.

"I am so thankful to see you out again, Miss Sackville," he said.

"That's the first step forward in your convalescence, and I hope the others may follow quickly!"

That was his cue! He was not going to allow Vere to ignore her illness talking to him; he had determined to make her face it naturally and simply, but the flash in her eyes showed that it would not be too easy.

She stared up into his face with a look of cold displeasure, and he stared straight back and said--

"Are you as comfortable as possible? I think that light is rather dazzling to your eyes. Let me move you just a few inches."

"I am perfectly happy, thank you. Pray don't trouble. I prefer to stay where I am."

"I'll move you back again if you don't like it," he said coolly.

"There! Now that branch screens you nicely. The sun has moved since you first came out, I expect. Confess, now, that is more comfortable!"

She would not confess, and she could not deny, so she simply dropped her eyelids and refused to answer; but a little thing like that would not daunt Will Dudley, and he went on talking as if she had thanked him as graciously as possible. Presently, however, the hospital nurse gave us a private signal that Vere was getting tired and ought to rest, so we all strolled away and left them alone together beneath the tree.

We had only three days more at the Grange, and during them Rachel devoted herself as much as possible to Vere, trotting between the house and the beech-trees on everlasting missions, and reading aloud for hours together from stupid novels, which I am sure bored her to extinction.

Vere herself did not seem to listen very attentively, but I think the sweet, rather monotonous voice had a soothing effect on her nerves; she was relieved to be spared talking, and also intent on studying this strange specimen of human nature.

"Oh, admirable but dullest of Rachels, she absolutely delights in doing what she dislikes! It was as good as a play to watch her face yesterday while she read aloud the reflections of the worldly Lady Peggy! They evidently gave her nerves a severe shock, but as for omitting a pa.s.sage, as for even skipping an objectionable word, no! not if her life depended upon it. 'It is my duty, and I will.' That is her motto in life. How boring people are who do their duty!" drawled Vere languidly on the last afternoon, as poor Rachel left her to go back to the other invalid, who was no doubt growling like a bear in his den as he waited for her return. Everyone seemed to take Rachel's help for granted, and to think it superfluous to thank her. Even Will himself is far less attentive to her wants than my _fiance_ shall be when I have one. I simply couldn't stand being treated like a favourite aunt, and really and truly he behaves far more as if she were that, than his future wife. He is never in the least tiny bit excited or agitated about seeing her.

I wouldn't admit this to Vere for a thousand pounds, but I felt cross all the same, and said snappishly--

"It's a pity she wasted her time, since you were only jeering at her for her pains. I don't know about enjoying what she hates, but she certainly loves trying to help other people, and I admire her for it. I wish to goodness I were like her!"

At this she smiled more provokingly than ever.

"Yes. I've noticed the imitation. It's amusing. All the more so that it is so poor a success. Your temper is not of the quality to be kept persistently in the background, my dear."

It isn't. But I _had_ tried hard to keep patient and gentle the last few weeks, even when Vere aggravated me most. I had been so achingly sorry for her that I would have cut off my right hand to help her, so it hurt when she gibed at me like that.

"I'm sorry I was impatient! I wanted so badly to help you, dear. You must forgive me if I was cross."

"Babs, _don't_!" she gasped, and her face was convulsed with emotion.

For one breathless moment, as we clutched hands and drew close together, I thought the breakdown had come at last, but she fought down her sobs, crying in tones of piteous entreaty--

"Don't let me cry! Stop me! Oh, Babs, don't let me do it. If I once begin I can never stop!"

"But wouldn't it be a relief to you, darling? Everyone has been terrified lest you were putting too great a strain on yourself. If you gave way once to me--it doesn't matter for me--it might do you good.

Cry, darling, if you want, and I'll cry with you!"

But she protested more vigorously than ever. "No, no, I daren't! I can't face it! Be cross with me--be neglectful--leave me to myself, but for pity's sake don't be so patient, Babs! It makes me silly, and I must keep up, whatever happens. Say something now to make me stop-- quickly!"

"I expect the men will be here any moment. You'll look hideous with red eyes," I said gruffly. It was the only thing I could think of, and perhaps it did as well as anything else, for she calmed down by degrees, and there was no more sign of a breakdown that night.

After that day we seemed to understand each other better, and when I saw danger signals I was snappy on purpose, and felt like a martyr when Will and Mr Carstairs glared at me, and thought what a wretch I was. We wanted Vere to be resigned and natural about her illness, but we dreaded and feared a hysterical breakdown, which must leave her weaker than ever, and she had said herself that if she once began to cry she could never leave off.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

_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 gus.h.i.+ngly 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 cus.h.i.+ons 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 k.n.o.bs 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 pa.s.s 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!"