CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
_September 5th_.Four days later we left the Grange and came to our new home, a furnishedhouse four miles away. It is a big, square, prosaic-looking building,but comfortable, with a nice big garden, so we are fortunate to havefound such a place in the neighbourhood. We told each other gushinglyhow fortunate we had been, every time that we discovered anything thatwe hated more than usual, and were obtrusively gay all that first horridevening.
Vere's two rooms had been made home-like and pretty with treasures savedfrom the Moat, and new curtains and cushions and odds and ends likethat; but we left the other rooms as they were, and pretended that weliked sitting on crimson satin chairs with gold legs. Father is lostwithout his nice gunny, sporty sanctum. Mother looks pathetically outof place in the bald, ugly rooms, and I feel a pelican in the wildernesswithout my belongings but when you have come through great big troublesyou are ashamed to fuss over little things like these.
Also, to tell the truth, we are thankful to be together in a place ofour own again. Mrs Greaves and Rachel had been sweet to us, but theyhad one invalid on their hands already, and we could not help feelingthat we gave a great deal of trouble. They said they were sorry to loseus, and that we had been an interest in their quiet lives, and I dothink that was true. Vere, with her beauty and her tragedy, her lovelyclothes and dainty ways, was as good as a three-volume novel to peoplewho wear blue serge the whole year round, do their hair neatly in knobslike walnuts, and never indulge in anything more exciting than a gardenparty. Then there was the romantic figure of poor Jim Carstairshovering in the background, ready at any moment to do desperate deeds,if thereby he could win a smile of approval, so different from thatother complacent lover, who was "content to wait" and never knew thesemblance of a qualm! I used to watch Rachel watch Jim, and thoughtsomehow that she felt the difference, and was not so serene as she hadbeen when I first knew her. Her face looked sad sometimes, but not forlong, for she had so little time to think of herself. I agree with Willthat she is the best woman in the world, and the sweetest and mostunselfish.
The house where Will lives is nearer "The Clift" than the old home, andthe two men come over often to see us. They had reconnoitred thegrounds before we arrived, and knew just the nicest portions for Vere'schair for each part of the day, and Jim had noticed how she started atthe sudden appearance of a newcomer, and had hit on a clever way ofgiving her warning of an approach. Lying quite flat as she does, withher face turned stiffly upwards, it had been impossible to see anyonetill he was close at hand, but now he has suspended a slip of mirrorfrom the branches of the favourite trees in such a position that theyreflect the whole stretch of lawn. It is quite pretty to look up andsee the figures moving about; the maids bringing out tea, or fatherplaying with the dogs. Vere can even watch a game of tennis or croquetwithout turning her head. We were all delighted, and gushed withadmiration at his ingenuity, and Vere said, "Thank you, Jim," and smiledat 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 Ilistened to a conversation which I never should have heard, but itwasn't my fault. Vere and I were alone, and when we saw Jim coming shegot into a state of excitement, and made me vow and declare that I wouldnot leave her. I couldn't possibly refuse, for she isn't allowed to beexcited, but I twisted my chair as far away as I dared, humped up myshoulders and buried myself in my book. Jim knew I would do my best forhim, but it's disgusting how difficult it is to fix your attention onone thing, and close your ears to something still more interesting. Ihonestly did try, and the jargon that the book and the conversation madetogether was something too ridiculous. It was like this--
"Maud was sitting gazing out of the window at the unending stream oftraffic." "This is our last talk! I told Dudley not to come, forthere's so much to say." "It was her first visit to London, and to theinnocent country mind--" "Don't put me off, dear! I must speak to-day,or wait here till I do." "Innocent country mind--innocent countrymind." "No matter if it does pain me. I will take the risk. I justwish you to know." "Innocent country mind it seemed as if--" But it wasno use; my eyes travelled steadily down the page, but to this moment Ican't tell you what Maud's innocent country mind made of it. I couldhear nothing but Jim's deep, earnest voice.
"I don't ask anything from you. You never encouraged me when you werewell, and I won't take advantage of your weakness. I just want you torealise that I am yours, as absolutely and truly as though we wereformally engaged. You are free as air to do in every respect as youwill, but you cannot alter my position. I cannot alter it myself. Thething has grown beyond my control. You are my life; for weal or woe Imust be faithful to you. I make only one claim--that when you need afriend 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 toget interested in Maud, and then Vere's voice said gently--more gentlythan 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 haveyou 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 beenaccustomed to having some man to fly round and wait upon me. There isno one I would like better than you--wait a moment--no one I would likebetter while I am ill! I can trust you, and you are so thoughtful andkind. 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 youmight bore me again. It isn't fair!"
"It is perfectly fair, for I am asking no promises. If I can be of theleast 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 youwere well."
Silence. I would not look, but I could imagine how they looked. Jimbending over her with his strong brown features a-quiver with emotion.Vere with the lace scarf tied under her chin, her lovely white littleface gazing up at him in unwonted gentleness.
"I wonder," she said slowly, "I wonder what there is in me to attractyou, Jim! You are not like other men. You would not care forappearances only, yet, apart from my face and figure--my poor figure ofwhich I was so proud--there is nothing left which could really pleaseyou. I have been a vain, empty-headed girl all my life. I cared formyself more than anything on earth. I do now! You think I am brave anduncomplaining, but it is all a sham. I am too proud to whine, but inreality I am seething with bitterness and rebellion. I am longing toget well, not to lead a self-sacrificing life like Rachel Greaves, butto feel fit again, and wear pretty clothes, and dance, and flirt, and beadmired--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 Idid, though Maud was still staring out of the window, and I was stillstaring at Maud.
"Poor darling!" he said huskily. "Poor darling!"
He didn't preach a bit, though it was a splendid opening if he hadwanted one, but I think the sorrow and regret in his voice was betterthan words. Vere knew what he meant, and why he was sorry. I heard alittle 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 iflight would never come, and I lie awake staring into the darkness, and afear comes over me... I feel all alone in a new world that is strangeand terrible, where the things I cared for most don't matter at all, andthe 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 andconfusion. Is it because I am so wicked that I am afraid to be alonewith my thoughts? I was so well and strong before this. I slept sosoundly that I never seemed to have time to think."
"Perhaps that's the reason o
f it, sweetheart. You needed the time, andit has been given to you this way, and when you have found yourself theneed will be over, and you will be well again."
"Found myself!" she repeated musingly. "Is there a real self that Iknow nothing of hidden away somewhere? That must be the self you carefor, Jim. Tell me! I want to know--what is there in me which made youcare 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 andrefused 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 toexperiment and feel my power. You had better know the truth once forall; it will help you to forget all about such a wretched girl."
"Nothing can make me forget. You could tell me what you like aboutyourself, it would make no difference; I am past all that. You are theone woman in the world for me. At first it was your beauty whichattracted me, but that stage was over long ago. It makes no differenceto me now how you look. Nothing makes any difference. If you werenever 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 thisall my life? I will be very good, and do all they say, and keep quietand not excite myself. I will do anything--anything--but I must getbetter 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 aterribly hard waiting. I wish I could bear the pain for you; but youwill let me do what I can, won't you, Vere? I am a dull stick. No oneknows it better than I do myself, but make use of me just now; let mefetch and carry for you; let me run down every few weeks to see you, andgive you the news. It will bind you to nothing in the future. Whateverhappens, I should be grateful to you all my life for giving me so muchhappiness."
"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 nearlycrying just then, but I made another desperate effort to interest myselfin Maud, and soon afterwards he went away.
Vere looked at me curiously when I returned to the seat by her side, andI told her the truth.
"I tried to read, I did, honestly, but I heard a good deal! It was yourown fault. You wouldn't let me go away."
"Then you know something you may not have known before--how a good mancan love! I have treated Jim Carstairs like a dog, and this is how hebehaves in return. I don't deserve such devotion."
"Nobody does. But I envy you, Vere. I envy you even now, with all yourpain. 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 asneer; and when mother came up a few minutes later, Vere looked at heranxiously, noticing for the very first time how ill and worn she looked.
"You looked fagged, mother dear. Do sit still and rest," she said, inher old, caressing manner. Mother flushed, and looked ten years youngeron the spot.
The Heart of Una Sackville Page 13
