August 17th.

I was wheeled into the library every day, and lay in state upon the sofa, receiving callers. Mother drove over each afternoon for a short visit. Will came in often, and brought Mr Carstairs with him. The other members of Vere’s house-party had returned home, but this poor, good fellow could not tear himself away from the neighbourhood until the doctor had come to some more definite conclusion about Vere.

A specialist had been down from town, and he pronounced the spine injured by the fall, but hoped that, with complete rest, recovery was possible in the future. How long would she have to rest? It was impossible to say. If he said a year, it would probably be exciting false hopes; it might be two years, or even three. And at the end of that time, even of the longest time, was there any certainty? It was impossible to be certain in such cases, but the probabilities made for improvement. Miss Sackville had youth on her side, and a good constitution. It was a mistake to look on the dark side. “Hope, my dear sir, hope is a more powerful medicine than people realise! Fifty guineas, please—thank you! Train leaves at two o’clock, I think you said?”

I was thankful I had not to tell Vere the verdict. Father broke it to her, and said she “took it calmly,” but he looked miserable, and every time he went to see her he looked still more wretched and baffled. There is no other word to express it. He seems impatient for me to see her, and when at last I could hobble to the door of her room, went with me and whispered urgently, “Try what you can make of her! Don’t avoid the subject. It is better sometimes to speak out,” and I went in, feeling almost as anxious as he was himself.

Vere was lying in bed, with her hair twisted loosely on the top of her head, and wearing one of her pretty blue jackets, all ribbons and frilly-willies. In a way she looked just the same; in a way so different that I might never have seen her before. The features were the same, but the expression was new; it was not that she looked troubled, or miserable, or cross, or anything like that; you could not tell what she felt; it was just as if a mask covered everything that you wanted to see, and left only the mere bare outline.

She spoke first.

“Well, Una! So your foot is better, and you can get about? I was so sorry to hear it was bad. I suppose you are not able to get out yet?”

“Oh, no! This is my longest walk. I am afraid of attempting the stairs. The Greaves are very kind. I believe they like having us here.”

“Having you, you mean. I am sure you must make a delightful break in the monotony. As for me,”—she thrust out her hands with an expressive little grimace—“I have been rather a nuisance to everybody while these stupid doctors have been debating over the case. It’s a comfort that they have made up their minds at last, and that I can be moved as soon as there is a place ready for me. Father is ordering a spinal carriage from London with the latest conveniences, like the suburban villas. I believe you lie on a mattress or something of the sort, which can be lifted and put down in the carriage. Such a saving of trouble! It is wonderful how cleverly they manage things nowadays.”

Just the old, light, airy voice; just the same society drawl. She might have been talking of a new ball dress for any sign of emotion to be seen, and yet I know well that Vere—the old Vere—could have faced no fate more bitter than this! I stared at her, and she stared back with a fixed, unchanging smile. I knew by that smile that it was not resignation she felt; not anything like that lovely willing way in which really good people accept trouble—crippled old women in cottages, who will tell you how good God has been to them, when they are as poor as mice, and have never been out of one room for years; and other people who lose everybody they love best, and spend their lives trying to make other people happy, instead of glumping alone. I have really and truly known people like that, but their faces looked sweet and radiant. Vere’s was very different. I knew now what father had been worrying about the last few days, and what he meant by advising me to speak openly, but it was not easy to do so. I was afraid of her with that new look!

“We are both cripples for the time being, but if I get strong before you do, I’ll do everything I can to help you, dear, and make the time pass quickly,” I was beginning feebly, when she caught me up at once, as if she did not want to hear any more.

“Oh, thanks; but I love lazing. I am quite an adept in the art of doing nothing, and you will have quite enough on your hands. It’s a capital thing for you, my being out of the running. You would never have taken your proper place unless you were really forced into it. Now you will have to be Miss Sackville, and you must keep up my reputation and do credit to your training.”

“I shall never take your place, Vere,” I said sadly, and then something—I don’t know what—reminded me suddenly of Mr Carstairs, and I asked if she knew he was staying with Will.

“Oh, yes. He writes to me frequently—sheets upon sheets. He has made up his mind to stay until he can see me again, and realise that I am still in the flesh, so he will have the pleasure of seeing me in my new chair. I must send him an invitation to join me on my first expedition. He really deserves some reward for his devotion.”

I had a vision of them as they would look. Vere stretched at full length, flat on her back, on that horrid-looking chair, and Mr Carstairs towering above her, with his face a-quiver with grief and pity, as I had seen it several times during the last week. If it had been me, I should have hated appearing before a lover in such a guise, and I am only an ordinary-looking girl, whereas Vere is a beauty, and has been accustomed to think of her own appearance before anything in the world. I could not understand her.

“I like Jim Carstairs,” I said sturdily. “I hope some day I may have someone to care for me as he does for you, Vere. It must be a lovely feeling. He has been in such distress about you, and on that night—that awful night—I shall never forget his face—”

“Ah, you have an inconvenient memory, Babs! It was always your failing. For my part I mean to forget all about it as soon as possible. You were very good and brave, by the way, and, I am afraid, hurt your foot in trying to save me. I would rather not return to the subject, so I will just thank you once and for all, and express my gratitude. You practically saved my life. Think of it! If it had not been for you I should not have had a chance of lying here now, or riding about in my fine new chair!”

“Vere, don’t! don’t sneer!” I cried hotly, for the mask had slipped for a moment, and I had caught a glimpse of the bitter rebellion hidden beneath the smile. “It is awful for you—we are all wretched about it; but there is hope still, and the doctor says you will get better if only you will give yourself a chance. Why do you pretend? why smile and make fun when all the time—oh, I know it, I know it quite well—your heart is breaking!”

Her lip trembled. I thought she was going to break down, but in a moment she was composed again, saying in the same light, jeering tones—

“Would you prefer me to weep and wail? You have known me all your life; can you imagine me—Vere Sackville—lying about with red eyes and a swollen face, posing as an object of pity? Can you imagine me allowing myself to be pitied?”

“Not pitied, perhaps—no one likes that; but if people love you, and sympathise—”

“Bah!” She flicked her eyelids impatiently. I realised at that moment that she could not move her head, and it gave me a keener realisation of her state than I had had before. “Bah! It is all the same. I want nothing from my friends now that they did not give me a month ago. If I have to be on my back instead of walking about, it is no affair of theirs. I neither ask nor desire their commiseration. The kindest thing they can do is to leave me alone.”

I thought of the old days when she was well and strong, and could run about as she liked, and how bored she was after a few days of quiet home life. How could she bear the long weeks and months stretched out motionless on a couch, with none of her merry friends to cheer her and distract her thoughts. The old Vere could not have borne it, but this was a new Vere whom I had ............