August 20th.

It is lovely to be able to go out again into the sweet summer land, and drive about with father and mother, and have our nice, homely talks again. The Greaves’ are perfect angels of kindness, and what we should have done without their hospitality I’m sure I can’t tell, but every family has its own little ways, and, of course, you like your own the best. The Greaves’ way is always to say exactly precisely whatever they mean and nothing beyond, and to think you rather mad if you do anything else. Our way is to have little jokes and allusions, and a great deal of chatter about nothing in particular, and to think other people bores if they don’t do the same. We call our belongings by proper names. My umbrella is “Jane,” because she is a plain, domestic-looking creature, and mother’s, with the tortoiseshell and gold, is “Mirabella,” and our cat is “Miss Davis,” after a singing-mistress who squalled, and the new laundry-maid is “Monkey-brand,” because she can’t wash clothes. It’s silly, perhaps, but it does help your spirits! When I go out on a wet day and say to my maid “Bring ‘Jane,’ please,” the sight of her face always sends me off in good spirits. She tries so hard not to laugh.

Father and I just make plain, straightforward jokes, like everyone else, but mother jokes daintily, as she does everything else. It’s lovely to listen to her when she is in a frisky mood!

We are all depressed enough just now, goodness knows, but it cheers us up a little to be together, and, in comparison with the Greaves’ conversation, ours sounds frisky. Yesterday we drove up to see the dear home, at which dozens of men are already at work. It was at once better and worse than I expected. The ivy is still green in places, and they don’t think it is all destroyed, so that the first view from the bottom of the drive was a relief. Near at hand we saw the terrible damage done, and, when I went inside for a few minutes, the smell was still so strong that I had to hurry back into the air. It will take months to put things right, and meantime father has taken a furnished house four miles off, where we go as soon as Vere can be moved, and stay until she is strong enough to travel to the sea, or to some warm, sunny place for the winter. We shall probably be away for ages. No balls, Una! No dissipations, and partners, and admiration, and pretty new frocks, as you expected. Furnished houses and hospital nurses, and a long, anxious illness to watch. Those are your portion, my dear!

I am a wretch to think of myself at all. Rachel wouldn’t; but I do, and it’s no use pretending I don’t. I’m horribly, horribly disappointed! One part of me feels cross and injured; the other part of me longs to be good and unselfish, and to cheer and help the others. I haven’t had far to look for my sister. While I was searching the neighbourhood for someone to befriend, the opportunity was preparing inside our very own walls! Now then, Una Sackville, brace up! Show what you are made of! You are fond enough of talking—now let us see what you can do!

August 28th.

The spinal chair arrived yesterday when I was at the Lodge. Father cried when he saw it. I hate to see a man cry, and got out of the way as soon as possible, and, when I came back, mother and he were sitting hand in hand in the little parlour, looking quite calm, and kind of sadly happy. I think bearing things together has brought them nearer than they have been for years, so they certainly have found their compensation.

The doctor says Vere is to live out of doors, so this morning she was carried out on her mattress, laid flat on the chair, and wheeled to a corner of the lawn. As I had prophesied, she arranged all details herself. She wore a soft, white serge dressing-gown sort of arrangement, which was loose and comfortable, and a long lace scarf put loosely over her head, and tied under the chin, instead of a hat. Everything was as simple as it could be. Vere had too much good taste to choose unsuitable fineries, but, as she lay with the sunlight flickering down at her beneath the screen of leaves, she looked so touchingly frail and lovely that it broke your heart to see her. Her hair lay in little gold rings on her forehead, the face inside the lace hood had shrunk to such a tiny oval. One had not realised, seeing her in bed, how thin she had grown during these last few weeks!

We all waited on her hand and foot, and walked in procession beside her, gulping hard, and blinking our eyes to keep back the tears whenever we had a quiet chance, and she laughed and admired the trees, and said really it was the quaintest sensation staring straight up at the sky; she felt just like “Johnny Head in Air” in the dear old picture-book! It was a delightful couch—most comfortable! What a lazy summer she should have! If there was one thing she loved more than another, it was having meals in the open air—all in the same high, artificial note which she had used ever since her accident.

We all agreed and gushed, and said, “Yes, darling,” “Isn’t it, darling?” “So you shall, darling,” and we had tea under a big beech-tree, and anyone might have thought we were quite jolly; but I could see father’s lip quiver under his moustache, and mother looked old. I hate to see mother look old!

Just as we had finished tea a servant came up to tell father that Will and Mr Carstairs had called to see him. They had too much good feeling to join us where we were, but Vere lifted her languid eyes and said “Stupid men! What are they afraid of? Tell them to come here at once.” And no one dared to oppose her.

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 ............