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!”

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