august 15th.
it is three weeks since the moonlight picnic, and so many things have happened since then, such awful, terrible things, that i don’t know how to begin to tell them. i didn’t think when i began this diary how thrilling it was going to be before i’d got half way through; but you never know what is going to happen in this world. it’s awful how suddenly things come. i don’t think i can ever again feel confident and easy-going, as i used to do. you read in books sometimes, “she was no longer a girl, she was a woman,” and it is like that with me. everything seems different and more solemn, and i don’t think i can ever frivol again in quite the same whole-hearted way.
to begin at the beginning: we had a very lively time for the next week, and i grew quite fond of vere’s friends, even lady mary, whom i hated at first, and they all made a fuss of me, and made me sing every night till i felt quite proud. i invited rachel over and over again, but she would never accept our invitations; but will came often, either to dinner or lunch, or for an odd call, and vere neglected everyone for him, and was so fascinating that i was in terror all the time. he admired her, of course; he would have been blind if he hadn’t, but i could not decide if he liked her or not. sometimes i saw him smiling to himself in the queer, half-scornful way he had done when they first met, and then i was sure he did not; but at other times he would watch her about the room, following every movement as if he couldn’t help himself, and that’s a bad sign. lorna has a sister who is married, and she knew the man was going to propose, because he looked like that. somehow i never had a chance of a quiet talk, when i could have given him a hint, and it was thinking about that and wondering how i could see him alone which made me suddenly remember that it was a whole week and more since i had been a walk with father. i went hot all over at the thought. it was ghastly to remember how i had planned and promised to be his companion, and to care for him first of all, and then to realise how i had forsaken him at the very first temptation! he was so sweet about it, too, never complaining or seeming a bit vexed. parents are really angels. it must be awful to have a child, and take such trouble with it all its life, and then to be neglected for strangers. i hadn’t the heart to write in my diary that night. i was too ashamed. i was worse than vere, for i had posed as being so good and dutiful. i won’t make any more vows, but i confess here with that i am a selfish pig, and i am ashamed of myself.
the next morning i could hardly wait until breakfast was over, i was so anxious to be off. i got my cap and ran down to the stable and slipped my arm in father’s as he stood talking to vixen. he gave a little start of surprise—it hurt me, that start!—looked down at me and said, smiling—
“well, dear, what is it?”
“nothing. i’m coming with you!” i said, and he squeezed my hand against his side.
“thank you, dear, but i’m going a long round. i won’t be back until lunch. better not leave your friends for so long.”
“vere is with them, father. i want to come.”
“what’s the matter? not had a quarrel, have you? has vere been—”
“no, no, she hasn’t! nothing is the matter, except that i want you, and nobody else. oh, father, don’t be so horribly kind! scold me—call me a selfish wretch! i know i have neglected you, dear. there was always something to do, and i—forgot, but really and truly i remembered all the time. it isn’t nonsense, father, it’s true. can you understand?”
“i’ve been nineteen myself, babs; i understand. don’t worry, darling. i missed you, but i was glad that you were happy, and i knew your heart was in the right place. we won’t say anything more about it, but have a jolly walk and enjoy ourselves.”
oh, it is good to have someone who understands! if he had scolded or been reproachful i should have felt inclined to make excuses, but when he was so sweet and good i just loved him with all my heart, and prayed to be a better daughter to him all my life.
we had lovely walks after that, and on the third morning we met will dudley, and once again he and i sat on a log waiting for father while he interviewed a tenant. my heart quite thumped with agitation as i thought that now was the time to lead the conversation skilfully round to vere, and insinuate delicately that she had a mania for making people fall in love with her, and that it didn’t always mean as much as it seemed when she was sweet and gushing. it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do, but you can’t be a guardian angel without a little trouble.
“so you have torn yourself away from your friends this morning,” he said at last. “how is it that you were allowed to escape? what is the special campaign for killing time to-day, if one may ask?”
“you may ask, but it’s rude to be sarcastic. you are often lazy yourself, though in a different fashion. you love to lie on your back on the grass and do nothing but browse and stare up at the sky. you have told me so many times.”
“ah, but what of my thoughts? under a semblance of ease i am in reality working out the most abstruse problems. i did not mean to be sarcastic; i inquired in all seriousness how your valuable company could be spared.”
“for the best of all reasons—because nobody wanted it! captain grantly wants lady mary, lady mary wants captain grantly. miss talbot wants someone she can’t get, but it doesn’t happen to be me; the rest all want vere, and have no thought for anyone else. men always do want to be with vere. wherever she goes they fall in love with her and follow her about. she is so lovely, and she—she likes to be liked. everyone says she is so charming and irresistible—they have told her so since she was a child—and she likes to prove that it was true. if—if anyone seems to like anyone else better it—sort of—worries her, and makes her feel neglected.”
“i see.”
“then, of course, she is extra specially nice, and seems to be more interested in him than anyone else.”
“pleasant for him!”
“it is, for a time. but if he trusted to it and believed that she was really in earnest, he might get to care himself, and then, when he found out, he would be disappointed.”
“naturally so.”
“it has happened like that before, several times, and sometimes there are other people to be considered—i mean there might be another girl whom the man had liked before, and when he had given her up, and found that-that—”
“that he had given up the substance and grasped the shadow—”
“yes; then, of course, they would both be miserable, and it would be worse than ever.”
“naturally it would be.”
he spoke in the same cool, half-jeering tone, then suddenly turned round and bent his head down to mine, staring at me with bright grey eyes.
“why not be honest, babs, and not beat about the bush? you think that my peace is threatened and want to warn me of it, isn’t that it, now? you are my very good friend, and i am grateful for your interest. did you think i was in danger?”
“sometimes—once or twice! don’t be angry. i know you would be true and loyal, but sometimes—i saw you watching her—”
“she is very lovely, babs; the loveliest woman i have ever seen. there was some excuse for that.”
“i know, i feel it myself, and it was just because i could understand a little that i spoke. i thought quite likely that you might be angry at first, but it was better that you should be that than wretched in the end.”
“quite so; but i am not angry at all, only very grateful for your bravery in tackling a difficult subject. i have a pretty good opinion of myself, but i am only a man, and other men have imagined themselves secure and found out their mistake before now. forewarned is forearmed. thank you for the warning,” and he smiled at me with a sudden flash of the eyes which left me hot and breathless.
was i in time? had he really begun to care for vere so soon as this? i longed to say more, but dared not. all my courage had gone, and i was thankful when father came out of the cottage and put an end to our tête-à-tête.
i thought there would be a difference after this, but there wasn’t—not a bit. when will came to the house he was as nice as ever to vere, and seemed quite willing to be monopolised as much as she liked. if he avoided anyone it was me, and i was not a bit surprised. people may say what they like, but they do bear you a grudge for giving them good advice. i sat in a corner and made cynical reflections to myself, and nobody took any notice of me, and i felt more cynical than ever, and went to my bedroom and banged about the furniture to relieve my feelings.
vere came into my room soon after, and stood by the window talking while i brushed my hair. the blind was up, for it was moonlight and i hate to shut it out. her dress was of some soft silvery stuff, and, standing there in the pale blue light, she looked oh, so lovely, more like a fairy than a human creature! i am so glad i admired her then; i’m glad i told her that i did; i’m glad, glad, glad that i was nice and loving as a sister ought to be, and that we kissed and put our arms round each other when we said good night.
“sleep well, little girl, you look tired. we can’t let you lose your bonny colour,” she said, in her, pretty caressing way; nobody can be as sweet as vere when she likes.
i was tired, but i sat by the window for quite a long time after she left, thinking, thinking, thinking. i can’t tell what i thought exactly, so many things passed through my head, and when i said my prayers i hardly said any words at all; i just put down my head and trusted god to understand me better than i did myself. i had so much to make me happy, but i was not happy somehow. i had so much to make me content, yet there was something missing that made everything else seem blank. i wanted to be good, and such horrid, envious feelings rose up in my heart. in my dear little room, at my own dear little table, i asked god to help me, and to take care of me whatever happened.
and he did, but it was not in the way i expected.
at last the moon disappeared behind the clouds which had been gathering for some time, and i went to bed and fell fast asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, as i always do, no matter how agitated i am. i suppose it’s being nineteen and in such good health. “how long i slept i cannot tell,” as they say in ghost stories, but suddenly i woke up with a start and a sort of horrid feeling that something was wrong. the room felt close and heavy, and there was a curious noise coming from outside the door, a sort of buzzing, crackling noise. i didn’t get up at once, for i felt stupid and heavy; it was a minute or two before i seemed really able to think, and then—oh, i shall never forget that moment!—i knew what it was. i felt it! i went cold all over, and my legs shook under me as i stepped on to the floor.
the air was thick, and it smelt. my door was the nearest to the staircase, and when i opened it a great cloud of smoke rolled in my face. for a moment it was all cloud and darkness, then a light shot up from below, and the crackling noise was repeated. it was true, quite true. the house was on fire, and already the staircase was ablaze!
