I shall never forget the ascent of that path; though indeed it was managed beautifully. Two other men helped Sir Keith and Mr. Stockmoor; and sometimes one or another slipped. They could not help it; but the least jar was terrible to me; and I did not lose sense for a moment.
Then followed the long long drive in the waggonette, with its ceaseless jolting. Thyrza was there, and she held me in her dear arms all the while, tears often running down her cheeks. I cannot remember my first sight of Thyrza. They say that she was on the edge of Gurglepool, and that almost the only words I spoke were just these, "I am so sorry for poor Maggie." The remark would be natural enough; but I can remember little of anything, beyond the pain, and Thyrza's distress, and Sir Keith's stern gentleness.
We reached home at last, and faces and voices came round. The sound of Maggie's sobbing went to my heart, and I believe I burst into tears then for the first time. They kept her away from me.
In the early morning, a doctor from Beckbergh arrived. I had thought the pain in my knee all night as much as I could possibly endure: but I had to bear worse from his hands. It was not a case of broken bones, but of severe dislocation, with terrible bruises and swelling. At first he feared permanent injury to the bone. That fear, I am thankful to say, is now going off. He told me everything depended on absolute rest and stillness for the limb; and indeed I have done my best to be quiet, though it was not easy.
For three weeks, only Lady Denham and Thyrza and Rouse were allowed in my room. During some days I had a sharp touch of rheumatic fever, from lying so long in wet clothes. Things are much better now, and I have permission to amuse myself by writing a little at times: so when alone with Thyrza, I ask for my journal. The knee has still to be kept motionless. But my doctor speaks of the improvement in it as astonishingly rapid.
"Thanks, partly, to your being so good a patient," he says.
It was strange that Lady Denham and Sir Keith should have unexpectedly arrived at the Farm that very afternoon. Captain Lenox had left only one hour earlier, walking off with his carpet-bag, and telling nobody where he meant to go. Sometimes I do long to know what passed between him and Miss Millington,—but of course I shall never hear.
Friday. September 18.—Having written the above, piecemeal, up to this day, I hope to resume my more regular journalising.
It is now over four weeks since the accident. Maggie and the twins come in daily to see me: but they are all three more or less constrained and uncomfortable. Nona chatters. Elfie looks pinched and forlorn. Maggie seems at a loss what to say or do. I have seen none of them alone, and scarcely an allusion has been made to the real cause of my illness. I think it best to wait; not to try to force any expressions of regret. There is unhappily an adverse influence.
Miss Millington has not been near me yet. I am told that she says, "It is kinder not to crowd the room."