Oh, how happy we were! I don’t think any of us slept much that night; we just lay awake and thanked God, and gloated over the glad news. All the next day Vere’s face shone with the same wonderful incredulous joy. Hope had been very nearly dead for the last few months, and the sudden change from despair to practical certainty was too great to realise. It seemed as if she did not know how to be thankful enough. She said to me once—
“I am going to get well, Babs, but I must never forget this experience! As long as I live I shall keep this couch in my bedroom, and when I have been selfish and worldly I shall lay down straight on my back as I have done all these months and stay there for an hour or two, just to make myself remember how much I have been spared, and how humble I ought to be. And if you ever see me forgetting and going back to the old thoughtless ways, you must remind me, Babs; you must speak straight out and stop me in time. I want to look back on this illness and feel that it has been the turning-point in my life.”
Later on the same day she said suddenly—
“I want Jim! Please send for Jim.” And when he came, rushing on the wings of the express next day, she was so sweet and kind to him that the poor fellow did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels.
It was characteristic of Jim that when recovery seemed certain he should say no more about his own hopes. He had been anxious enough to offer his love in the dark days of uncertainty, and all the year long a day had never passed without bringing Vere some sign of his remembrance—a letter, or a book, or a magazine, or flowers, or scent, or chocolates. The second post never once came in without bringing a message of love and cheer. He came down to see us, too, once a month at least, and sometimes got very little thanks for his pains, but that made no difference to his devotion. Now for the first time he was silent and said not one word of love.
Vere told me all about it afterwards, not the nice private little bits, of course, but a general outline of the scene between them, and I could imagine how pretty it must have been. Vere is bewitching when she is saucy, and it is, oh, so good to see her saucy again!
“There sat Jim like a monument of propriety,” she said, dimpling with amusement at the remembrance, “and do what I would I could not get him on to personal topics. I gave him half a dozen leads, but the wretch always drifted on to the weather, or politics, or books, and I could not corner him. Then at last I said mournfully, ‘Haven’t you brought me a cadeau, Jim? I looked forward to a cadeau. Is there nothing you want to give me?’ He apologised profusely, said there had been no time before catching the train, but if there was anything at all that I fancied when he went back to town he would be only too charmed. I looked down and twiddled my fingers, and said bashfully, ‘Well, Jim, I should like—a ring—!’”
Dear old Jim! Dear old loyal, faithful Jim! How I should have loved to see his face at that moment!