CHAPTER VII.
Effie's little room faced the east. She never drew down her blind at night, and the sun was shining all over her face when her mother came in the next morning to call her.
Mrs. Staunton, standing in her nightdress in the middle of the room, called Effie in a shrill voice.
"What in the world is the matter?" said her daughter, sitting up, and pushing back her hair from her eyes.
"What I feared," said Mrs. Staunton. "I am not going to break down; don't think it for a minute. I am as well as possible." She trembled all over as she spoke. There was a purple spot on one cheek, the other was deadly pale. A blue tint surrounded her lips. "I am perfectly well," continued Mrs. Staunton, breathing in a labored way. "It is only that I have got a bit of a—— Your father is ill, Effie. He has got it—the—dip—dip—diphtheria. He is almost choking. Get up, child; get up."
"Yes, mother," said Effie.
She tumbled out of bed. Her pretty cheeks were flushed with sleep; her eyes, bright and shining, turned toward the eastern light for a moment.
"Oh, mother," she said, with a sudden burst of feeling, "do, do let us keep up our courage! Nothing will save him if we lose our courage, mother."
"We won't," said Mrs. Staunton; "and that's what I came to speak about. He must have good nursing—the very best. Effie, I want you to get Miss Fraser to come here."
"Miss Fraser! But will she leave little Freda Harvey?"
"She must leave her—the child is completely out of danger—anyone can nurse her now. She must leave her and come here, and you must go and fetch her. Your father may lose his life in the cause of that little child. There is not a moment to lose—get up, Effie. You can go at once to The Grange. Go, go quickly and bring Dorothy Fraser. We none of us can nurse him as she will. She will do it. He has been murmuring in his sleep about her, about something she did for little Freda, clasping histhroat all the time and suffocating. One glance showed me what ailed him when I awoke this morning. He has a hard fight before him, but he must not die—I tell you, child, your father must not die!"
"No, no, mother! God will spare him to us," said Effie. Tears dimmed her eyes, she got quickly into her clothes.
"Now, I will go," she said. "I will bring Dorothy back with me."
"If there is any difficulty," said Mrs. Staunton, "if she hesitates for a moment, you must remember, there is only one thing to be done."
"Yes, mother; what do you mean?"
"You must offer to nurse Freda Harvey instead of her—do you understand?"
"And I am not to come back to father when he is ill?" said Effie, aghast.
"That is not the point," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "The only thing to be considered is, what will save him, and you and I, and our feelings, are of no consequence. His life is so valuable that no sacrifice is too great to keep it. Go, child, go. If you can come back, come—if not, stay."
"And who will manage the children—they ought not to remain in the house."
"Don't worry about the children. Get Dorothy as quickly as possible."
Effie buttoned her dress and pinned on her hat, and then went out on the landing.
"Where are you going, child? Why don't you go downstairs?"
"I must kiss father first."
"What folly!—why should there be this delay?"
"I won't be a minute."
Effie turned the handle of the bedroom door, and went softly into the room. Her father was lying on his back—there was a livid look about his face. Great beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His eyes were closed. He did not see Effie when she came into the room, but when she bent down and kissed his forehead, he opened his eyes and looked at her. He said something which she could not distinguish—he was too hoarse to make any words articulate.
"I am going for Dorothy," she said, with a smile,—"she'll soon make you better,—good-by. God bless you—father. I love you—father, I love you."
His eyes smiled at her, but his lips could not speak.
She went quickly out of the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
It did not take Effie long to harness the old horse to the gig. She had often driven old Jock, and this part of her task did not put her out in the least. She had a curious sense, as she was driving toward The Grange in the fresh early morning air, of the complete change which was awaiting her. She was quite certain that one door in her life was shut—shut forever. She had longed for change,—it had come at last with a vengeance; it was horrible,—it made her shudder.
Effie was a thoroughly healthy girl, healthy both in mind and body, but now a sick pain was over her. She did not care to think of the real terror which haunted her. She arrived at The Grange between six and seven o'clock. The woman at the lodge ran out and opened the gate for the doctor's gig in somesurprise. She thought something was wrong again up at the house, but her surprise strengthened to astonishment when she saw that Effie was driving the horse.
"Why, Miss Effie, what is the matter?" she exclaimed. Everyone in the place knew Effie, and loved her for her father's sake.
"The doctor is ill, Mrs. Jones," said Effie, "and I have come to fetch Miss Fraser."
"Oh, God help us! he hasn't taken it?" said the woman, falling back a step or two in horror.
Effie nodded her head—she had no words to speak. She whipped up Jock, and drove quickly down the avenue.
A kitchen-maid was on her knees whitening and polishing the front steps. Effie jumped from the gig, and asked the girl to call someone to hold the horse.
"There ain't any of the men round just now, it is too early," said the girl.
"Then take the reins yourself," said Effie. "Stand just here; Jock won't stir if I tell him to be quiet. Hold the reins. I am in a great hurry."
"You are Miss Effie Staunton, ain't you, miss?"
"I am. My father is ill, and I want Miss Fraser."
"God help us! the doctor ill!" exclaimed the girl.
She stood where Effie told her, holding Jock's reins.
"Be quiet, Jock; don't stir till I come out," said Effie. The old horse drooped his head. Effie ran up the steps and into the house. She had never been at The Grange before, but she had no eyes for the beauties of the old place this morning. There was something too awful lying at the bottom of her heart, for any external things to affect her. She went quickly up the broad front stairs, and paused on the first landing. How was she to discover the room whereDorothy and little Freda Harvey spent their time together? She was about to turn back in utter bewilderment, when, to her relief, she saw another servant. The servant stopped and stared at Effie. Effie came up to her quickly.
"You may be surprised to see me here," she said. "I am Miss Staunton, Dr. Staunton's daughter. He is ill. I want to see Nurse Fraser immediately. Take me to her at once."
"We are none of us allowed near that part of the house, miss," replied the woman.
"You can take me in the direction, anyhow, and explain to me how I am to get to Miss Fraser," said Effie. "Come, there's not an instant to lose—be quick."
"Oh, yes! I can take you in the direction," said the girl.
She turned down a corridor; Effie followed her. The servant walked rather slowly and in a dubious sort of way.
"Can't you hurry?" said Effie. "It is a matter of life and death."
The girl hastened her steps a little. Effie's manner frightened her. Presently they reached a baize door—the servant pushed it open, but stood aside herself.
"It is as much as my place is worth to open this door," she said. "It is here the infectious case is, and Miss Fraser's own orders are that the door is not to be opened; but you frighten me somehow, miss, and I suppose there's no harm in it."
"No, of course there is no harm. Now, tell me which is Miss Fraser's room?"
"The nurseries are entered by the third door as you go down that passage, miss."
The servant banged to the baize door, and Effiefound herself alone. She ran down the passage, and opened the outer nursery door. It was quiet and still, in perfect order, the blinds down, and the windows open. Effie, in spite of all her agitation, walked on tiptoe across this room. A door which led into another room was half open, and she heard someone moving about. That step, so quiet and self-possessed, must belong to Dorothy.
"Dorothy! Dorothy! come here," called Effie.
Dorothy Fraser, in her dressing-gown, came out to the other room at once.
"Effie!" she exclaimed. "Effie Staunton!"
"Yes, it is I," said Effie; "it is I." She began to unpin her hat as she spoke. "I have come here to stay; I am going to nurse little Freda, and you are to go back to father. The gig is waiting outside, and you can easily drive old Jock. Drive him straight home, and go as fast as ever you can."
"Is your father ill, Effie?"
"Yes; he has taken the diphtheria. He is very ill. Mother sent me for you. If father dies, mother will die. They love each other so dearly—so very dearly. One couldn't live without the other. Go, and save them both, Dorothy, and I will stay with Freda."
"You are a dear, brave little girl," said Dorothy.
She went and put her strong arms round Effie.
"I will go at once," she said. "But are you prepared to take full charge here, Effie?"
"Yes; tell me quickly what is to be done!"
"There's nothing to be done now but simply to see that Freda doesn't take cold. She is not free from infection yet, but she is quite out of danger, if she does not catch a chill. Treat her as you would any sick child. Rhoda is here. She is a capital girl, and will help you with Freda's food. Freda may come into this room for a little to-day, but you must see that she keeps out of a draught. Good-by. Effie. I won't be any time getting ready. I'll send you telegrams about your father. God bless you, Effie."
CHAPTER IX.
From the first it was a bad case. The throat was not so particularly affected, but the weakness was extreme. All imaginable devices were resorted to, to keep up the patient's strength. Notwithstanding all human precautions, however, that strength failed and failed.
In a few days the strong man was like an infant. He could not lift a finger, he could scarcely turn his head, his voice was completely gone. His stricken soul could only look dumbly into the world through his eyes. Those honest eyes were pathetic. Dorothy was unremitting in her attentions. She took complete charge from the very first. Dr. Edwards came and went, but he gave the nursing to Dorothy. She had prepared herself for a great fight. She had hoped to conquer, but on the third day of the doctor's illness she knew that the battle was not to the strong nor the race to the swift—in short, the good doctor was called to render up his account, his short span of mortal life was over.
One evening he had lain perfectly still and in a state of apparent stupor for several hours. Dorothy stood at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were fixed on the patient.
"It is strange how much I admire him," she said to herself. "I never met a nobler, truer-hearted man."
"Dorothy, come here," said the doctor.
She went at once, and bent over him.
"I am going," he said, looking at her.
"Yes, Dr. Staunton," she answered.
He closed his eyes again for a moment.
"The wife," he murmured—"does she know?"
"I am not sure," said Dorothy in her quiet, clear voice, which never for a moment sank to a whisper. "I think she must guess—I have not told her."
"She had better know," said the doctor. "Will you bring her here?"
"Yes, I'll go and fetch her at once."
Dorothy left the room. She stood for a moment on the landing.
The task which lay immediately before her made her spirits sink. She knew just as well as Dr. Staunton did how precarious was Mrs. Staunton's tenure of life. She knew that a sudden shock might be fatal. Were those children to lose both parents? The doctor was going,—no mortal aid now could avail for him,—but must the mother also leave the children?
"I do not know what to do," thought Dorothy. "She must see her husband—theymustmeet. He is the bravest man I know, but can he suppress his own feelings now—now that he is dying? No, no, it is too much to ask; but I greatly, greatly fear that if he does not, the shock will kill her."
Dorothy went slowly downstairs. She was generally decisive in her actions. Now, she trembled, and a terrible nervousness seized her.
When she reached the little entrance hall, and was about to open the door of the parlor where she expected to find Mrs. Staunton, she was surprised to come face to face with a tall, bronzed young man, who was taking off his hat and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hat-rack. He turned, and startedwhen, he saw her. He was evidently unfamiliar with nurses and sickness. His face flushed up, and he said in a sort of apologetic way:
"Surely this is Dr. Staunton's house?"
"Yes," said Dorothy.
"I am George Staunton. I—I came down on pressing business—I want to see my father in a hurry. What is the matter?"
He stepped back a pace or two, startled by the expression on Dorothy's face.
"Come in here at once," she said, seizing his hand. She dragged him into the seldom-used drawing-room. The moment they got inside, she deliberately locked the door.
"You have come just in time," she said. "You must bear up. I hope you'll be brave. Can you bear a great shock without—without fainting, or anything of that sort?"
"Oh, I won't faint!" he answered. His lips trembled, his blue eyes grew wide open, the pupils began to dilate.
"I believe you are a brave lad," said Dorothy, noticing these signs. "It is your lot now to come face to face with great trouble. Dr. Staunton—your father—is dying."
"Good God! Merciful God!" said the lad. He sank down on the nearest chair—he was white to the lips.
Dorothy went up and took his hand.
"There, there!" she said. "You'll be better in a moment. Try to forget yourself—we have not, any of us, a single instant just now to think of ourselves. I have come down to fetch your mother."
"You are the nurse?" said George, glancing at her dress.
"Yes, I am nursing your father. It has been avery bad case—diphtheria—a very acute and hopeless case from the first. There's a great deal of infection. Are you afraid?"
"No, no! don't talk of fear. I'll go to him. I—I was in trouble myself, but that must wait. I'll go to him at once."
"I want you to go to your mother."
"My mother! is she ill too?"
"She is not exactly ill—I mean she is not worse than usual, but her life is bound up in your father's. It would be a dreadful thing for your sisters and yourself if your mother were to die. Your coming here at this moment may mean her salvation. I have to go to her now, to tell her that her dying husband has sent for her. Will you follow me into the room? Will you act according to your own impulses? I am sure God will direct you. Stay where you are for a minute—try to be brave. Follow me into the room as soon as you can."
Dorothy left the drawing room. As she went away, she heard the young man groan. She did not give herself time to think—she opened the parlor door.
Mrs. Staunton was sitting in her favorite seat by the window. Her face was scarcely at all paler than it had been a week ago. She sat then by the window, looking out at her trouble, which showed like a speck in the blue sky. The shadow which enveloped her whole life was coming closer now, enveloping her like a thick fog. Still she was bearing up. Her eyes were gazing out on the garden—on the flowers which she and the doctor had tended and loved together. Some of the younger children had clustered round her knee—one of them held her hand—another played with a bunch of keys and trinkets which she always wore at her side.
"Go on, mother," said little Marjory, aged seven. "Don't stop."
"I have nearly finished," said Mrs. Staunton.
"But not quite. Go on, mother; I want to hear the end of the story," said Phil.
Mrs. Staunton did not see Dorothy, who stood motionless near the door.
"They got so tired," she began in a monotonous sort of voice—"so dreadfully tired, that there was nothing for them to do but to try and get into the White Garden."
"AWhite Garden!" repeated Phil. "Was it pretty?"
"Lovely!"
"Why was it called a White Garden?" asked Marjory.
"Because of the flowers. They were all white—white roses, white lilies, snowdrops, chrysanthemums—all the flowers that are pure white without any color. The air is sweet with their perfume—the people who come to live in the White Garden wear white flowers on their white dresses—it is a beautiful sight."
"It must be," said Marjory, who had a great deal of imagination. "Are the people happy?"
"Perfectly happy—rested, you know, Marjory. They are peaceful as you are when you are tucked up in your little bed."
"I like best to play and romp," said Marjory in a meditative voice; "but then, you see, I am never tired."
"Dorothy is standing at the door," exclaimed Phil. "Come in, Dorothy, and listen to mother's beautiful story."
"Do you want me?" asked Mrs. Staunton, standingup. She began to tremble—the children looked at her anxiously.
Dorothy went straight up and took her hand. "Dr. Staunton wishes to see you," she said. "Will you come with me?" She looked anxiously toward the door.
Mrs. Staunton put up her hand to her head. "Good-bye, my darlings," she said, looking at the little pair, who were gazing up at her with puzzled faces. "Go and play in the garden, and don't forget the White Garden about which we have been speaking." She stooped down and deliberately kissed both children, then she held out her hand to Dorothy. "I am quite ready," she said.
At that moment George entered the room. He put his arms round his mother. He was a big fellow—his arms were strong. The muscles in his neck seemed to start out, his eyes looked straight into his mother's.
"You have gotme, mother; I am George," he said. "Come, let us go to my father together."
Mrs. Staunton tottered upstairs. She was not in the least surprised at seeing George, but she leaned very firmly on him. They went into the sickroom, and when George knelt down by his father's bedside, Mrs. Staunton knelt by him.
The doctor was going deeper and deeper into the valley from which there is no return. Earthly sounds were growing dim to his ears—earthly voices were losing their meaning—earthly sights were fading before his failing eyes. The dew of death was on his forehead.
Mrs. Staunton, whose face was nearly as white, bent down lower and lower until her lips touched his hand. The touch of her lips made him open his eyes. He saw his wife; the look on her face seemed to bring him back to earth again—it was like a sort of return wave, landing him high on the shores of time.
His impulse was to say, "Come with me—let us enter into the rest of the Lord together;" but then he saw George. George had thrown his arm round his mother's waist.
"Let me keep her, father," said the young man. "Don't take her yet, let me keep her."
"Yes, stay with the lad, Mary," said the doctor.
It was a final act of self-renunciation. His eyelids drooped over his dying eyes—he never spoke again.
CHAPTER X.
George stayed at Whittington for a week; he followed his father to the grave. Mrs. Staunton clung to him with a sort of feverish tenacity; whenever he came into the room, her eyes followed him. A sort of wistful, contented expression came into them when he sat down beside her. During all the time George was in the house she never broke down. At last, however, the time came when he must leave her.
"I must go back to my work," he said; "but you are coming to London soon, then I'll be with you every evening. You know my father has given you to me to take care of. It will be all right when we are in London together."
"Yes, my boy," she replied, "it will be all right then. I don't complain," she added; "I don't attempt to murmur. I shall go to him, but he cannot return to me; and I have got you, George, and he gave me to you. I am willing to stay with you just as long as you want me."
It was late that night when George left his mother's room. Effie was standing in the passage—the brother and sister looked at each other. Effie had come home the day after Dr. Staunton's death.
"Come out with me for a bit, Effie," said her brother. They went into the garden, and she linked her hand through his arm.
Dorothy Fraser had now returned to her duties in London; the Stauntons were to go up to town as soon as ever the cottage could be sold. It had belonged to the doctor. George was to live with them when they were in town, and perhaps Effie would be able to follow the great wish of her mind. There was just a possibility that she might be able to be trained as a hospital nurse. She looked up at George now.
"You have been such a comfort to us," she said. "Dorothy told me everything; and I know that if you had not come just at the opportune moment, we should have lost our mother as well as our father. I'll do all in my power to hurry matters, so that we can come to London before the winter."
"Yes," said George. He was a finely built young fellow, with a handsome face. He was not the least like Effie, who was dark and rather small, like her mother. George had the doctor's physique; he had great square shoulders, his eyes were frank and blue like his father's, but his mouth wanted his father's firmness.
"Effie," he said. "I don't know how I am to bring myself to confide in you."
"Confide in me?" she said, with a little start. "We always did tell our secrets to one another, but all this terrible trouble seems to have put childish things away. Have you really a secret, George, to tell me?"
"I don't know how I can tell it to you," he replied;his lips quivered—he looked down. Effie clasped his arm affectionately.
"You know I would do anything for you," she said.
"Yes; I know you are the best of girls, and you're awfully pretty, too. I know Fred Lawson will think so when he sees you."
"Who is he?"
"A friend of mine—a right good fellow—he is a medical student at St. Joseph's Hospital. I have often met him, and he has talked to me about his own sisters, and one day I showed him your photograph, and he said what a pretty girl you were. Somehow, Effie, I never thought of you as pretty until Fred said so. I suppose fellows don't think how their sisters look, although they love them very dearly; but when Fred said it, it opened my eyes. Dear, dear, why am I talking like this, when time is so precious, and I—Effie, when I came down that day to see my father, I was in trouble—great trouble; the shock of seeing him seemed to banish it from my mind, but it cannot be banished—it cannot be banished, Effie, and I have no one to confide in now but you."
"You must tell me of course," said Effie; she felt herself turning pale. She could not imagine what George's trouble was. The night was dusk; she raised her eyes to her brother's face—he avoided meeting them. He had a stick in his hand, and he began to poke holes in the gravel.
"How much money have we got to live on?" he asked abruptly.
"How much money have we to live on?" repeated Effie. "I believe, when all is collected, that there will be something like a hundred a year for mother and Agnes and Katie and the two little children.Of course I am going to support myselfsomehow, and you are naturally off our hands."
"It's awful," said George; "it's awful to be so starvingly poor as that. Why, I get a hundred a year now; fancy five people living on a sum on which I never can make both ends meet!"
"What is the matter with you, George? How queerly you speak! You knew we should be awfully poor when father died. You are going to pay for your board, are you not, when you come to us, and that will be a great help."
"Yes, of course; I vow and declare that I'll give mother at least half of what I earn."
"Well, that will be fifty pounds—a great help. My idea for myself is—but——" Effie stopped abruptly. She saw that George was making an impatient movement. "I'll tell you another time," she said in a gentle voice. "You have something now to tell me, have you not?"
"I have—God knows I have. I want to get two hundred and fifty pounds somewhere."
"Two hundred and fifty pounds!" exclaimed Effie. George might just as well have asked her for the moon.
"I don't understand," she said, after a pause.
"No, and I never want you to, Effie," replied the young man. "I can't tell you what I want the money for, but it's a matter of life and death. I thought I had made up my mind"—a husky sound came into his throat—"I made up my mind to tell everything to my father when I came down that night—I could have told him. It was not a sort of thing to talk to you about, but I thought I could tell him; he died, and he gave me mother. He left mother with me. You know perfectly well, Effie, that our mother's life hangs on a thread. You know she must not have a shock, and yet—Effie, Effie, if I don't get that £250, she will have such a shock, such a terrible shock, that it will send her to her grave!"
"I must think," said Effie. "I cannot answer you in a moment."
"Is there no earthly way you can help me? I must be helped," said George in a frantic voice. "I have got six weeks longer—I must get that £250 in six weeks, or—no, I can't tell you."
"Yes, you must try—I won't help you unless you try."
"Well, then—here goes. If I don't get it, I shall have to go to—prison." George's voice sank to a hoarse whisper.
Effie could not suppress a cry.
CHAPTER XI.
"Then you have done something wrong," said Effie, loosening her hold of her brother's arm and backing to a little distance. He could scarcely see her face in the ever increasing darkness, but he noticed the change in her voice. There was an indignant note of pained and astonished youth in it. Effie had never come face to face with the graver sins of life; the word "prison" stunned her, she forgot pity for a moment in indignation.
"George," she said, with a sort of gasp, "father left mother to you,—in a sort of way he gave her up to you,—and you have done wrong; you have sinned."
"You talk just like a girl," said George; "you jump at conclusions. You, an innocent girl living in the shelter of home, know as little about the temptations which we young fellows have to meet out inthe world, as you know of the heavens above you. My God! Effie, it is a hard world—it is hard,hardto keep straight in it. Yes, I have done wrong—I know it—and father gave mother to me. If you turn away from me, Effie, I shall go to the bad—I shall go to the worst of all; there will not be a chance for me if you turn from me."
The tone of despair in his voice changed Effie's frame of mind in a moment. She ran up to him and put her arms round his neck.
"I won't turn from you, poor George," she said. "It did shock me for a moment—it frightened me rather more than I can express; but perhaps I did not hear you aright, perhaps you did not say the word 'prison.' You don't mean to say that unless you get that impossible sum of money you will have to go to prison, George?"
"Before God, it is true," said George. "I cannot, I won't tell you why, but it is as true as I stand here."
"Then you will kill our mother," said Effie.
"I know that."
"And father left her to you. George, it cannot be. I must think of something—my head is giddy—we have not any money to spare. It will be the hardest fight in the world to keep the children from starvation on that hundred pounds a year, but something must be done. I'll go and speak to the trustees."
"Who are the trustees?" asked George. He rose again to his feet. There was a dull sort of patience in his words.
"Mr. Watson is one,—you know the Watsons, father has always been so good to them,—and our clergyman, Mr. Jellet, is the other. Yes, I must go and speak to them; but what am I to say?"
"You must not betray me," said George. "If you mention that I want the money, all will be up withme. In any case, there may be suspicion. Men of the world like Mr. Watson and Mr. Jellet would immediately guess there was something wrong if a lad required such a large sum of money. You must not tell them thatIwant it."
"How can I help it? Oh, everything is swimming round before my eyes; I feel as if my head would burst."
"Think of me," said George—"think of the load I have got to bear."
Effie glanced up at him. His attitude and his words puzzled and almost revolted her. After a time she said coldly:
"What hour are you leaving in the morning?"
"I want to catch the six-o'clock train to town. This is good-by, Effie; I shan't see you before I go. Remember, there are six weeks before anything can happen. If anyone can save me, you can. It is worth a sacrifice to keep our mother from dying."
"Yes, it would kill her," said Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannot think nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you have given me has come so unexpectedly, and it—it is so awful. But I'll get up to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me during the night."
"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and, entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for a long time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standing in the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps had trodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about a sick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverish pitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl of troubled thoughts passedthrough her brain. It had been her one comfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that her father was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took that father's place.
George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly the same age—Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago George had been good to the little sister—they had never quarreled, they had grown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had been true—as true as anything in all the world.
George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent had visited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. It was so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed so narrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy told her what some women did with their lives.
Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps; then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes, and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear, brave, manly George! The brother who had passed out of childhood, and entered man's estate.
Her father's last message had been to George—he had given her precious mother into George's care.
It seemed to Effie to-night, standing out under the stars, as if George, too, were dead. The old George was really dead, and a stranger had taken his place. This stranger wore the outward guise of her brother—he had his eyes, his figure; his voice had the same tone, he could look at you just in George's way, but he could utter terrible words which George had never known anything about. He could talk ofsinandprison. He could propose that Effie should rescue him at the risk of her mother'slivelihood. Oh, what did it mean? How was she to bear it?—how could she bear it? She clasped her hands, tears filled her eyes, but she was too oppressed, too pained, too stunned to weep long. Presently she went into the house, and lay down on her bed without undressing.
During the whole of that terrible night Effie scarcely slept. It was the worst night in all her life. Toward morning she dozed a little, but sprang up with a start, fearing that George had gone to London without seeing her. For her mother's sake she must see him. Whatever happened, her mother must never know of this calamity. Effie got up, washed her hands and face, smoothed out her hair, and went downstairs. George was already up, he was standing in the little parlor. He turned round when he heard his sister's footsteps, and looked anxiously at her.
"What a brute I am!" he said, when he saw the expression on her face; "but I swear before God, Effie, if you will help me, I'll turn over a new leaf; I'll never do a wrong thing again as long as I live—I swear it."
"Don't swear it," said Effie; "it seems to make it worse to do that. If you did wrong once, you may again. Don't swear. Ask God to help you. I don't know that I have been praying all night, but I have been trying to."
"Well, Effie, what have you determined to do?" he asked.
"Is there no one else who can help you, George?"
"Not a soul; I have only one friend, and that is Fred Lawson."
"Oh, yes! I remember you spoke of him last night. Would he help you?"
"He help me!" said George, with a hysterical laugh. "Why, he is the chap I have wronged.There, don't ask me any more. If you can help me, I am saved; if you can't, say so, and I'll go straight to destruction."
"No, you shan't do that, George. I have thought of something—nothing may come of it, but I'm going to try. It is terribly repugnant to me, but I would sacrifice much to save my mother. If it fails, all fails."
"I have thought," said George eagerly, "that, as the case is such an extreme one, we might take some of the capital. There is a thousand pounds; a quarter of that sum would put me right."
"It cannot be done for a moment," said Effie, her face flushing hotly. "That money must under no circumstances be touched; my mother and the children depend on it for their bread."
"I don't know what is to be done, then," said George in a hopeless voice.
"You must trust to me, George; I am going to try to help you in my own way. If I fail, I fail; but somehow I don't think I shall. If I have any news I will write to you soon; and now good-by, good-by."
George turned and kissed Effie; she gave him her cheek, but her lips did not touch his. She was willing to help him, but her love for the time was dead or dying.
The young man walked hurriedly down the village street. Effie stood in the porch and watched him; his shoulders were bowed, he stooped. George used to have a fine figure; Effie used to be proud of him—she was not proud of her brother now.
She went back to the house, and sat down listlessly for a time in the little parlor—her hands were folded in her lap. It seemed to her as if the end of all things had come.
Presently the sound of the children's voices overhead aroused her; she went upstairs, and helped Susan to dress them. Returning to the everyday duties of life had a soothing effect upon her. She made a violent effort and managed to put her trouble behind her for the time being. Whatever happened, her mother must not see any traces of it.
When the baby was dressed, she took him as usual to her mother's room.
Mrs. Staunton sat up in bed and stretched out her arms to receive him. Effie gave him to her mother, who began to kiss his little face hungrily.
"Has George gone, Effie?" said the mother.
"Yes, mother, dear."
"Did anyone see him off—did he have his breakfast?"
"Yes, he had a good breakfast; I got it ready for him last night."
"But did anyone see him off?"
"I did."
"That's right; I should not have liked him to have had his last meal by himself. I miss him awfully. Effie, dear, how soon do you think we can go to London?"
"As soon as possible, mother—in about six weeks."
"Six weeks!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "I can't live without George for six weeks."
"Oh, yes, you can, mother—at least you'll try."
CHAPTER XII.
When Effie had finished the many small duties which fell to her share in the household economy, she went up to her bedroom and hastily changed her everyday dress for her best one. She did not take long about this task. Her small face looked very pale and thin under the heavy crêpe on her hat. Taking up her gloves she ran down to the parlor where her mother was sitting. Mrs. Staunton was busily mending some stockings for George. A pile of his clothes lay on the table by her side.
"I thought we might send these to London next week," she said, looking up as her daughter entered the room. "George will want a really warm greatcoat for the winter, and this one of your father's—why, Effie, my dear——" She stopped abruptly, and gazed up at Effie's best hat. "Where are you going, my love?" she said. "I thought you could help me this morning."
"I am going out, mother, for a little."
"But where to? Why have you your best things on?"
"I am going to the Harveys'."
"To the Harveys'—to The Grange?"
Mrs. Staunton shuddered slightly; she turned her head aside. "Why are you going there?" she asked, after a pause.
"I want to see them—I won't be long away. Please, mother, don't tire yourself over all that mending now."
"It interests me, my dear; I find it impossible to sit with my hands before me. I am stronger thanI used to be. I have got to live for George; and George is young, he is entering life, he must not be saddled with an old, ailing mother. I must get strong, I must get back my youth for his sake. Don't be long away, Effie, dear. I wonder you like to go to the Harveys' under the circumstances, but you know best. Children are very independent nowadays," concluded Mrs. Staunton, with a sigh.
Effie went up to her mother and kissed her, then she softly left the room.
The day was a particularly fine one, the sun shone brightly upon the little High Street. Effie walked quickly; she soon turned into a shady lane, the lane led her into the highroad. By and by she stopped at the gates of The Grange.
The woman of the lodge came out when she saw her. This woman had been fond of Dr. Staunton, and she recognized Effie.
Effie's little figure, her heavy black dress, her crêpe hat, her white cheeks and dark eyes, all appealed with great pathos to the woman. She ran towards her with outstretched hands.
"Miss Effie, my dear, you're welcome," she said. She caught Effie's little white hands in her hard, toil-worn ones. "You are welcome, Miss Effie," she repeated; "it is good of you to come. Eh, dear, but it goes to the heart to see you in that deep black! Come in and rest, my dear young lady—come in and rest."
"I cannot just now, Mrs. Jones," replied Effie. "I am in a hurry—I want to go up to see the Squire on business."
"And how is your mother, poor lady—how is she bearing up, my dear?"
"Wonderfully," said Effie. "I'll come and see you another day, Mrs. Jones."
"Eh, do! you'll be more than welcome. I long to hear all about the doctor, poor man, and how he went off at the end. The last words of the pious are always worth listening to. I'll be glad to hear particulars, if you can give me half an hour some time, Miss Effie."
"Some time," said Effie.
She walked on, trembling a little. The woman's words and her eager look of curiosity were dreadful to her; nevertheless, she knew that her father, under similar circumstances, would have been very patient with this woman.
By and by she arrived at the heavy front door of the old Grange. She walked up the steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened almost immediately by a servant in livery. He knew Effie, and asked her in.
"Is the Squire at home?" she asked.
"I am not sure, miss, but I'll inquire. Will you step in here while I go to ask?"
The man opened the door of a little sitting room. Effie went in, and he closed it softly behind him.
After what seemed a very short time, she heard eager steps coming along the hall—the room door was flung open, and Squire Harvey, accompanied by his wife, came in.
Mrs. Harvey looked like a shadow—but her sweet face had a tender blush-rose color about it, her eyes had the intensely clear look which long illness gives; she was better, but she looked so frail and delicate that Effie's heart went out to her.
"My dear child," said Mrs. Harvey, "how good, how very good of you to come! I am only just downstairs. Dr. Edwards only allowed me down yesterday, but I could not resist coming to welcome you myself. Won't you come into my sitting room?It is just at the opposite side of the hall. I'll send Rhoda upstairs to fetch little Freda. She will be so enraptured at seeing you. Come, my dear. Now that we have got you, we won't let you go in a hurry. I think it so sweet of you to come to see us, and under the circumstances. Don't you think it is sweet of her, Walter, dear?"
Squire Harvey had more perception of character than his wife. He noticed how white Effie's face grew; he noticed the pathetic trembling of her hands.
"My dear," he said, "perhaps Miss Staunton wishes to see me by herself. I understood from the servant that she had asked for me."
"Yes, I did want to see you very much," said Effie.
"Of course, dear little thing," interrupted Mrs. Harvey; "but I'll stay while you talk to her. I am immensely interested in you. Miss Staunton. I can never forget, as long as I live, what you and yours have done for us."
"Please don't talk of it now," said Effie. "I mean—I know how kindly you feel, and indeed I am not ungrateful, but I cannot bear to talk it over, and I want very badly, please, to say something to the Squire."
"Come with me to my study, Miss Staunton," said the Squire.
He opened the door, and Effie followed him.
"Be sure you make her stay, Walter, when your business is over," called Mrs. Harvey after him. "I'll send for Freda to my boudoir. Miss Staunton must stay to lunch. It is delightful to see her again, and it is so sweet of her to come to see us."
The thin, high voice kept calling these words out a little louder and a little louder as Effie followedthe Squire down one long corridor after another, until at last they entered his special study.
He shut the door at once, and offered her a chair.
"If I can do anything for you, you have but to command me," he said.
"I see you are in great trouble," he continued. "Pray take your own time. I have nothing whatever to do—I can listen to you as long as ever you like."
Poor Effie found great difficulty in using her voice. For one dreadful moment words seemed to fail her altogether. Then she gave a swift thought to her mother, to George, and her resolve was taken.
"I want to make a very queer request of you, Mr. Harvey," she said. "It may not be possible for you to grant it. For my father's sake, will you promise that you will never tell anyone what I am now asking you, if you don't find it convenient to grant it to me?"
"I'll keep your secret, of course," said the Squire. "But permit me to say one thing before you begin to tell it to me: there's not the slightest fear of my not granting it. There is nothing that you can possibly ask of me, that, under the circumstances, I should think it right to refuse. Now, pray proceed."
"I want you," said Effie—she gulped down a great lump in her throat, and proceeded in a sort of desperation—"I want you to lend me 250 pounds. I'll pay you interest—I think five per cent. is fair interest—I'll pay you interest on the money, and return it to you by installments."
There was not the least doubt that Effie's request startled the Squire. The amount of the money required was nothing to him, for he was a very rich man; but the girl's manner, her evident distress, thelook of shame and misery on her face, surprised him. He guessed that she was borrowing the money for another, but for whom?
"I can see you are in trouble," he said in his kindest tone. "Why don't you confide in me? As to the money, make your mind easy, you shall have it; but girls like you don't as a rule borrow a large sum of money of this kind. Do you want it for yourself?"
"No."
"You won't tell me who it is for?"
"I cannot, Mr. Harvey. Please don't ask me."
"I won't ask you anything that distresses you. As you are talking of money, you will forgive me for saying that I am told that your mother is left badly off."
"No; that's a mistake," said Effie. "She has money. My father left her very well off for a man in his position. He insured his life for a thousand pounds, and my mother had a little fortune of her own, which brings in about sixty pounds a year."
"And you think your mother well off with that?" said the Squire in a tone of almost amused pity.
"Yes, for a woman in her position," said Effie in almost a proud tone. "Forgive me," she said; "I know that, after the request I have just made, you would be justified in asking me any questions, but I would rather not say any more about my mother. If you'll lend me the money—if indeed you will be so good, so noble—when can I have it?"
"When do you want it?"
"I must have it before six weeks are up, but the sooner the better."
"You shall have it in a week. Come here this day week and I'll give you a check for the amount."'
"A check!" said Effie; "but I would have to passthat through mother's bank—and—and she might know."
"Are you really asking for this money without your mother's knowledge, Miss Staunton?"
"Yes; my mother is not to know. Mr. Harvey, the object of our lives is to keep all anxiety from our mother—she must never know."
"Forgive me," said the Squire, after a pause. "I know a great deal about business, and you very little. Would it not be best to open an account in your own name? I am told that you propose soon to go to London. I would introduce you to my bankers there, who would be very glad to open an account with you; and if at any time you should have need of assistance, Miss Staunton, you would give me the privilege of helping you. Remember, but for me and mine you would not now be fatherless. You must see that you have a claim on me. Allow me to fulfill that claim in the only possible way in my power."
"You are good, you are more than good," said Effie, rising. "But this is all I really need. I'll pay you the interest on the money every half year."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. I earnestly wish you would take it as a gift."
"Thank you, but that is impossible."
Effie stood up; she had nothing further to say.
"May I take you to my wife's room now?" said, the Squire. "I know she is waiting to see you, she is longing to be friends with you. Her recovery has been wonderful; and as to little Freda, she is almost herself again. You would like to see Freda, would you not?"
"Yes," said Effie, "but not to-day—I must hurry back to my mother. I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Harvey. Will you please tell your—yourwife that I cannot stay to-day?—my mother wants me. Thank you—thank you."
The Squire himself showed Effie out. He stood for a moment by his open hall door, watched her as she walked slowly down the avenue.
"That is a plucky little thing," he said to himself. "Now, what in the world does she want that money for? Not for herself, I'll be bound. I do hope she has got no disreputable relations hanging onto her. Well, at least it is my bounden duty to help her, but I wish she would confide in me. She is a pretty girl, too, and has a look of the doctor about her eyes."
"Where is Miss Staunton?" asked Mrs. Harvey, coming forward.
"Vanishing round that corner, my love," returned the Squire. "The fact is, the poor little thing is completely upset, and cannot face anyone."
"But her business, Walter—what did she want?"
"Ah, that's the secret—she made me swear not to tell anyone. It is my opinion, Elfreda, that the child has got into trouble. We must do what we can for her."
"I wish she would come here and be Freda's governess," said Mrs. Harvey.
The Squire looked at his wife.
"That's a good thought," he remarked; "and we might give her a big salary—she is so innocent, she would not really know anything about it. We might give her two hundred a year, and then she could help her mother; but I doubt whether she would leave her mother—she seems simply bound up in her."
"It is our duty to help her," said Mrs. Harvey, "whatever happens. If she won't come to us, we must think of some other way."
"Yes we must," said the Squire.