CHAPTER XIII.
In less than six weeks the Stauntons were settled in London. George had taken lodgings for them in a cheap part of Bayswater. The rooms were high up in a dismal sort of house. There were a sitting room and three small bedrooms. George occupied one—Effie and the girls another—Mrs. Staunton, the baby, and little Phil the third. It seemed to Effie as if they had always lived in this uninteresting house, looking out on that narrow dismal street. They knew nobody. Their lives were very dull. Mrs. Staunton occupied herself over George, morning, noon, and night. She mended his clothes with scrupulous care; she washed his shirts herself, and took immense pride in bringing the fronts up to a wonderful polish. There was not a young man in the City who went to his daily work with such snowy collars as George, such neat cuffs, such a look of general finish. This work delighted Mrs. Staunton—it brought smiles to her eyes and a look of satisfaction to her face.
Effie had got the money from Mr. Harvey, and had handed it without a word to George.
He took it; his face flushed all over—tears filled his eyes.
He said, "God bless you, Effie; you are the bravest, best sister a man ever had"; and then he went out of the room and out of the house.
"He never asked me where I got it," thought poor Effie; "and now there's the interest to pay, and how can it possibly be taken out of our hundred a year?Mother must never, never know; but how is that interest to be paid?"
The Stauntons had been settled about a fortnight in their new home, when Dorothy came to pay them a visit.
She was very busy in her hospital life. She came in with her accustomed eager, purposeful walk. She sat down on the nearest chair, and began to talk cheerfully to the children and sympathetically to Mrs. Staunton.
As soon as she had an opportunity, however, she drew Effie aside.
"Now, my dear," she said, looking straight into Effie's brown eyes, "when are you coming to us?"
"Oh, if I could come," exclaimed Effie, "I should indeed be happy, but I don't see any chance of it."
"I do. You are not really wanted here; Agnes is growing a big girl. Your mother is devoted to your brother George; provided he comes home every evening, she scarcely gives a thought to anyone else. You can be spared, Effie, and it will be good for you. You do not look a bit the same girl. You have lost your 'go' somehow. You are very young. It is wrong to have a look like that when one is only twenty. You ought to come to the hospital, and there is a vacancy now for a probationer, if you can take it."
"If I dare to," said Effie, "but it does not seem right."
"Yes, I believe it is right. I know the matron of St. Joseph's Hospital so well that I think I can arrange with her that you should spend a part of every Sunday at home—at least, while you are training Agnes. The fact is, Effie, you are a born nurse, and it is a sin to lose you to the profession."
"I should like to come beyond anything," saidEffie. "It is the very highest wish of my heart. The last night that I ever saw my dear father he spoke to me on this subject. He used to hate lady-nurses, but you won him over, Dorothy, and he said, if the time came, I could go with his blessing."
"Then surely that settles the matter," exclaimed Dorothy. "I'll speak to Mrs. Staunton before I leave to-day."
"Oh, no; don't! Mother seems quite happy and comfortable. I would not for the world do anything to upset or distress her."
"If it upsets and distresses her, you must give it up, that's all," said Dorothy, "but it is worth sounding her on the subject. Don't say a word, Effie, I'll speak to your mother about it."
Effie looked puzzled and anxious.
"I would give anything to go," she murmured to herself. "It is torture to live on here, thinking of nothing but how to make a hundred pounds a year pay everything that is expected of it. Then I should be one off the family purse, for all my expenses would be paid by the hospital. Yes, surely it must be right. At any rate, I'll allow Dorothy to speak."
When tea was over, George, who had come in, and was as usual devoting himself to his mother, tried to coax her to come out with him a little.
"No, not to-night," said Dorothy suddenly. "I have something very special to say to Mrs. Staunton—perhaps you would stay and listen too, George?"
George did not mind being called by his Christian name by Dorothy. She was regarded by the Stauntons as part and parcel of the family.
"I'll do anything to oblige you," he said, giving the handsome nurse a look of genuine admiration. "Come, mother, if we are not to go out, we can at least sit near each other."
He drew up a chair close to his mother as he spoke, and put one of his arms round her neck. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and sat there in perfect content.
After a time one of his strong hands closed over hers. She had never, even in the doctor's time, felt more warmly and happily protected.
"Yes, Dorothy, what have you to say?" she remarked. "George and I are all attention."
"George and you!" laughed Dorothy. "I never saw such a devoted pair. Why, you are just like a pair of lovers."
"Well, we are lovers, aren't we, mother?" said the son.
"Yes, my boy," she replied. "No love was ever stronger than that which binds us together."
"I love to hear you say that," remarked Dorothy; "but now I want to talk on quite another matter. I am very anxious about Effie."
"Effie!" said Mrs. Staunton, just glancing at her daughter. "What about her? She seems quite well. Are you well, Effie?"
"Yes, mother, I am perfectly well," replied Effie.
"Oh, it is not that," said Dorothy, a touch of scorn coming into her voice. "Effie may be well in body, but she is just starved in soul."
"Starved!" said Mrs. Staunton, with a start "What do you mean, Dorothy?"
"Oh, never mind her, please, mother," said Effie in distress. "I am all right, really."
"No, she is not," continued Dorothy. "She is not right in the way I should like to see her right. The fact is, she wants a change."
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Staunton. "We are not rich enough to think of changes."
"The sort of change she wants will not cost youany money. The fact is, I want her to become what Heaven has intended her to be, a thoroughly trained hospital nurse. There is a vacancy now for a probationer at St. Joseph's, and I can get her admitted at once. May she come? That's the main point to consider."
Mrs. Staunton looked at Effie. Effie looked back at her mother.
It seemed to Effie at that moment as if she would have given anything for her mother to say, "No, I cannot spare her." On the contrary, Mrs. Staunton said in a calm voice:
"I leave the choice entirely to Effie herself. If she thinks she can be spared, she may go. The fact is, Effie, my love, your—your dear father spoke to me on this subject the very night he was taken ill. He seemed to wish it then; that is, if you cared for it yourself. If you are still of the same way of thinking, I for one should not think it right to make the slightest opposition."
"But how are you to do without her?" asked George in some dismay.
"Oh, I can manage—I am not the helpless old woman you seem to consider me, George. I really feel better and stronger every day. The more I do for you, the less of an invalid I seem to be. Effie has been quite tiresome lately, trying to manage the money, and taking all care off my hands, but I am quite capable of seeing to matters myself; and then Agnes is growing a big girl, she can go out to buy what I shall order."
Effie looked very pale. She sat perfectly still for a moment. Then she stood up.
"Very well, mother, I'll go," she said in a subdued voice. "When can you be ready for me, Dorothy?" she continued.
"In a week's time," said Dorothy. "There are certain preliminaries to be gone through, but I will send you a paper of our rules. You must fill up a form—in short, you must do exactly what you are instructed to do on the paper. You will probably be admitted before this day week."
Dorothy said a few more words, and then took her leave. Effie accompanied her out on the landing.
"I think you make a mistake in letting Effie go, mother," said George, when he was alone with his mother.
"Not at all, my son. The fact is, fond as I am of my dear Effie, she takes almost too much control lately of our money affairs—I shall be glad to get them into my own hands. There are very many comforts which I could give you, darling, which are simply put out of my power by Effie's determination to keep the family purse."
George said nothing. He stooped to kiss his mother's cheek.
He had not looked at matters from that point of view before. He allowed his mother fifty pounds a year, which was half his present income, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a very generous allowance, and that he should have a full share of the benefit.
"What I have been thinking is this," said Mrs. Staunton. "Out of the fifty pounds a year which you, dear boy, give us, we ought to provide a certain portion of your wardrobe. You really want new shirts. I suggested to Effie a week ago that I should like her to buy some fine lawn, as I wanted to make them for you, and she said at once that we could not afford it. But never mind, dearest; when mother is put into her own position again, you shall have the best shirts of any young man in the City."
Now, George was really satisfied with his present shirts, but if his mother chose to make him better ones he did not care to oppose her. He hoped that he would be asked out a little in the evenings during the coming winter, and he wondered if his mother could possibly squeeze an evening suit for him out of the allowance he gave her. He did not express this thought, however, at the present moment, and as Effie re-entered the room the two changed the conversation.
George went out for a little, and Effie took up some needlework, sitting where the lamp in the center of the table fell full upon her bright brown hair.
"I wonder, Effie," said Mrs. Staunton in a tone of almost discontent, "that you did not speak to me before now on this subject. I cannot bear to think that a child of mine does not give me her full confidence. You know I am the last person in the world to keep you drudging and toiling at home when you yourself long for a wider field of usefulness."
"Yes, mother, I know that," said Effie in a grave voice "The fact is," she continued, "I did not think it would be possible for you to spare me; but if you can, and you think it right for me to go, I shall of course be delighted, for I have long had my heart in this work."
"You are like all other modern girls," said Mrs. Staunton in that provokingly inconsistent way which characterized her; "you are not satisfied in the home nest. Well, well, I have got my boy, and I must not complain."
"Oh, mother, dear mother, you have got us all." Effie rose from her chair, went over and knelt by her mother's side.
"I would give anything in the world," she said,looking full at Mrs. Staunton, "for you to say that you are going to miss me awfully."
The sight of her pretty face softened the mother's heart.
"Of course I shall miss you, my darling," she said, "You always were the best of girls; but I don't wish to stand in your way. I know you will be happy where your heart is, and your father wished it. That, in my opinion, settles the matter."
"Well, I have a week," said Effie more cheerfully, standing up as she spoke. "I must do all in my power to instruct Agnes. I must teach her the little economies which I have been trying to practice."
"No, you need not do that, Effie. When you go to the hospital I intend to resume full control of the family purse."
Effie hesitated, and looked anxiously at her mother as she said this.
"I wish it, my love, so there's no use in discussing the matter," continued Mrs. Staunton. "I know exactly what we have got to spend—£150 a year. It is very little, indeed, but I rather fancy I am as good a manager as my child. I have at least a wider experience to guide me. Out of that income dear George provides a third. It seems to me, Effie, that we should give him rather more comforts than he has had lately for this generous allowance."
"Oh, mother! George really wants for nothing."
"I cannot agree with you. I should wish him to have beer at supper every night."
"I do not think it can be managed. There is not a penny to spare."
"Well, my dear, we will see. It is also only just that a proportion of his money should be devoted to providing him with suitable underclothing."
"Oh, mother, mother, have you thought of the thousand and one things which are required for the children and yourself? Surely George can manage to buy his own clothes out of the fifty pounds which he reserves for his personal expenses."
"That's so like a girl," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton, clasping her hands. "She knows about as little of a young man's life as she does of his Greek and Latin. Well, my love, we will propose no changes while you are at home. You must go to the hospital with a light heart, taking your mother's blessing with you."
"A light heart, indeed!" thought poor Effie when she reached her room that night. "A light heart, with mother spoiling George as hard as ever she can! I wonder how the others are to fare when George is to be treated like a prince in every way, and I wonder how that interest is to be met. Oh, dear! oh, dear! but it shall be paid somehow. Well, I suppose I am doing right. Mother would not have been content with this state of things much longer, that's more than evident, and then my dear father wished it. Yes, I'll take up my new life—I trust it will bring a blessing with it—but oh, mother, how anxious you make me!"
CHAPTER XIV.
In a week's time Effie found herself an inmate in the great hospital which, for present purposes, we will call by the name of St. Joseph's. It was situated in the east of London. Dorothy had beentrained here, and was now superintendent of one of the wards.
Effie was to go up for a month's trial. At the end of that time she would be paid at the rate of twelve pounds the first year, and twenty pounds the second. Her training would take two years. A certain amount of her uniform would be also provided, and everything found for her with the exception of washing.
She did not soon forget the evening of her arrival. She had said good-by to her mother, had kissed the children, had given Agnes all final directions, and at last found herself in the cab which was to take her to St. Joseph's. It drew up presently outside one of the large entrance doors.
A lady, who was called the Home Sister, received Effie very kindly, and offered her a friendly cup of tea. The hour of her arrival was about four in the afternoon. She was then taken up to her own room, and instructed how to put her cap on, and how to wear her new uniform in the neatest and most compact way. Her dress was a pretty lilac check, and she wore a cap with a frill round it, and long tails at the back. Her apron bib was high to the collar in front, and fastened with straps which crossed at the back. Nothing could be neater and more serviceable than the dress.
The kind Sister, having seen that Effie was all right, gave her a friendly smile, and then led her along several dim passages, up and down many stairs, until she finally found herself in a long, light ward, where from thirty to forty women were lying in bed. The Home Sister introduced Effie to the Sister of the ward, who went by the name of Sister Kate. Sister Kate nodded to her, said a word or two in a very busy voice, and then Effie found herself practicallyon the threshold of her new life. The Sister who had been kind to her during tea, who had shown her to her room, and instructed her how to dress, had vanished. Sister Kate looked far too busy and anxious to be worried by questions; and Effie, capable and active as she always was, found herself, for the first time in her life, with nothing to do, and overcome by strange nervousness. She was too much embarrassed to be of real use. Her face was burning with blushes. Sister Kate was tired with her long day's work. There was a great deal to be done to put the ward straight for the night, and she really had no time to devote to the probationer. The women lying in their beds seemed to have eyes and ears for no one but Effie. Between sixty and seventy eyes turned on her wherever she moved, whatever she looked at, whatever she did. Some of the eyes in the pale and harassed faces looked kindly and interested, some of them merely amused, some of them cross and discontented. Effie knew that these women would be querulous and even rude under the touch of strange and untutored hands.
At last the night nurses arrived, the bell rang, and Sister Kate came forward to show the new probationer the way to the dining hall.
Here were several long tables, where the nurses, all dressed exactly alike, sat down to supper. Effie took her place, and quickly discovered that the others were far too tired and hungry to pay any attention to her. She felt too excited to eat, and sat watching the faces of those around her.
Supper was immediately followed by prayers, and then came bed. Effie's first evening as a probationer was over.
She did not know whether to cry or to laugh as she laid her head on her pillow. The reality was sodifferent from anything her fancy had painted. The practical character of the work, the absence of all sentiment, the real illness, the real burden of humanity, seemed to press down upon her.
She had thought, a week ago, when Dorothy proposed that she should come to St. Joseph's, of the delight of being in the same hospital with her friend, but she now discovered that she was unlikely to see much of Dorothy even though she lived under the same roof. Dorothy was Sister of a ward, and that ward was not the one where Effie was to serve her probationership. She had the comfort of a very small room to herself, and was just closing her eyes in sleep, when the handle of the room door was softly turned, and Dorothy, looking beautiful in her Sister's dress of soft navy serge, came in.
"So here you are, you poor little thing," said Dorothy, bending over Effie and kissing her. "I have just come in for one minute to say God bless you. You have come, the ice is broken. You have a fine career before you. Don't be discouraged by what you saw to-night."
"Oh, I am so lonely!" said Effie, with a quiver in her voice. "I was sure when I came here that I should be in the ward with you, Dorothy."
"No, my dear, that was not possible," replied Dorothy. "Of course I should have been very glad if it could have been arranged, but I had no voice in the matter. As it cannot be, dearest, try to believe that this is just the best thing that could have happened to you, to be flung at once, as it were, on your own feet. You will thus gain experience without having a crutch like me to lean upon. I know the first night is very bad, but you will soon learn your duties and become intensely interestedin the life. You are with Sister Kate, are you not?"
"Yes," said Effie. "She scarcely spoke to me—I never felt so awkward in my life, and I know that I was never half so clumsy."
"Of course," said Dorothy, with a smile. "Don't I know the feeling well? It all passes over, my love, and far more quickly than you have the least idea of. Remember you have got the power—those little hands are capable, that head holds a steady and sensible brain. Why, Effie, you have gone through far worse times than this without flinching. Surely, surely you are not going to break down now?"
"Oh, I won't, I won't!" said Effie, with a sob; "but I felt lonely, very lonely, and it was so very kind of you to come to see me."
"Of course I have come to see you—I am only too delighted to do anything in my power for you. I would have rushed down to share your cup of tea on your arrival, but a bad case was just being brought into the ward, and I could not leave. Now, I must go to bed myself, or I shan't be fit for work to-morrow. Good-night, Effie. I have arranged that you are to spend every second Sunday at home."
"Oh, how good you are—how thankful I am!" exclaimed Effie.
Dorothy was leaving the room, when she turned back.
"I forgot to tell you that you are very lucky to be under Sister Kate," she said. "There is not a nurse in the whole hospital who trains as she does, and her probationers always get the best certificates at the end of the two years of training."
"She looks so severe and hard," said Effie.
"She is a little severe, and some people may call her hard, but she has a tender heart under all thatstrict, somewhat cold manner, and then she is so just. My dear, when you know more of hospital life you will be thankful that you are with a just and patient Sister. Sister Kate is both. She will soon recognize you, Effie, for what you are. Now good-night, my love."
Dorothy went away, and soon afterward Effie fell asleep.
The next morning she was awakened by a bell, at what seemed to her something like the middle of the night. She had to dress herself quickly, and then go into the ward and begin her duties.
She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she had to begin her nurse's life as a sort of maid-of-all-work; she had to scrub floors, to clean grates, to polish handles—it seemed to her that she never had a moment to herself from morning till night. Her feet felt very sore, her back ached. Once or twice she felt so dreadfully fagged that she wondered if she could keep up. But through it all, growing greater and greater as the days went on, there came a sense of full satisfaction, of something accomplished, something done, of the feeling that she was being trained thoroughly and efficiently, so that at the end of her time of probation she might be able to say, "There's one thing which I can dowell."
When the first Sunday came she was glad to hurry home. She went back brimful of news, and looked forward to the quiet time in her mother's little parlor with great delight.
Mrs. Staunton was glad to see her. The children were all dressed in their black frocks, and looked neat and comfortable. George was in the room. It seemed to Effie as if she did not recognize his coat—she wondered if it could possibly be a new one.
She arrived at home a little before the midday dinner, and presently the landlady came in to lay the cloth. This used to be Agnes' occupation. Effie did not say anything while the woman was in the room, but when she went out she remarked on this change.
"Oh, it's all right," said Mrs. Staunton. "I pay half a crown a week extra, and the landlady now waits on us. It is much more comfortable, I assure you, Effie, and worth the extra bit of money."
Effie colored; she gave Agnes a reproachful glance, but did not say anything.
Agnes turned her back with a little sniff.
"Why, Effie," she said suddenly, "How coarse your hands have got! What in the world have you been doing?"
Effie laughed.
"Polishing, cleaning, and scrubbing," she said. "In short, doing very much what Mrs. Robinson's little maid of all-work does down in the kitchen here."
"Oh, dear, dear!" exclaimed Agnes; "if those are a nurse's duties, you won't catch me going in for that sort of profession."
"It's awfully interesting," said Effie. "I have, of course to begin at the bottom, but I like it very much."
While she was speaking, there came a knock at the door. George went to open it, and a young man came in. George brought him up to introduce him to his mother.
"This is my great friend, Fred Lawson, mother," he said. "Effie, let me introduce you to Lawson—Lawson, this is my sister Effie."
Effie bowed. She felt the color rushing all over her face. Lawson was the man whom George had wronged in some mysterious way. Lawson was the man for whom that dreadful £250 was required.
CHAPTER XV.
They all sat down to dinner, which Effie further noticed was a great deal more luxurious than when she held the purse strings. There was a nice little joint of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and one or two vegetables. This course was followed by an apple tart and custard; and then the board was graced with some russet apples and walnuts and a bottle of port wine.
Effie felt such a sense of consternation that she could scarcely eat this pleasant food. But Mrs. Staunton, George, Lawson, and the younger children enjoyed the dinner thoroughly. When the beef was taken away, there was very little left on the joint; and as to the fruit tart, it vanished almost as soon as it was cut. Effie could not help wondering to herself how £150 a year could meet this lavish style of living.
Lawson talked very pleasantly during dinner. After glancing toward Effie several times, he suddenly remarked:
"I cannot help feeling that I know your face," said he. "Where and when have we met before?"
"I saw you last night," said Effie, with a smile.
"You saw me last night! What in the world do you mean?"
"Yes," said Effie. "Don't you remember No. 17, in B Ward? You came in to stop that terriblehemorrhage from the lungs from which she was suffering."
"B Ward at St. Joseph's?" exclaimed Lawson.
"Oh, my dear Effie, now I beg of you not to allude to horrible things at dinner," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton.
"No, mother; I am sorry I mentioned it." Effie colored up.
"What have you to do with St. Joseph's?" said Lawson.
"I am a probationer in B Ward, under Sister Kate."
"Never! how extraordinary! Now I remember, you are the girl who held the basin. So you really are a probationer! A fresh one! Have you been there long?"
"Just a week."
"Well, let me congratulate you on one thing, you held that basin without shaking it; I expect you have got plenty of nerve. Of course, I knew I must have seen you before; I never forget a face."
Lawson presently went out with George for a walk. Agnes dressed the children and took them with her to the Sunday school, and Effie was alone with her mother.
"Come and sit by me, darling," said Mrs. Staunton. "It is so very nice to have you home again; I miss you very much, my dear daughter. But I am really getting better. George wants me to consult Dr. Davidson at St. Joseph's Hospital. He thinks that your dear father may have been mistaken about my heart, and that it may get quite strong and well again."
"If you feel better, I don't think I would consult anyone," said Effie, trembling a little.
"Well, dear, well, there's no hurry about it. But I always notice, Effie, and it distresses me not a littlethat any suggestion of George's you are likely to pooh-pooh; now, surely that is scarcely fair to him, dear fellow? You must notice, my love, how cheerful and pleasant we have made this room. George insisted on my getting new curtains—only white muslin, you careful child. They cost really very little, but they do make such a difference in the effect. Then he has also determined that I shall live better, plenty of meat and a little port wine. It is a mostfalseeconomy, my dear, not to attend to one's diet. There's nothing else keeps up the health."
"Yes, mother, I know all that; but good, expensive, nourishing things have to be paid for."
"Now, Effie, don't let me hear you begin that dismal plaint. Do you really mean to insinuate that I, your mother, would go into debt for things?"
"Oh, no, dear mother! how could I think that?"
"You imply it, my love, by your manner."
Effie sighed.
It was hopeless to argue or remonstrate. She felt as if the little home, so different from the beloved one in Whittington, was in reality constructed over a volcano—any day it might collapse. The weight of sorrow which pressed against her heart as she thought of this, of her father, of the old life, quite crushed the brave spirit for the moment. Where was George's honor? How dared he lead his mother into these extravagances, when he knew, too, when he knew——
Effie clasped her hands tightly together. She restrained her emotions with an effort, and turned the conversation to indifferent matters.
Mrs. Staunton was certainly in better spirits. There was a little color in her cheeks, and some of the old sweet brightness in her eves.
When George had been absent about an hour, shegrew restless anddistraite; she left her seat by Effie's side, and, going to the window, looked up and down the street.
"I hope the rain isn't coming on," she said; "he forgot to take an overcoat."
"Who, mother?"
"George."
"But really, mother dear, he isn't sugar; he won't melt."
"There you are again, Effie, making little of your brother. It so happens that he has a nice new coat on to-day, and I don't want it to get shabby at once."
"A new coat! How did he buy it?"
"I lent him a little money for the purpose; he didn't go into debt, so you need not think it."
"I wonder you were able to spare the money."
"Oh, yes; some of my dividends fell due, and were paid on Monday. I lent George three pounds; I think he has got a wonderful coat for the money. He will pay me back as soon as he gets his own salary. Ah! and there he is, dear fellow, and that nice-looking young man, Mr. Lawson. Effie, now do ring the bell; Mrs. Robinson ought to have tea on the table."
With a great effort Effie kept from making remarks which she knew would only irritate her mother.
She said to herself, "There's no help for things to-day. The person to talk to is George; he ought not to allow mother to rush through her money in this way. I wonder if I am doing wrong in giving up my home-life to the hospital; but no, I don't think I am. Mother would have insisted on managing the money in any case."
Mrs. Robinson appeared with the tea-tray. There was a little jug of cream and a shilling Madeira cake;there was also a great plate of thick bread and butter for the children. The tea-tray was placed on the table, and George and Lawson took their tea standing. Effie helped them. Lawson looked at her once or twice, and thought what a wonderfully nice face she had, how true her eyes were, how good she seemed altogether.
"She's altogether of different metal from her brother," thought the young man. "I wish with all my heart he were like her; but although there is something lovable about him, and we are chums, of course, yet I never feel quite sure of myself when in his company."
The meal which followed was quite merry. Phil and Marjory had gone up to the top of their class in Sunday school; Agnes was promoted to teach a class of very little children; Katie was going in for the Junior Cambridge Examination, and eagerly consulted Effie about some books which she was obliged to procure. Effie promised to give her the money out of her first month's salary.
"But that will be some time off," she said, "for I am only going through my month's trial now, so you must be patient, Katie."
"I'll lend you the money," said George, stroking his sister's hair.
He looked so affectionate and handsome, and so manly and good-humored, that it was impossible not to feel pleased with him. Mrs. Staunton's eyes quite beamed as she glanced at her eldest son.
"Now, mother, I am going to sit near you," he said. He drew his chair close to his mother, and began to talk to her in a low tone.
Effie and Lawson exchanged a few words over hospital work. He would make an enthusiastic doctor some day! he loved the profession and thought it the noblest in the world. He reminded Effie a little of her father.
The quick hours flew all too fast. Effie's time was up. She went back to the hospital with a curious sense of uneasiness, but equally also of rest and refreshment. It was nice to think that George had such a good friend as Fred Lawson.
CHAPTER XVI.
Two months passed away without any special incident. Effie's month of trial being over, she was now established at St. Joseph's as a regular probationer. Her salary of twelve pounds a year began from the day her second month commenced. All those qualities which Dorothy was quite sure that Effie possessed were coming abundantly to the fore. She had tact, she had courage, she had nerve. She was also absolutely unselfish. Self was not in the foreground with her; the work which she had to do, the work which she meant to carry through in the best possible manner, in the bravest spirit, with the most conscientious sense of duty, ever filled her mental horizon. Sister Kate began to trust Effie. She began to smile at her now and then, and to give her not quite so much floor-scrubbing and grate-polishing, and a little more work to do for the patients themselves.
The patients liked to call Effie to smooth their sheets, to turn their pillows, to give them their drinks. One or two of them, when they had an odd moment, began to make little confidences to her.She learned their histories almost at a glance. She also studied their fancies; she began to find out the exact way Mrs. Robinson liked her gruel flavored, and how Mrs. Guiers liked her pillows arranged. Effie made no fuss over the patients,—fuss and favoritism were strongly against the rules,—but notwithstanding, she was a favorite herself.
More than one pair of tired eyes looked at her with longing and refreshment as she passed, and more than one pair of wearied lips smiled when she came near.
Two months went by in this fashion—very, very quickly, as such busy months must. It was found impossible to allow Effie to go home every Sunday, but she went, as a rule, every second one.
Things seemed to be going fairly straight at home. The extravagance she had noticed on her first Sunday was not repeated to the same extent. Mrs. Staunton seemed decidedly better, and Effie gave herself up with a thankful heart to her work.
It was now the middle of winter, close upon Christmas-time. The weather outside was bitterly cold, although, in the ward, Effie scarcely felt this. She wore her neat lilac print dress just the same in winter as in summer.
One day, about a week before Christmas, when a thick yellow fog was shutting out all the view from the high ward windows, Effie was doing something for No. 47, a poor, tired-looking woman of the name of Martin, when Lawson, the young medical student, came suddenly into the ward. He had been sent by the house physician to take notes on a certain case. This case happened to be the very one which Effie was attending. When he saw Effie a peculiar expression passed over his face. It was against the strictest of all rules for the medical students ever to address aword to the probationers; even the necessary duties required of them had to be conveyed through a Sister or a ward nurse. Effie was helping poor No. 47 to drink a little milk and soda water. As she put the glass back in its place, Lawson came close to her. He said abruptly:
"I am very anxious to have a conversation with you about George."
She colored crimson when he addressed her.
"Yes," she said.
"Nurse!" exclaimed Sister Kate's voice at that moment, in a harsh, sharp tone, "go at once and make up the fire at the other end of the room."
Effie went off, trembling and disturbed.
The fact of Lawson having specially addressed her passed out of her mind immediately, but the mention of George's name filled her with fear.
It was the first time in her hospital life that she absolutely forgot the rules laid down for her conduct. Sister Kate, who had the eyes of a hawk, noticed when Lawson bent over to speak to the pretty little probationer. It was her duty to correct the faintest attempt at flirting on the part of the probationers and medical students. She felt shocked at Effie, who was fast becoming a favorite of hers, permitting such a thing for a moment, and, when next Effie had anything to do for her, quite resumed her icy manner toward her.
No. 47 required some special attention again that evening—she was feverish, and not going on well. She called Effie to her side in an eager voice.
"You might turn my pillow again for me, dear," she said. "You know how to hitch it right under the small of my back, better than any of those other nurses. There now, that's better. Stoop your head a bit, love. I believe if you go downstairs into the hallnear the surgery, you are safe to see that young doctor; he is sure to be in the dispensary about this time, and you might catch him when he is going out."
"Hush!" said Effie. "I know you mean kindly, but you ought not to talk like that."
"Oh, my love, I know, I know," said the woman, with a wink. "We was all young once—I am three-and-forty, and have never had a mate. I missed my chance when I was young. Don't you miss yours, nurse."
Effie turned pale with indignation; but then, seeing that the woman meant kindly, she tried to smile.
"I am very much obliged to you," she said, "but things aren't a bit the way you think." She then went off to perform her other duties.
Sister Kate spoke to her sharply.
"Nurse," she said, "I hope you remember the rule which forbids favoritism—I noticed that you stayed longer than was necessary with No. 47."
"She complained a good deal of her back, Sister, and I was arranging her pillows for her."
"Don't try to deceive me," said Sister Kate. "You know perfectly well that you did not spend all that time arranging a pillow. Now, go and help to bring up the teas."
Effie turned to her duties with a tingling sensation in her eyes.
It was the first time since her arrival at St. Joseph's that her work seemed almost impossible to her. Her heart quite ached with longing to know what Lawson had meant. What had he to tell her about George? As she thought, her fears grewgreater and her memory of the hospital rules less and less.
She determined at any risk to try and see Lawson that evening. It would be impossible for her to venture down into the central hall of the hospital, but she knew for certain that he would come into the ward again late that evening.
Sister Kate would be off duty at nine o'clock, and Sister Alice, the night superintendent, was not nearly so strict. Effie hovered about near the door; she knew she was disobeying rules, for she ought to have gone to bed soon after nine o'clock. No one noticed her, however. The night nurses were all busy taking up their different duties, and Sister Alice was talking to the house physician at the farther end of the ward.
Suddenly Effie, standing near one of the doors, saw Lawson coming upstairs; she ran to him without a moment's hesitation. "What have you to tell me about George?" she said.
He colored, and looked almost annoyed when she spoke to him.
"I cannot tell you here," he said in a hasty voice. "Are you going home next Sunday?"
"No; it's my Sunday in—unless I could get one of the other probationers to change with me."
"I wish you would manage to do that; I really want to see you very badly. If you'll go home on Sunday, I'll call in the course of the afternoon, and then I can walk back with you to the hospital. Now, go at once—you must not be seen talking to me."
Effie flew down the corridor to her own little room.
That night she could scarcely sleep; she felt oppressed with all kinds of forebodings. The idea of her having broken one of the rules, and, in fact, laidherself open to dismissal, never once entered into her head.
She was still the faithful nurse—the earnest-minded, gentle, good girl, who would give up her whole life to the alleviation of the sufferings of others. The fact of Effie having a dual life, of having a nature which could not forget the old home ties, was not likely, however, to be recognized in the hospital.
The next morning at breakfast she noticed that one or two of the probationers giggled a little when they saw her. She sat down in her usual seat, and one of the girls nudged her elbow.
"Well," she said, "you're no better than the rest of us."
"What in the world do you mean?" said Effie, coloring scarlet.
"Oh, don't be so sly!" said the girl, with a poke which she intended to make playful. "He is a very good-looking young fellow, too; only, if you don't want to get into mischief, don't let Sister Kate see it."
"I know what you mean," said Effie in a steady voice; "but you are altogether mistaken. I scarcely know Mr. Lawson; he only spoke to me yesterday because he happened to be a great friend of my brother's."
"Oh, the usual thing," laughed the girl. "It's so very convenient to have brothers; is it not, Lucy?"
The girl addressed as Lucy grinned, and Effie felt very uncomfortable.
At dinner that day, it suddenly passed through her mind that she must, by hook or by crook, induce one of the probationers to change Sundays with her. Lucy was usually a good-natured girl. Her people did not live in town; as a rule she spent herSundays out with her aunt-in-law. Effie went up to her when she had a moment to spare.
"Lucy," she said, "I wish you would do something for me."
"To be sure I will, Effie," she replied—"anything in my power."
"I want to go home very badly next Sunday; do you think it would be possible for me to change with you?"
"Heigh-ho!" said Lucy, "You want to meet Mr. Lawson; I know your sly little ways."
"No, indeed, it is not true," began Effie; but then she stopped, for she knew it was true. She would meet him. "Oh, how little Lucy knows the burden that is pressing on me!" thought the poor girl.
Tears suddenly rose to her pretty brown eyes.
"I cannot explain things to you," she said; "I would if I could. You must believe in me and trust me. I have a great deal of anxiety. Oh, it has nothing to do with the hospital; it is about my home life. There is a great burden laid upon me. I want very much to go home on Sunday. Indeed, Mr. Lawson has little to do with the real burden, only I believe he can tell me something."
"I know you are a good girl," began Lucy, who became grave on the spot. "Of course you shall take my turn if Sister Kate will allow it."