CHAPTER XVII.
Sister Kate made no objection, and Effie hurried home in a state of excitement which she could scarcely restrain. Mrs. Staunton did not expect her, and the poor girl felt her heart sink low in her breast when she saw that her unexpected arrival scarcely gave satisfaction. There was a nice white cloth on the table, and a large bunch of flowers in a pretty cut-glass jug stood in the center. An attempt at dessert again graced the board, and Effie noticed that a bottle of sherry and a bottle of port stood on the little sideboard.
She felt a sense of dismay.
"Even mother is beginning to keep things from me," she said to herself. "It is all George, of course! They did not expect me home to-day, so they are having a particularly good dinner. Is it possible that even mother would try to deceive me? Oh, dear, dear! how changed all our life is, now that father is no longer here!"
There had never been the faintest shadow of concealment about the honest doctor, and while with her husband Mrs. Staunton was the most straightforward woman imaginable; but, alas! her character was a weak one—she was now completely under George's influence, and George had learned to walk in those crooked paths which those who begin to do wrong are always tempted to follow.
He came in presently, looking particularly handsome and manly. He had on a nice new coat; and his beautifully got-up collar showed off his fresh young face to the best possible advantage.
Mrs. Staunton called him up at once for Effie to criticise.
"Doesn't he look well in a white silk tie?" she said. "I like white ties better than colored ones for him, and they are not so expensive either, for I can wash them myself."
"I wonder all that washing does not fag you, mother," said Effie.
Before Mrs. Staunton could reply, Mrs. Robinson appeared with the dinner, and the family sat down to an excellent meal.
Effie saw quite plainly that it would be useless for her to attempt to expostulate. Mrs. Staunton, after her first start of unconcealed dismay, was very affectionate to her daughter. She told Effie that she thought she looked a little pale, and wondered whether all that nursing was not too much for her.
"No, mother, I love the work," said Effie.
"But that is not the question, my love," said Mrs. Staunton, shaking her head. "The question is this: is it undermining your health?"
"Well, in any case I should have to earn my living," said Effie. "I could not possibly afford to do nothing at home. As well earn it as a nurse as in any other way, and I love nursing beyond anything else in the world."
"You always were an obstinate dear little girl, was she not, George? But, after all, Effie——" Here Mrs. Staunton paused and looked at her son. "I think I might tell Effie?" she said, giving him a bright nod.
"Oh, I don't suppose there is anything to make a fuss over," replied George. He colored as he spoke, and looked out of the window. He could easily hoodwink his mother, but it was difficult to meet Effie's clear eyes and not to feel sure that she wasreading him through, and seeing him as he really was.
Agnes jumped up, saying it was full time to go to Sunday school; she carried off the children with her, and George, his mother, and Effie were alone.
"Sit down in your usual chair, George," said his mother. He did so, bringing up the port wine as he spoke, and pouring out a glass, which he insisted on his mother drinking. He tossed off one or two glasses himself, after which his eyes grew bright and steady, and a color came into his cheeks.
"Yes, tell Effie," he said.
"I think you might do so, George; I am so proud of you."
"No, mother. I like to hear you describing me; you make me feel such an awfully fine fellow."
George laughed as he spoke.
"Well, then, Effie," said his mother, "you will in future learn to appreciate our dear George as he deserves. The fact is this: he has just got a rise in his salary of a whole hundred a year. George is now earning two hundred a year; and he has arranged, dear fellow, to give me one hundred a year, in order that I may have those little comforts which he thinks I require."
"Is that really true?" said Effie, coloring. "Oh, what splendid news!" She looked eagerly at George as she spoke. She longed to jump up, throw her arms round his neck, and kiss him.
"Is this true?" she repeated. "Oh, I am so glad! We do want the money so badly."
George stooped to flick off a speck of dust which had settled on his immaculate shirt-cuff; his eyes would not meet Effie's.
"Of course it is true," he said in a bravado sort of voice. "You don't suppose I would tell mother a lie, do you?"
"Oh, Effie! how could you doubt him?" said Mrs. Staunton, almost crying.
"No, mother, I don't doubt him," Effie replied. She walked to the window. Her momentary pleasure was over; she knew, just as well as if George had told her, that the whole thing was a fabrication. If he had more money, he was not getting it in his situation. His look, his attitude, joined to the few words Lawson had said to her, made Effie quite certain on that point. Burning words half rose to her lips, but she checked them. She did not doubt George. She read the truth in his eyes; what fell from his lips was nothing.
Mrs. Staunton kept on talking. "We shall have real comforts at home now," she said. "I am, as my boy says, a wonderful manager."
"The best in all the world," interrupted George; "there never was such a mother."
Mrs. Staunton's eyes quite shone with pleasure.
"What I was thinking was this, Effie," she continued, "that if you really are not strong enough to go on with your work, we can now afford to keep you at home."
"Of course we can," said George.
He had scarcely said these words, half turning his back on Effie as he spoke, when the room door was opened by Mrs. Robinson, and Lawson was announced.
When he saw his friend, George suddenly turned pale. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and went forward to meet him, speaking in a loud and bragging voice.
"Is that you, Lawson? Welcome, old chap. We did not expect you to-day, but we are right glad to see you, of course."
"You will stay and have tea with us, won't you,Mr. Lawson?" said Mrs. Staunton in her sweet voice.
"Yes, certainly," said Lawson.
He had given Effie his hand when he came into the room, but he scarcely looked at her.
He sat down near Mrs. Staunton, and began to talk to her in his usual bright way. She yielded after a moment to his charm. Lawson was a young fellow with a great amount of general information; he had also abundance of tact, and he knew how to suit his words to Mrs. Staunton's requirements.
When George saw his friend talking to his mother, he went up to Effie and stood near her.
"Come to this end of the room," he said abruptly.
Effie followed him.
"I am likely to make quite a pile of money," he said, speaking in a low voice and glancing toward his mother. "I know you think badly of me,—it's awfully hard on a fellow when his sister thinks badly of him,—but, nevertheless, I am likely to be in a real good way of business soon. And what I want to say now is this, Effie. I am anxious to pay back that £250 which you borrowed for me."
"I wish you would," said Effie.
"Well, I dare say I can give you fifty pounds toward it this week. Squire Harvey won't require the whole of the money back at once."
"Oh, he doesn't require it at all," said Effie. "It is I who require it. It is my honor and the honor of my dead father that demands it. It ought to be paid back, and you ought to do it."
"Don't speak so loudly—you do get so excited about things," said George.
Effie lowered her voice. Lawson, as he talked to Mrs. Staunton, glanced sharply at her.
Tea was brought in, and Effie had to take her placeat the tea-tray. George's words had made her feel more uncomfortable than ever. It was absolute nonsense to suppose that he could be earning money at this rate.
After tea, Effie had to go back to the hospital.
"Good-by mother," she said. "I won't see you now for a fortnight."
Mrs. Staunton got up and put her feeble old arms round her daughter's neck. "Good-by, my darling," she said. "Take care of yourself; don't overwork yourself. Remember it is unnecessary. You have got a home, and a dear, noble, faithful brother to provide for you."
"Yes, Effie, you are heartily welcome to all that I can give you," said George in a lofty tone.
Effie pressed her lips to her mother's, kept her arms for one moment round her neck, and then turned away with tears in her eyes.
"Good-by, George," she said, holding out her hand.
"I'll see you back to the hospital," said George.
"Don't do that. It is a beautiful evening; mother would like you to take a walk with her."
"And I'd have the greatest pleasure in seeing Miss Effie home, if she would let me," said Lawson.
George hesitated for a moment. For some reason, which was more than evident, he did not want Effie to be alone with his friend.
He looked at his mother. She did not catch his eye, or she would have read his wish by instinct. The evening was really very fine, and she liked to walk round the square leaning on George's arm. When well enough, too, she liked him to take her to church.
"I think I'd enjoy a little walk with you, George," she said. "The evening is quite like spring—Wonderful weather for so near Christmas; the air is asmild and soft as milk; and as Mr. Lawson has so kindly promised to see Effie back, perhaps you'd come?"
"All right," said George. "By-by, Effie; you'll hear from me, perhaps, in the course of the week."
Effie went downstairs, followed by Lawson. As soon as ever they got out, he looked her full in the face.
"You must be greatly amazed," he said, "at my presuming to bother you about your family affairs."
"Oh, no!" she replied. "I think you are kind, but your words have made me very anxious."
"Then," said Lawson, "you see for yourself that things are not all right."
"I have known that for some time."
"George is a great friend of mine," continued Lawson. "We saw a good deal of each other when he first came to town—he was a right jolly sort of fellow then; it was only about six months ago that, all of a sudden, he seemed to change. I suppose he took up with some bad companions, but I really can't say for certain."
"But what about him now?" said Effie, in a voice almost irritable with anxiety. "Have you anything fresh to tell me?"
"You heard him, probably, say to your mother that he had a rise of salary?"
"Yes."
"The fact is," continued Lawson, "I know that not to be true."
Effie also in her heart of hearts knew it not to be true, but she could not bear to hear a stranger abuse her brother.
"How can you be sure?" she said, somewhat inconsistently.
"How can I be sure?" he retorted. "This is nota matter of sentiment, I happen to know. George is working with a relative, it is true, but Mr. Gering is one of the hardest men in the City. Everyone who understands him knows the system on which he works, and a relative has no more chance with him than another. George will have to take his rise step by step at something like the rate of ten pounds a year. Perhaps he has told your mother that he has had quite a large rise."
"He said a hundred a year; he said he was now receiving two hundred a year."
"What is to be done?" said Lawson, "Something ought to be done to stop it. Your mother will certainly live beyond her means, and then you will all get into no end of a mess. Do forgive me for taking an interest; the fact is, George was a great friend of mine once."
"Oh, please don't give him up!" said Effie. "If good men turn against him, what chance has he, poor fellow?"
"I won't, if you wish me to look after him," said Lawson, giving her a quick glance.
At this moment two nurses from St. Joseph's Hospital, who were crossing the street, saw Effie. They noticed her earnest face, the sparkle in her eyes; they also observed the glance which the handsome young medical student gave her. The women nudged one another, smiled, and went on.
Effie never saw them.
"Let us walk a little faster," said Lawson, who was not so unobservant. He felt vexed that the women should see him with Effie, but now that he was with her he must at least unburden his mind.
"George told me," said Effie,—"perhaps it is not wrong to repeat it to you,—that he is likely to make a great deal of money."
"Did he? Did he tell you that—did he happen to say how much?"
"Well, he spoke as if money were very easily earned," said Effie. "He said something about getting fifty pounds this week."
"I must tell you the truth," said Lawson. "There's no help for it. Your brother will go straight to the bad if he is not rescued, and that at once."
"What do you mean? Oh, how you frighten me!"
Effie's face was as white as a sheet.
"I am ever so sorry," said Lawson; "but what is the use of keeping back the truth? George has had no rise of salary—indeed, if he is not careful, he is mother has gone far beyond our means. She hasn't [Transcriber's note: text of this paragraph in original is as shown and ends abruptly at this point.]
"Then how does he get his money?"
"He gets it by gambling."
"Gambling! Oh, no! oh, no!" said Effie.
She had the horror of that vice which a pure-minded, well-brought-up girl must ever have.
"It is true," said Lawson; "it gives me the greatest pain to tell you anything so bad of your brother, but there's no help for it."
"But how do you know?" interrupted Effie.
"I know by the best of evidence. I have had my suspicions for some time, but I happened to see him coming out of one of those places last week—yes, I must tell you, I saw him coming out of a gambling den. I think he goes night after night. At present he is winning more than he loses, but that is always the game for drawing fellows on."
"It must be stopped," said Effie. She felt quite faint and sick. If her mother knew this it would kill her on the spot.
They had nearly reached the hospital, and Effie turned and faced Lawson.
"You don't half know what this means to me," she said. "George is not exactly like an ordinary brother. When my father died quite suddenly of diphtheria some months ago, he left my mother in George's care. If George goes to the bad now, she will certainly die; you must have noticed for yourself how she is wrapped up in him."
"Yes; no one could fail to notice it. I think her love for him beautiful; and he loves her, too. Poor fellow! that is his great redeeming point."
"Oh, I don't call it real love," said Effie, almost with passion—"to deceive her as he does—to do wrong, and that sort of wrong. Oh, I think my heart will break!"
Tears choked her voice, she had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping them back. Lawson took out his watch.
"You are not late," he said. "Let us take a turn round this square."
They had entered an old-fashioned square where there were very few people. They walked round and round the dismal central garden for some time. Lawson talked, and Effie listened. After a time they decided that George's perilous downward career must be stopped at any cost. Lawson said he would make it his business to see George the following evening, to tell him quite frankly what he knew, and, in short, to compel him, if necessary, to do what was right.
"He'll be obstinate," said Effie—"I know he'll be hard to deal with. Oh, what shall we do?—what shall we do? I am quite certain that already my mother has gone far beyond our means. She hasn't been half careful enough since I left her. If George stops getting money in this way she'll wonder andquestion. I doubt very much whether you can have the least influence over him. What is to be done?"
"Don't be so down-hearted," said Lawson. "He requires a man to tackle him—a man who really knows the temptations young fellows meet. If you'll allow me to say so, Miss Staunton, I don't think the case quite hopeless; anyhow, you may be quite sure I'll do my best for him."
"Thank you," said poor Effie; "you are more than good, and I do trust you." She hurried back to the hospital; but, to her dismay, when she got there, found that she was a quarter of an hour late.
Absolute punctuality in returning from any outdoor pleasure is expected from all nurses. She hurried upstairs, hoping that she might gain her room, put on her cap and apron, and return to the ward before Sister Kate had time to miss her. This might have been the case—for Sister Kate had been very much occupied with some anxious cases during the afternoon—had not one of the nurses, who had a spite against Effie for being prettier and cleverer than herself, drawn Sister Kate's attention, to the fact that the young probationer was behind her time. This nurse had seen Effie walking with Lawson. Immediately her spirit of jealousy and envy was up in arms; she did not for a moment consider what injury she might do the poor girl by her false and unkind words.
"Nurse Staunton is late," she said. "I don't know how I am possibly to get the ward in order for the night unless I have some help."
"I must speak to her," said Sister Kate, glancing at the clock, and looking a little annoyed. "This wasn't her Sunday to go out, either. I cannot let the rules be broken in this way. Let me know as soon as ever she comes in."
"I suppose there's some excuse to be made for her," said the nurse, speaking in a knowing way. "She's a very careful, good sort of girl, but therearetimes when the best of us forget ourselves."
The woman knew that Sister Kate would interpret her words as she wished her to do. She went off in a hurry to perform her duties, and when Effie entered the ward, Sister Kate received her with marked coldness.
"You are very late, nurse," she said. "Where have you been?"
"I have been at home with my mother."
"Was your mother ill? Is that your excuse for being behind your time?"
"No; mother was well—better than she has been for some time."
"Then why are you late?"
"The fact is, I was walking with a friend, and forgot to notice the hour."
"That's no excuse. You have certainly behaved very carelessly, and have put the other nurses out by not being in time to take your duties. Who was the friend with whom you were walking?"
Sister Kate had no right to ask this question, but she felt much provoked at the moment, and the color which rushed all over Effie's face excited her curiosity.
"Perhaps you'll think I did wrong," said Effie, looking up at her almost defiantly. "The friend was Mr. Lawson. He knows my brother very well; he was talking to me about him. I cannot refuse to speak to him when I see him out of doors, can I?"
"Don't be pert, nurse! You know it is one of the strictest rules of the hospital that none of the nurses are to speak to the medical students."
"I know; and I don't wish to speak to him in the hospital."
"See you don't, or you'll be dismissed at once; in fact, the less you know of any of the medical students, the better for you. I am very sorry that this young man knows your brother. I should not have had anything to do with you, had I been aware of this fact."
"How absurd and unjust!" murmured Effie under her breath. She turned away—she felt absolutely cross.
Sister Kate called her back.
"Now, bustle about," she said. "The supper-trays want to be taken away; the women are perfectly tired of waiting to be settled for the night."
Effie moved mechanically about her duties. Her heart felt sick. She did not think she could remain much longer under Sister Kate's care. "If she treats me like this," thought the proud girl, "I cannot endure it. Mr. Lawson is nothing to me—he is only my brother's friend. He is good, and wants to help us in an hour of great perplexity. What shall I do? I feel tied and fettered in every way."
She laid her head on her pillow only to burst into tears. She cried herself to sleep. All the world seemed black to her.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Effie saw very little of Dorothy Fraser, but on the following day, to her great surprise and pleasure, as she was leaving the dining-hall, Dorothy came up and spoke to her.
"You have a minute to spare," she said; "just come out on this balcony and talk to me."
Effie obeyed her.
"What do you want with me, Dorothy?" she asked.
"I wish to know why you look so pale and worried—you seem to have displeased Sister Kate, too."
Effie very nearly burst into tears, but she restrained herself.
"I'll tell you what it is," she said. "It is the most unjust thing!"
She then mentioned in as few words as possible the circumstance of Lawson having spoken to her—of her great anxiety about George—and of her having walked back with the young medical student from her home on the previous evening.
Dorothy looked very grave while Effie was speaking.
"It is unfortunate," she said. "This is just the sort of thing that injures a girl at the commencement of her hospital life."
"But it is so ridiculous and unjust," said Effie. "What in the world can Mr. Lawson be to me?"
"Oh, nothing, of course, my dear," replied Dorothy. "But still the rules cannot be too strict on this point. You know I am not a prude, but all girls are not like you, Effie; and, in short, SisterKate is in the right. Someone must have seen you walking back with Mr. Lawson, and must have told her, or hinted, at least, at the state of the case. Nothing else would have induced her to question you."
"She had no right to speak to me about acquaintances that I meet out of the hospital."
"Strictly speaking, she has no right; that's why I say she must have got a hint."
"Oh, well, never mind her," said Effie. "I won't speak to Mr. Lawson again, unless I meet him out of doors, where I can, and shall, whatever Sister Kate may say."
"Effie, you must be careful."
"I don't want to think of myself at all. Can't you see how miserable I am about my mother and about George?"
"Yes; it is a most wretched business. I am more sorry for you than I can say."
"Oh, I wish something could be done," said Effie. "I feel tired and fettered here—I feel almost wild. I cannot devote myself to my necessary duties."
"Poor child," said Dorothy in her caressing voice. "Let me think: I must help you in some way. Suppose I go to-day to see your mother? I had a chance of having the whole afternoon to myself, but, as I had nowhere in particular to go, was determining not to avail myself of it, but now I can be of use to you."
"Oh, Dorothy! would you really go to see mother? It will be of the greatest possible use. You have such tact—you can say things that no one else would venture to say; and then if only you could see George!"
"I'll take the thing up somehow," said Dorothy; "you shan't be dragged and worried to death, you dear, brave little girl. Give me a kiss, Effie, and goback to your work. Between Mr. Lawson and me, we will pull you through this trouble, see if we don't!"
"Do you know Mr. Lawson, Dorothy?"
"Know him! Of course I do. He is one of the very nicest fellows here—as good as gold and as steady as a rock, and with such a beautiful enthusiasm for his profession—he'll make a splendid doctor by and by. Yes, Effie, don't mistake me: it is not the man I object to, it is the fact that he is a medical student, and that you are a nurse. So many bad things have been said about nurses and medical students that all nurses worthy of the name have to make up their minds to show the world that they can and will nurse without even the thought of flirtation coming into their head."
"You're right, of course," said Effie, with burning cheeks. "But it's a shame, it's horrible! How can anyone think I wish to flirt?"
She turned away—she was obliged to go back to her duties; but her heart felt much lighter after her conversation with Dorothy.
That afternoon Sister Kate, watched Effie as she would, could find no fault with her. She was attentive, tactful, kind, and considerate; a little bit of her old pleasant cheerfulness had also returned to her—her face looked less careworn.
The fact is, she was leaning on Dorothy, and felt the comfort of Dorothy's strong support.
The patients were only too glad for Effie to do things for them; and No. 47, who was very weak and low, smiled whenever the girl approached her bedside.
"Hold my hand, love, whenever you have a minute to spare," said the poor creature. "I feel low like, awfully low; I am going down—down, and itsupports me to hold your hand; you're a good girl, anyone can see that."
"I try to be," said Effie, tears springing to her eyes.
"Ah, it's well to be good," continued the woman. "When we come to lie as I'm lying now, we think a sight of goodness."
"I hope you'll soon be better," said Effie.
"Never, my love, never again. I'm going out—that's what is happening to me; it's a lonesome thing to die, but I don't feel so lonesome when I'm holding your hand."
Effie came to the poor creature as often as she could. Once again the fascination of the life she so dearly loved drew her out of herself, and enabled her to forget the heavy home cares.
In her bedroom that night Sister Dorothy paid her a visit.
"Well, Effie," she said, "I've news for you. Mr. Lawson saw George last night. He spoke to him quite frankly, and said that, if he did not immediately give over this awful gambling, he'd go and see his cousin, Mr. Gering."
"And what did George say?" asked Effie.
"Oh, he promised as faithfully as possible that he'd give it up. Mr. Lawson seemed quite pleased with him, and said he didn't think he'd have been so penitent and so easily influenced as he has been."
"But will he give it up?" questioned Effie.
"He promised to. Of course he is anxious at not being able to earn more money, for the foolish fellow encouraged your mother to be extravagant, and now there are several debts which must be met somehow. What's the matter with you, Effie? Why do you start?"
"How can I help it? Debts would kill mother.Perhaps I ought to tell you, Dorothy—you have been so good to me, and I trust you so much that I don't think it can be wrong to tell you any trouble which concerns me."
"No, of course it isn't. Speak out what is in your mind, Effie."
"Well, George was in trouble that time he came to see father—that time when father was dying. He owed Mr. Lawson—- I can't tell you how, I can't tell you why—£250. He said that if the money were not paid back within six weeks, that he, George—oh, Dorothy, how can I say it?—that he'd have to go to—toprison! He said he must have the money; I felt, too, that he must have the money; for our mother's sake. So I went to see Squire Harvey, and he—he lent it to me."
Dorothy sat down on the side of the bed. Effie's story made her feel very grave. She paused for a moment, puzzled what to say.
"He lent me the money," continued Effie, looking straight at her friend with her bright eyes. "I know he never wants it back again, but he must have it back."
"Oh, yes! he must have it back," exclaimed Dorothy.
"Well, he lent it to me," continued Effie, with a sigh; "and I thought, of course, that George would be all right after that, and I arranged that the Squire should have his interest regularly. I thought my own salary would nearly cover that."
"It can't be done," interrupted Dorothy. "Your salary barely pays for your washing and your few out-of-pocket expenses. It's absolutely impossible that you can live here without a penny; the little you earn must go to yourself."
"Then there's nothing for it," said Effie; "I must go where I can earn more. I hate the thought beyond all words, but I must—I must do it!"
"You don't mean to tell me that you would give up your life as a nurse?"
"Do you think for a moment, Dorothy, that I'd give it up willingly? It makes me sick to think of relinquishing what has been my dream ever since I was a little girl; but I see plainly that I must do something to earn money to help mother; and then, if George does keep straight, perhaps we may all be happy some day."
Tears choked Effie's voice, her eyes grew dim.
"What do you think of doing, dear?" said Dorothy in a gentle voice.
"I'll go to the Harveys and ask them to take me as a governess for Freda. I fancy, somehow, that they might be induced to give me a good salary—something like fifty or sixty pounds a year, and I can teach a child like Freda very well indeed, for her father saw that I was well educated. There's nothing else for it, I can see that; but it breaks my heart all the same."
CHAPTER XIX.
Dorothy talked a little longer to Effie. When at last she left her, the poor girl felt soothed and strengthened. She dropped off to sleep, to dream of the old days when she was living in the pretty little cottage in Whittington, and when she longed so earnestly to go out into the wide world. Effie woke long before it was time to get up. She thought ofher dream, and sighed heavily to herself. She was in the wide world now with a vengeance. Did it look as fair, as rose-colored, as fascinating, as it used to look in her early dreams? No; the reality was bitter enough. She would have given a great deal at that heavy moment of her life to turn back the page and be a child at home again.
The nurses' bell rang, and she got up quickly. Next week she was to take her turn at night-nursing. She was getting on well, and, notwithstanding the small cloud which now existed between her and Sister Kate, Sister Kate knew Effie's value. There are nurses and nurses. Many girls who go as probationers to the great hospitals are thoroughly unsuited to the life; their qualifications are not those essential to the good nurse; they are destitute of tact, of presence of mind, of that tenderness which can be firm as well as gentle. But Effie was an ideal nurse; her soft and gentle ways, her kind yet firm glance, the cleverness she showed, the tact she displayed, all proved to Sister Kate that the young probationer might one day be a valuable help to her. She was angry with Effie at present, but she was determined to leave no stone unturned to help the girl and train her thoroughly in her noble profession.
During that night Sister Kate had thought of Effie. She had noticed her pale face during the past day, the sadness in her eyes, the heaviness in her steps, and her heart smote her a little, a very little.
"I don't believe that girl could do anything mean or underhanded," she reflected. "Of course it is tiresome that she should know any of the medical students, but I believe I can trust her word that she will never speak to this young man except out of the hospital."
Accordingly, Sister Kate met Effie the next morningwith much of her old pleasantness. Effie's sad heart bounded again in her breast when Sister Kate spoke kindly to her, and she went about her duties with the determination not to leave even the smallest matter undone. Thoroughly but carefully she went through all the minutiæ of those everlasting cleanings and brushings.
At last her morning's work was over, and now came the crucial moment when she must speak to Sister Kate. The doctors had gone their rounds, the patients were all settled for the morning. Effie came up to Sister Kate in one of the corridors.
"Can you spare me a few moments of your time?" she asked.
The Sister looked up at the tall clock in the passage.
"Do you want to see me about anything important?" she asked.
"Yes, it is something important."
"Well, come into my private room; I can give you five minutes."
Sister Kate sat down—Effie stood before her.
"I'll try and tell you what I want as briefly as possible," she said. "I wish to know if I can be spared to go out this afternoon?"
"It is not your afternoon out. What do you mean?"
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary. The fact is, there's great trouble at home, and I—I must see my mother, and perhaps I may have to make another visit."
Sister Kate frowned.
"I don't wish not to sympathize with you, of course," she said, after a pause, "but the fact is, nurses should detach themselves as much as possible from home-life. The nurse who really gives herselfup to her splendid calling has to try to forget that she has a home. She has to remember that her first duties consist in taking care of her patients and in learning her profession."
"Then I can't be a nurse," said Effie, the color rushing into her face.
Sister Kate looked at her and shook her head.
"I am very sorry," she said, after a pause. "The fact is, I had great hopes of you—you have many of the qualifications which go to make a splendid nurse; I won't recount them here. I had, as I said, great hopes of you, but your words now make me fear that, excellent as those qualifications are, they are overbalanced."
"By what?" asked Effie.
"By sentimentality—by nervous overworry about matters which you should leave in other hands."
"I have no other hands to leave them in; the fact is, home duties must always be first with me. I've got a mother and several young brothers and sisters. I am the eldest daughter. I cannot let my mother suffer, even to indulge what has been for a long time the great dream of my life. It is very probable that I shall have to give up being a nurse."
"How can you? You are engaged here for three years."
"I must beg of the Governors of the hospital to let me off; the case is a special one—the trouble under which I am suffering is most unexpected. I fear, I greatly fear, that I shall be obliged to leave the hospital for a time."
"I am truly sorry to hear that," said Sister Kate. "Does your friend Miss Fraser know of this?"
"Yes."
"I hope it may not be necessary. As I said, you have the making of a good nurse in you. You wantto go away for a few hours? Well, I'll try and manage it. Perhaps when you go home and see your people, you will find that it is unnecessary for you to sacrifice yourself to this extent. Anyhow you can have from two till five to-day. Now go and much in train for the afternoon as you can. You can stay out from two till five. I hope you'll have good news for me when you return."
"I hope I shall," said Effie; but her heart felt low. She had little expectation of being able to continue the life which she longed to perfect herself in. At two o'clock she went out, and did not take many minutes in reaching her mother's door.
Mrs. Staunton looked surprised to see her.
"What is the matter. Effie?" she said. "How white and worn you look! Why have you come back to-day?"
"I wanted to see you, mother, so I got an afternoon off duty. Sister Kate was kind—I begged of her to let me come. I have a great longing to see you."
"Well, my dear, I'm all right. The fact is, I get better and better."
Mrs. Staunton was seated by the window. She was making a pinafore for little Marjory—her needle flew in and out of the stuff. She was trimming the pinafore with narrow lace. Effie took it up and sat down by her mother.
"Your hands tremble, mother; are you really well?"
"Oh, yes, my love; yes! You look at me as if you thought there was something the matter. Have you—Effie, your looks frighten me."
"Don't let them frighten you, dear mother. You know the greatest longing of my heart is to helpand serve you. If there is anything worrying you, you'll tell me, won't you?"
"I will," said Mrs. Staunton. She paused and looked at her daughter. "There's nothingexactlyworrying me," she said, after a pause, "but still I feel a little bit anxious."
"You'll tell me, won't you?"
"You won't scold me, Effie?"
"As if I could, mother darling!"
"Well, perhaps I did a rash thing—poor dear George!—You know how devoted I am to him, Effie?"
"Oh, yes, mother darling, anyone can see that."
"Well, the fact is, I—I yielded to his entreaties. Perhaps I ought not to tell you, Effie—perhaps it will displease him."
"Yes, do tell me," said Effie. "There ought not to be any secrets in one's family. I ought to know—I will know. You are worried about something, and I will know what your burden is. What is it, mother?"
"I'll tell you in a few words. There's nothing in it, after all. Shortly after you left us, George persuaded me to put my money into the City Bank in his name. He said it seemed such folly to have two accounts for such very small sums."
"You did it?" said Effie, her face turning white.
"Yes, yes, I knew you would reproach me. I won't be reproached—I won't!"
"I will not say a word, dearest, dearest mother. Take my hand—your hand does shake so. Now tell me all about it."
"Oh, it's nothing, my love, really, only——"
"Yes, mother—only?"
"Only this morning I asked George to fill in a check for me before he went to town. He did so.It was for five pounds. He seemed vexed at my requiring so much, but I said I couldn't do with less, for there was the landlady to pay, and the butcher has been so troublesome with his bills. I couldn't do with less than five pounds, and George drew a check for me for that amount. I sent Aggie with it straight to the bank, and——"
Mrs. Staunton's face became very pale, her hand shook more violently than ever.
"Yes, mother?" said Effie.
"They sent it back. Effie, with 'Noeffects' written across the back. I am sure there must be a mistake, but they told Aggie that George had overdrawn his account, and that they couldn't cash this check—there were no effects, that was it."
"No effects!" said Effie, her face scarlet. "But hadn't you some of your money still left in the bank?"
"Yes, I had over fifty pounds. I put the money into the bank in George's name over a week ago. It was to last us for some time. Oh, Effie, don't look at me with those reproachful eyes! I feel faint."
Effie got up quickly; she poured some sal-volatile into a wineglass, and, filling it up with water, brought it to her mother to drink.
Mrs. Staunton was soon better. The passing weakness went off quickly.
"What is to be done?" she said, raising her eyes to her daughter. "Oh, I am so glad you don't scold me, Effie."
"Of course I don't, mother darling. You must have money, you can't get on without it."
"That's just what I say. I am sure I am as saving as woman could be, but the expenses are so heavy."
"Yes, of course."
"I'm expecting George in every minute," said Mrs. Staunton. "He has very likely put the money back into the bank now. He is doing such a splendid business that perhaps he drew the fifty pounds—meaning to return it at once. He has such a capital head for making money—really, I never knew such a boy. I dare say he has put it backdoubled."
"Oh, mother, don't you know better?—how can he do that? But now let us talk of something else. Here's Agnes, that's right. Agnes, will you get some tea for mother? She's quite weak and upset. I'm going out. I must hurry, for I've to be back at the hospital at five. I'm going out, but I'll come to see you mother, before I return to the hospital. Get the tea, Agnes; don't be long about it."
Agnes put a little kettle on the fire.
"Do you know about—about the check?" she asked Effie in a whisper.
"Oh, yes; don't make a fuss over it—it will be all right."
"Mrs. Robinson says she must be paid—she is owed four weeks' rent, and she won't let it go on any longer."
"I'll see her when I come back," said Effie. "Now, do take care of mother. I won't be away a minute longer than I can help."
"Won't you have a cup of tea first, Effie?"
"No, no; I've no time."
Effie ran downstairs, and went out into the street. She felt nerved and braced now. The moment of indecision was past—the moment for definite action had arrived. There was no question with regard to her duty. It lay plain and straight before her.
She happened to know that the Harveys were in town. They were staying in Eaton Place. She took an omnibus, which presently brought her into theneighborhood of Victoria; a few minutes afterward she rang the bell at their hall door.
A man-servant, whom she did not know, opened it.
"Is Mrs. Harvey at home?" asked Effie.
"I believe so," he replied, "but I'm not sure if she can see anyone."
"Perhaps she will see me if you give her my name," said Effie in a gentle voice. "Say Miss Effie Staunton, please, and that I am anxious to see her on pressing business."
The man withdrew, inviting Effie as he did so into the hall.
"He takes me for a servant," she said to herself. "Well, what matter? That truly is only a pinprick."
In a minute or two he returned, with a changed expression on his face.
"Follow me upstairs, please, miss," he said. "My mistress will see you."
Effie followed him up some low stairs—her feet sank into the rich carpets. The contrast between this luxurious house and the severity of the hospital sickened her.
"I shall choke if I live here," she said to herself. But then she crushed all thought of self.
The men led her up two or three short flights of stairs. At last he knocked at a door, before which a rich curtain hung. A voice said "Come in," and Effie found herself in Mrs. Harvey's presence. She was seated in a deep armchair; her maid stood before her, holding out different rich brocades and silks which had just been sent round for her to see.
"That will do, Carey," she said, when she saw Effie. "You can take all those things away. Tell Madam Miller that I have decided on this blue silkcrépon, and this rose-colored silk. I'll call round to be fitted to-morrow morning. Now, Miss Staunton, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. How do you do? I am so glad to see you."
Mrs. Harvey was not so impulsively glad as she had been the last time she saw Effie. The doctor's death—the death he had died for her—seemed removed into the background; her existence was absorbed in pleasure, in gayety and excitement. She had an affectionate, kindly nature, however, and one glance into Effie's sad eyes softened her toward the poor girl.
"Well, what can I do for you?" she said. "How are you? Why, you are a nurse—you are in nurse's dress—how capital! What a splendid idea!"
"Yes, I am a probationer at St. Joseph's," said Effie.
"Oh my dear child, that's splendid for you, of course; but I trust you have brought no infection in your clothes."
"No," said Effie, with the faintest of smiles. "I have nothing to do with any of the infectious wards. I am quite safe. I want to speak to you."
"I shall be very glad to listen to you, my dear. You know, of course, that the Squire and I take the deepest interest in you and in your family. By the way, how is your dear mother, and how are all those pretty girls and boys getting on?"
Effie could not remember that Mrs. Harvey had ever seen her mother—why, therefore, should she speak of her as "dear"? and as to the boys and girls, they were not specially remarkable for their good looks, and if they were, Mrs. Harvey knew nothing about it. She answered these conventional inquiries in a quiet voice.
"I hope you'll forgive me," she said, at the firstpossible pause, "but I am in a very great hurry. I have promised to be back again at St. Joseph's at five o'clock, and it's nearly four now. May I tell you what I really came about?"
"Oh, yes, of course, of course!"
"Do you remember, before I came to London, the very kind offer you and the Squire made me?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Harvey, "if you mean our wish that you should become governess to little Freda. But Freda goes to a kindergarten now. Carey takes her around every morning, and Rhoda goes to fetch her at dinner time. The life seems to suit her very well. Of course we did wish for you very much, but as you could not come—oh, no doubt you have chosen wisely."
Mrs. Harvey yawned; she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. The servant appeared almost immediately.
"Tea for two," she said, "and be quick, Andrews."
"I can't wait for tea," said Effie, rising. "I am very much obliged. I only came to say that circumstances would make me inclined to accept your offer now, but as you don't want a governess there's nothing more to be said."
"Oh, it's so sweetly good of you, Miss Staunton, and had matters been different we should have been pleased. Well, good-by, if you must go. Where did you say your mother lived?"
"A long way from here."
"But do give me her address. I should be so pleased to drive round and see her some day. Perhaps she would go for a drive with me. What a good idea! Yes, I'll come. Where did you say you lived?"
Effie had not said anything.
Mrs. Harvey held out her limp, long hand. "Good-by, Miss Staunton. You know I take a great interest in you," she exclaimed.
CHAPTER XX.
Just at this moment the door was opened, and the Squire came in. He was of different stuff from his wife. When he saw Effie, his face beamed with pleasure, and he held out a big, hearty hand.
"Miss Staunton!" he exclaimed. "Why, this is a pleasure! Oh, you must not run away; you must sit down and tell me all about yourself—I've been longing to hear about you. How is your brother in the City, and your mother? I do hope she is a little better. And all those other lads and lasses? Sit down, my clear child, I insist on it—I have lots of things to say to you."
Mrs. Harvey, who was standing near the mantelpiece, came gently forward when the Squire began to speak. She looked at Effie with new interest. Her face was long and pale, she had no color in her lips, her light hair was very fashionably dressed. She wore a dress of the latest mode, and her thin fingers were loaded with rings, which flashed and shone whenever she moved her hand.
Effie hated those flashing rings—she turned her head so that she need not see them.
Mrs. Harvey began to talk in a high falsetto voice to her husband.
"Do you know, my dear," she exclaimed, "that Miss Staunton has just been so kind? She came here to offer her services for Freda; but you knowdear Freda is getting on so capitally at the kindergarten, that—— Why, what in the world is the matter, Walter?"
"Matter!" exclaimed the Squire in his hearty voice. "Why, that we won't be such fools as to reject Miss Staunton's offer. I was told only a few minutes ago that that kindergarten is simply full of whooping-cough and measles—children sickening with them and going home almost every day. I was going to say that Freda must be moved."
"Oh, I should think so, indeed," said Mrs. Harvey. "Whooping-cough and measles! how terrible! and I never had whooping-cough—why, I shouldn't be able to go out for the whole season. I do hope and trust the dear child hasn't contracted the infection. Dear Miss Staunton, of course you'll come. It is exactly what we'd like best. How soon can you come?—to-morrow?—to-night?"
"Neither to-morrow nor to-night," said Effie. "But if you really wish for me, and if we agree as regards terms, the day after to-morrow."
"What do you mean by saying if we agree as to terms?" asked Mrs. Harvey.
"I want a big salary," said Effie, looking up bravely at the two, who were watching her with half-amused, half-anxious expression. "I want to come to you, and to leave the work which I love best, because I hope you may be induced to give me an exceptional salary. I want the money because my mother and my—my young brothers and sisters are almost—at least they will be, if I don't get it, almost starving."
Effie spoke in jerks. She had the greatest difficulty in keeping back her emotion. It was dreadful to have to plead with these rich people—these people who knew nothing whatever of her sore need—to whom money was so plentiful as to have lost itsfreshness, its desirability, its charm. It was awful to look into their faces—to see the blank, non-comprehending stare which came into Mrs. Harvey's pretty blue eyes, and to notice the puzzled expression on the Squire's face.
"You can't mean that?" he exclaimed. "You can't mean there's any chance of that?"
"There is a chance of it, but not if I come here. I know how kind you are, how noble you have been to me. I'll come to Freda. I'll do everything for her; I'll teach her, and I'll play with her, and I'll love her, and I'll nurse her if she is ill, but oh, do please be generous and give me as big a salary as you can."
"What do you expect—what do you think fair?" asked the Squire.
"I thought—I know it seems a great deal, but I thought you might be willing to give me sixty pounds a year."
"Bless you, my dear child!" exclaimed the Squire; "if you'll accept it, we'll give you a hundred and fifty."
"No, I couldn't accept that," said Effie. "It is not fair."
"Why not? We couldn't get anyone else to exactly take your place for the money; and remember we have plenty of money."
"I'll take a hundred a year, because I am in sore distress," said Effie, after a brief pause; "and—and will you pay me monthly, and may I have my first month's salary in advance? I wouldn't ask it if they didn't want itterriblyat home. Will you do this?"
"Yes, with pleasure," said the Squire. "I insist on your accepting ten pounds a month—that will be one hundred and twenty a year. Now, will youhave a check, or shall I give you the money in gold and notes?"
"The gold will be the most acceptable," said Effie. "Oh, I feel so ashamed!" she added.
"Why should you? You give us an equivalent. Besides, it makes matters more tolerable. I cannot forget——"
"Oh, don't, Walter—don't allude to that awful time!"—cried Mrs. Harvey.
The Squire shut up his lips. He took a little bundle of gold out of one of his pockets and put ten sovereigns into Effie's hand.
"It is a bargain," he said. "I cannot tell you how relieved we are. You'll be with us the morning after next? Elfreda, my love, we must tell our little Freda what a pleasure is in store for her."
"Yes, I am more than delighted," exclaimed Mrs. Harvey. "This plan suits me in every way. You won't fail us, Miss Staunton? for, in case Freda by any chance has taken that awful whooping-cough, you can keep her in isolation from the very first."
"Oh, yes!" said Effie, smiling; "but I dare say she is all right."
She shook hands with her new employers and left the house.
The gold was in her pocket. She felt that she had sold herself and her mission in life for ten sovereigns. "It is the present need which makes the thing so desperate," she said under her breath. "If George has drawn all the money, they have absolutely nothing to live on; but more will come in, and there's this to go on with. We'll manage somehow now."
She returned to the lodgings, but before she went upstairs she had an interview with the landlady.
"What do you charge my mother for rent?" she asked.
"Well, Miss Staunton," exclaimed the woman, "with the dinners and one thing and another, I am obliged to make it a pound a week."
"That is a great deal too much," said Effie. "I don't suppose it is too much for your rooms, but it is more than we can afford just now. When we first came to you, you agreed to let us the rooms without attendance for fifteen shillings a week. We cannot by any possible management afford to pay more."
"But Mrs. Staunton wished for attendance, miss—she said it made all the difference; there was half a crown for attendance and half a crown extra for kitchen fire."
"But the kitchen fire was included in the fifteen shillings a week."
"Then there wasn't late dinner."
"Surely there is no late dinner now?" exclaimed Effie.
"Oh, yes, miss; every evening Mr. Staunton requires a nice little bit of dinner sent up when he comes home. You see, miss, it is quite impossible for me to have extra fires without charging for them."
"Certainly. Well, I don't think there will be any extra dinner in future. And now please tell me exactly how much is due to you."
"Four pounds, miss; but if I'm paid one, on account, I shan't mind waiting. I'd be really sorry to dislodge such a nice lady as your mother, Miss Staunton."
"Here is the money in full," said Effie. "Will you give me a receipt?"
"Oh, with pleasure, miss. Won't you sit down? I hope, Miss Staunton, nothing will induce your good mother to move from here. I will do everything in my power to make her comfortable."
"You must understand," said Effie, "that in future she only pays fifteen shillings a week without extras. My sisters Agnes and Katie are quite old enough to do all the waiting which my mother requires. In fact they must do so, for we can't afford to pay a penny more."
"Am I to understand, miss, that there's no late dinner?"
"Certainly not."
"Very well; I am sure I'll do all in my power to oblige."
Effie left her, putting her receipt carefully in her pocket as she did so. She went upstairs and entered the little sitting-room where her mother was now pacing quickly and restlessly up and down. There was a deep flush on her cheeks, and a look of despair in her eyes.
"Oh, Effie, you've come!" she exclaimed, the moment she saw her daughter. "George has been in. There's something wrong, I know—I know there is. He came in just for a minute and he kissed me, and said he wasn't coming home to-night, and he—he lookedwild. He stuffed a few things into a bag, and said I wasn't to expect him back to-night. I didn't dare ask him about the money. What—what can be the matter, Effie?"