CHAPTER XXI.
Effie did all in her power to soothe her mother. It was past the hour for her return to St. Joseph's, but under the present circumstances she could not give this matter a thought. Mrs. Staunton was strung up to a terrible condition of nervousness.She walked faster and faster about the room; she scarcely spoke aloud, but muttered words under her breath which no one could hear. At every footfall on the stairs she started. Sometimes she went to the door and flung it open—sometimes she went to the window and pressed her face against the glass. Darkness set in, and the lamps were lit in the street. Katie went to the window to pull down the blinds.
"No, don't touch them," said Mrs. Staunton fretfully—she still kept staring out into the street. Presently she called Effie to her.
"Doesn't that man turning the corner look something like George?" she exclaimed.
Effie looked eagerly.
"No, that's not George," she said.
"Agnes, you have better sight," called Mrs. Staunton to her next daughter; "come and watch with me—we are sure to see him soon. It can't be that he has gone away for the night—for the whole night. Isn't that him? Look at that man,—that one crossing the road—that one in the waterproof. Oh, how hard it is raining! If George is out much longer, he'll be drenched to the skin. Aggie, look; and you, Katie, can't you watch? Now,thatman, isn't that George?"
"No, no, mother!" answered the poor children, in affright.
Mrs. Staunton kept on making exclamations. Again and again she cried out hopefully that surely George was coming now; but George himself never really appeared. Effie knew that she would get into hopeless disgrace at St. Joseph's. No matter! she could not leave her mother at such a moment. Each instant she became more anxious about her. She called Agnes aside, and told her that she had put a stop to the late dinner, and also to the extra attendance,but as probably some dinner had been ordered for that evening, she had better go down and bring it up, as Mrs. Staunton must be forced to eat at any cost.
Agnes tripped out of the room, and presently returned with a couple of pork chops and some baked potatoes. She flung them down on the table, exclaiming that the tray was heavy. She looked cross, and evidently seemed to think that Effie was making a great fuss over nothing.
"Why can't George be away for a single night without everyone getting into such a state?" she murmured.
Effie took the tray from her and gave her a look of reproach. She laid the cloth herself, and made the table look as pretty as she could. She then went to her mother, drew her gently but firmly away from the window, and, making her sit down, tried to coax her to eat.
Mrs. Staunton looked at the chops with dazed eyes.
"Those were for George," she exclaimed. "What a shame to bring them up before he has come into the house! They'll be cold and sodden, and he hates his food sodden. You don't suppose I'm going to touch my boy's dinner? No, not I! Put the chops down in the fender, Aggie. When George comes in, I always ring the bell twice. How careless of Mrs. Robinson! Effie, my dear, I don't think we can stop with her if she treats us in this fashion. It's perfectly disgraceful to cook George's food before he is ready for it."
Agnes began to explain that George was not coming home, but Effie silenced her with a look. She saw, to her horror, that her mother's mind was beginning to wander. She was really expectingGeorge—who had not the faintest idea of coming back. Poor Effie saw there was nothing for it but to humor her mother. She put the food inside the fender, and then, going to a davenport in a corner of the room, wrote a hasty letter to Dorothy Fraser.
"We're in great trouble," she wrote. "I know you can't come. I know it is absolutely impossible for you to come, but neither can I go back to St. Joseph's this evening. Please tell Sister Kate, make any excuse for me you like—say anything that comes into your head. My career as a nurse is ended."
A big tear dropped from Effie's eyes as she wrote these last words. She folded up the letter and gave it to Agnes.
"Agnes," she said, "you must take this at once to St. Joseph's Hospital."
"Oh, I don't know how to get there," said Agnes, "and I was never out so late before in the evening."
"I am sorry to have to send you—stay, you had better take Kate with you. It would be better for the two of you to be together. Put on your hats and your warm jackets; don't be longer away than you can help—you have just to give this note to the hall porter and come straight back. You must take the red omnibus that goes along Oxford Street, and——"
Effie added a few more practical directions. Agnes' eyes sparkled at the thought of a little variety in her dull life. Katie ran willingly into her room to fetch her own and her sister's hats and jacket's. They were dressed in a very short time. Effie heard them running downstairs, and listened to the slam of the hall door. She had now set the irrevocable seal to her own act. She had deliberately turned her back on the life that she loved. Shestood for a moment with a dizzy feeling in her head; then, with a little prayer which she sadly needed, to help her, she put aside all regret, and turned with a brave heart to face the dark present and the gloomy future.
Mrs. Staunton stood near the window, with her back to her daughter. Effie listened with a sick heart to her mutterings. She knew that her mother could not possibly get better if she refused to eat.
She was wondering what to do, and how she could dare to leave her, when a quick step was heard running up the stairs, and the next moment Fred Lawson came in.
Effie never to her dying day forgot the feeling of relief, of almost joy, which ran through her heart when she saw his clever, resolute face. He came in, in his usual quick, brisk, determined way—stopped short a little when he saw her, and then glanced significantly at her mother.
Mrs. Staunton had turned as eagerly as Effie when she heard the quick footsteps. Now her face was an absolute blank—she had come a step forward,—her hands suddenly fell to her sides.
"My mother is not well," said Effie. "She's upset."
"No, I'm not upset; you're greatly mistaken," said Mrs. Staunton. "Why should I be upset? There's not a happier woman in Christendom than I am. It's true my beloved husband has left me, but then I have got my boy—there never was a braver boy. How do you do, Mr. Lawson? Pray forgive me for not shaking hands with you when you came into the room—the fact is, I have been expecting George. His dinner is in the fender. The landlady did very wrong indeed to send it up before I rang for it. I always ring twice for George's dinner, don'tyou understand? It is a good plan. George likes his meals hot and tasty. No wonder—he earns them; he is a dear, good,cleverfellow—he is getting a fine salary. Did you happen to meet him on the stairs? Perhaps you passed him—he is a little late, just a little late. Effie, can you tell me if Mr. Lawson has good sight? If he has, perhaps he'll come and watch by the window. I'm watching, but my eyes are a little weak at times. I might not see George when he is really there. Will you come and see, Mr. Lawson? He ought to be coming now, my dear boy,—my dearest,—my boy!"
Lawson gave Effie a glance. In a moment he read the true position. The poor weak brain had suddenly given way. He went up gently to Mrs. Staunton, and took one of her hot hands in his.
"When George comes in," he said, "I'll be here, and I'll tell him about his dinner. I know he'll be late to-night, and you mustn't wait up for him any longer. Come, Miss Effie will put you into bed. When you are in bed I'll give you something to make you sleep. Come now, don't delay; you're quite worn out. If you don't go to bed you'll be ill, and then you'll be of no use to your son."
"Do you really think so?" said Mrs. Staunton. "Yes, I mustn't be ill; George doesn't like it—it quite frets him. He is not like his dear father. He wants a cheerful home—no wonder, he is young, dear lad, he is young. Yes, I'll go to bed, and then I'll be all right in the morning. Come, Effie, help your mother to bed."
Effie took the poor woman out of the room. They went into the little bedroom. She helped her mother to undress. When she saw her lay her head on the pillow, she went back to the sitting room, where Lawson was quietly standing.
"I happened most fortunately," he said, the moment he saw her, "to have some packets of bromide in my pocket. There is sal-volatile in the room. I have made up a rather strong composing-draught for your mother. If she takes it, she will sleep peacefully and will not be likely to wake until the morning. Give it to her at once, and then come back to me—I have something to tell you."
Effie's trembling knees could scarcely support her as she went back to the next room.
"Has George come yet?" asked the mother.
"Not yet, mother; won't you take this medicine, please?"
"Yes, my love, yes. Effie, you are a very good girl—a great comfort to me, my darling. I'm glad you never went to the hospital; it was a mad, foolish scheme, and George never liked it. You are a great comfort to me, and a great comfort to your dear brother. You'll be sure to give him his dinner comfortably when he comes back, Effie?"
"Yes, mother, yes. Now do go to sleep, dear mother."
Mrs. Staunton drank off the medicine, laid her head on her pillow, and closed her dim, dark eyes. Effie watched by her until she thought she was dropping asleep. Pretty little Marjory was lying sound asleep in the same bed. Phil opened his big eyes as his sister passed.
"Is anything the matter?" he whispered. "Is anything wrong with George?"
"Pray for him, Phil," said Effie, tears suddenly filling her eves.
"Yes, yes," said the little fellow. "I always do."
Effie went into the next room.
"You have plenty of pluck, haven't you?" said Lawson, when he saw her.
"I hope so—I had need to have."
"Yes, I know that. Well, that unfortunate boy has put his foot in it at last,—he is in trouble,—detectives are after him."
"Detectives after George!" exclaimed Effie. "What can you possibly mean? Oh, do tell me at once—don't leave me in suspense."
"Sit down and I will tell you. Try not to agitate yourself, try to listen to me quietly. Remember that a brave woman can always control her nerves."
Effie sat down when Lawson bade her. Something in his quiet but resolute voice soothed her impatience; she looked up at him as he stood by the mantelpiece, resting one arm on it.
"The facts are these," he began at once; "Staunton has been going wrong for a long time——"
"I know it—I know it well," interrupted Effie.
"Yes, I feared that you knew it. Poor fellow, soon after his arrival in London he got with bad companions. He has naturally extravagant tastes—they introduced him to some of those gambling saloons. Given a weak nature, the love of money for the pleasure it can give, a will weakened with self-indulgence, and the result is easy to forecast. George has been going from bad to worse for months past. He has sometimes won considerable sums of money, and these successes have excited him to try again—with this devil's luck, as the saying is. Of late, however, that luck has turned against him, and the events which took place to-day are only the natural consequences."
Effie rose slowly from her seat.
"Go on," she said, coming up to Lawson. "What took place to-day? Go on, please,—I am quiet,—I am prepared for anything."
Lawson gave her a look of admiration.
"You are a brave girl," he said briefly. "The world would be a better place if there were more like you in it. Well, what took place is this. Staunton won heavily at cards the night before last. Not content with his gains, however, he persevered until the luck turned against him. Before he left the gambling saloon he had lost all his gains, and was in debt fifty pounds. To meet that debt he drew your mother's money from the bank yesterday morning."
"I know," said Effie, with white lips—"mother told me. She sent Agnes to the bank to cash a small check. Agnes was told that George's account was overdrawn. Yes, I know that. Is there more behind? Surely that must be the worst."
"Alas! I wish it were. This morning the poor fellow, while engaged in his duties at Gering's office, met with the temptation for which he was so ripe. It was a horrible one. He knew that your mother had not a penny. His feeling for her I need not enter upon. He found himself in the room with an open till, and took fifty pounds out of it. Soon afterwards, he made an excuse to leave the office. He wandered about all day in an indescribable state of misery. At last he summoned courage to go to the bank and deposit forty-five of the fifty pounds. He then rushed home, and, packing his things, prepared to run away. He said he was certain to be taken if he stayed, and simply could not bring himself to face the risk. He went to Waterloo, and to his horror discovered that he was watched. A man, undoubtedly a detective in plain clothes, was following him from place to place. The man watched him take his ticket for Southampton, and noticed the corner in which he deposited his bag in a third-class carriage. George seemed to lose his head atthis crisis. He managed to elude the detective, slipped out of the station, took a hansom and drove straight to my rooms. Luckily I was at home. He made a clean breast of everything to me. He is in my rooms now, and safe for the time being, for no one will think of looking for him there. I want you to come with me at once to see him, for there is not a moment to be lost in deciding what is best to be done."
"Yes," said Effie, "I will come."
She felt stunned—her keenest feelings of anguish were lulled into momentary quiet by the greatness of this blow.
"I will write a note to Agnes," she said; "she is out—I had to send her to the hospital to say that I could not return there to-night." Then she added, her face turning whiter than ever, "If my mother knows of this, it will kill her."
"Your mother is the person to be considered, of course," said Lawson. "But for her, I should say that the best thing possible for George would be to undergo the punishment which he merits. As it is, however, matters are different. Well, write your note, and let us be quick. That strong opiate will keep your mother sleeping quietly until the morning. All your sister has to do is to watch her."
Effie drew a sheet of paper toward her, scribbled a few hasty lines on it, folded it up, and left it where Agnes could see it the moment she returned; then she followed Lawson into the street.
He hailed a passing hansom, and they drove straight to his rooms on the Embankment.
The feeling of a dream remained with Effie all during that drive; she kept rubbing her eyes and saying to herself, "It's only a dream—I shall awaken presently and find myself back at St. Joseph's."
The hansom drew up at the lodgings, and Lawsonpreceded Effie upstairs. He threw open the door of his little sitting room.
"Come in," he said. "Here is your sister, Staunton," he sang out.
Effie entered. She found herself in a small bright room. The gas was turned full on; one of the windows was open—a fresh breeze from the river came in. George was seated on a horse-hair sofa at the farthest end of the room. He held a small walking-stick in his hand, and was making imaginary patterns with it on the carpet. His shoulders were hitched up to his ears, his eyes were fixed on the ground. Effie looked at him. She said:
"George, I am here—I have come."
He did not make any response. She gave a little cry when he took no notice of her, and sank down helplessly on the nearest chair.
Lawson strode across the room and grasped George's shoulder.
"Look here, Staunton," he said; "you have got to pull yourself together. I have brought your sister here to consult what is best to be done. Look up, old chap! Take courage—all isn't lost yet. Now try and tell your sister everything."
"I have nothing to tell her," said George—he raised two lackluster eyes and fixed them with a sort of dull stare on Lawson's face.
"Don't talk folly—you have to tell her what you told me. You know the position you are in—you may be arrested at any moment. No one can help you but your sister; don't turn away from her."
"Oh, I understand all that," said George, shrugging his shoulder out of Lawson's grip. "I know well enough what has happened—I have gone under. I'm only one more. I—I can't help it—I have nothing to say."
Lawson looked at the big fellow almost in despair. He was really puzzled what to do. This was the moment, however, for Effie to take the initiative. She sprang suddenly to her feet, dashed the tears from her eyes, and went up to her brother. She fell on her knees by his side, and put her soft arms round his neck.
"Think of the old days, Geordie," she said, "when we were both little children. Think of mother and father, and the little old house, and the apple tree in the garden. Don't you remember the day when that ripe red apple fell, and we ate it bite about?"
When Effie began to speak, George trembled. He avoided her eyes for a moment longer, then he gave her a quick, furtive glance.
changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it."a changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it."[Transcriber's note: These two fragmented lines appear, as shown, at this point in the original text.]
Lawson stepped softly out of the room.
The moment he had done so, George said eagerly:
"He has told you, hasn't he?"
Effie nodded.
"Then I needn't go over it. Let's talk of something else. How is mother?"
"She is very ill indeed—she watched for you all the evening."
"Watched for me? But I told her I shouldn't be back to-night."
"Yes; but she didn't believe you, or she forgot it—anyhow, she watched for you, and when you didn't come, her mind began suddenly to wander; she is in bed now—she is very, very ill."
"Go on," said George; "hammer it in hard—I deserve it all."
"Oh, George, why will you talk like that? Don't you believe in my love for you?"
"I believe in mother's love. It's the only thing I have left to cling to. I believe she'd go on loving me even after this—I do truly."
"Of course she would—nothing could turn her love from you. Now, won't you let us consult together when Mr. Lawson comes into the room?"
"There's nothing to be done—nothing; I'm perfectly safe to be committed for trial, and then I shall get at least two years. Mother will die. And I shall have gone under forever."
"Nonsense! I have a thought in my head."
"You?" George spoke with almost contempt. "You always thought a great deal of yourself, Effie, but even you can't pull the ropes on the present occasion. I'm a thief, and I must suffer the penalty. That's the long and short of it."
Effie rose suddenly and walked to the door. She called Lawson—he came in at once.
"I think George will talk over matters now," she said. "But before we begin any discussion, I wish to say what I have made up my mind to do. I don't know Mr. Gering, but that does not matter. I mean to go to see him the first thing to-morrow morning, and beg of him not to prosecute George. That is the only chance for mother's life, and I mean to try it."
CHAPTER XXII.
When Effie said these words, Lawson gave her a startled glance, and George's sulkiness seemed to vanish magically. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them again; a rush of color spread over his face, and he turned his head aside.
"I fear it is impossible that you can do the least vestige of good, Miss Staunton," said Lawson. "All the same it is a brave thought, and worthy of you."
George looked round when Lawson said this; he fully expected Effie to explain herself more fully, to argue the point, and to give her reasons for approaching Mr. Gering. To the surprise of both the men, however, she was silent. After a little pause, she said, turning to Lawson:
"Do you think George will be safe here until the morning?"
"I do—perfectly safe," answered Lawson.
"Then I will say good-night. I will come to you, George if I have news, in the morning."
"Oh, you won't have news," replied George; "there never was such a hard nut to crack as old Gering."
Effie made no reply.
"Good-night," she said to her brother.
He did not offer to kiss her, but he took her hand and gave it a silent squeeze. It seemed to Effie then that she got near his heart.
Lawson took her downstairs and put her into a cab.
"You are only wasting your time in going to Mr. Gering," he said, as he stood for a moment at the cab door.
"I must waste it, then," replied Effie; "for, whatever the consequence, I am going."
"Then, if you will go, you had better do so early. Gering is always at his office by nine o'clock. George may quite possibly be arrested to-morrow morning, and brought before the magistrates at Bow Street at ten or ten-thirty. When once he is arrested, Mr. Gering can do nothing. The law then takes up the case, and prosecutes on its own account. You willsee, therefore, that if you wish to save your brother you must be astir betimes."
"I quite see, and thank you very much," said Effie.
Lawson said good-by, the cab rolled away, and Effie soon found herself back again at her own lodgings.
She ran upstairs, to find that her mother was still sound asleep. She sent the two tired girls to bed, and, lying down on the sofa in the sitting room, tried to sleep. She had left her mother's door slightly ajar, and knew that she would hear the least movement in the room. All was perfect stillness, however, and presently Effie fell into a light doze.
She awoke long before the dawn of day, thought carefully over the whole complex situation, and then rose and dressed herself. She slipped softly into her mother's room. The opiate was still taking effect. Mrs. Staunton's face looked pinched and drawn as it lay on the pillow, there were blue lines under the eyes, and a blue tint round the lips which spoke of heart trouble; but just at the present moment the spirit was at peace, and the body resting calmly.
"Poor mother!" murmured Effie; "poor, tried, faithful heart! If you really knew what I know, you could not survive the shock. Oh, George! who could have thought of this who remembered you in the old days? Yes, I will do what I can to save mother and to rescue you. It is true that I am only a weak girl, but sometimes girls like me have power. I will not be afraid; I will go now to exercise all the power that is in me."
Effie left the room; she went to the one where her sisters slept, changed her dress and washed herself,and then waking Agnes, to tell her to be sure to look after her mother, she ran downstairs.
The landlady, Mrs. Robinson, met her in the passage.
"Why, surely, Miss Staunton," she said, "you are not going out on a raw, foggy morning like this without breakfast?"
"Oh, I can't wait for breakfast," exclaimed Effie.
"I have some tea in my sitting room—do come in, and let me give you a cup, miss. Do, now—you're so white, you look as if you'd drop."
"Thank you," said Effie, after a little pause. "I should be very glad of a cup of tea," she added.
The landlady bustled her into her little sitting room, seated her by the fire, and would not leave her alone until she had swallowed a cup of tea and a piece of toast.
"I'm all the better for the tea," said Effie; "thank you very much."
The unlooked-for kindness cheered the poor girl; she looked upon it as a good omen. She walked quickly up the narrow street which led into the larger thoroughfare, and was soon on her way to Mr. Gering's office in Leadenhall Street.
She arrived there just as the clock was striking nine. She did not allow herself even to feel nervous, but, walking boldly in, asked to see Mr. Gering at once.
"Have you an appointment with him?" asked the clerk whom she addressed.
"No; but I hope he will see me without that; my business is very pressing."
"What is your name, miss?"
"Staunton." Effie hesitated for a minute, then she said abruptly, "I am the sister of George Staunton, who is a clerk here."
The moment she uttered the words every clerk in the place looked up with interest, and one, coming up in a somewhat familiar way, said cavalierly:
"I don't think there's the least use in your troubling Mr. Gering; I may as well tell you beforehand that he certainly won't see you."
At this moment a man came out of an inner room. He spoke to the head clerk, who gave him a bundle of letters.
"Take these to Mr. Gering at once," he said.
Effie followed this man with her eyes.
The other clerks stared at her, expecting her to go.
She looked at the one to whom she had first spoken.
"Will you take my message to Mr. Gering?" she said. "Will you tell him that Effie Staunton—George Staunton's sister—wishes to see him on most important business?"
There was much distress in her tone, but withal such firmness that the clerk could not help looking at her with admiration.
"I would gladly take your message, Miss Staunton, but it would be useless. I know beforehand that nothing will induce Mr. Gering to see you."
"He must see me," replied Effie in a firm voice. "If no one here will be polite enough to take him my message, I will go to him myself."
Before one of the clerks could prevent her, Effie walked across the large room, opened the door where the clerk who took Mr. Gering his letters had vanished, and found herself the next moment in a handsomely furnished room, where a portly old gentleman was seated at a desk.
He looked up in unfeigned astonishment when he saw a pretty girl standing near the door.
As she did not speak for an instant, he raised his voice with an inquiry.
"May I ask what you are doing here?" he said.
"I have come to speak to you about my brother," said Effie.
"Your brother! What do you mean? Who is your brother?"
"George Staunton."
"Then, Miss Staunton, let me tell you that you have taken a great liberty in coming to see me. You have forced your way into my room unannounced. I must ask you to have the goodness to retire as quickly as you came. If you do not leave my room this moment, I shall be forced to compel you to go."
"No, you will not," said Effie—"no, that is not like you. You would not willingly be unkind to a suffering and innocent girl, when she forces herself, against her true inclinations, against her real modesty, to seek an interview with you. I come in great sorrow and despair, and you are not the man who will treat me roughly—I don't fear it. You like to say harsh words, but your heart is not harsh. I beg of you, therefore, to listen to my story. I will not keep you long."
"You are a very queer, courageous sort of girl," said Gering, after a pause. "As you have come, I suppose I may as well listen to you; but please understand at once that I have no mercy for your brother; that his career here is ended."
"That is only just and right. I have not come to plead with you to take George back—I know that that would be asking too much. What I have come to say I can say in a very few words."
"They must be very few if you expect me to leave my business to attend to them."
Effie came close to where Mr. Gering was seated; he did not rise, nor motion her to a chair. At this moment the clerk who had refused to take her message entered the room.
"Leave us for a moment, Power," said Mr. Gering. The man withdrew immediately.
"Thank you," said Effie. Then she added abruptly, "I won't keep you a moment. I will tell you quite simply what I want. My brother George has behaved very badly."
"To put it plainly," interrupted Mr. Gering, "your brother George is a scoundrel."
"You may call him any names you please," said Effie; "I have not come here to defend him. I know that he stole fifty pounds from you yesterday."
"Oh, you know that, do you?"
"Yes. Forty-five pounds of that money he put into the City Bank in my mother's name. That forty-five pounds you can have back within an hour. We shall then be in your debt five pounds, which I want you to let me pay you back. I have just secured a very good situation as a governess, and am to be in receipt of one hundred and twenty pounds a year. I can pay you back the money in about a month's time out of my own salary."
"You are very conscientious," said Mr. Gering, with a slight sneer, "and I shall be glad to have my money back. If that is all your business, perhaps you will leave me."
"No, it is not all my business. I want you to forgive George,—not to prosecute him,—not to give him up to the law."
"Ah! I thought that was coming. And why, pray, should I not prosecute the young rascal? Don't you think he richly deserves punishment?"
"Honestly, I do."
When Effie said this, Mr. Gering's eyes twinkled for the first time.
"Eh, eh!" he exclaimed. "I am glad we're of one mind on that point. We both doubtless believe that punishment would be good for him."
"We do."
"Then why deprive him of anything so beneficial?"
"Because of my mother."
"Your mother! Is there a mother in the case?"
"There is—a mother who lies now at the point of death. Let me tell you her story."
"I haven't read my letters yet, Miss Staunton."
"Oh, never mind your letters! Let me tell you about my father and my mother. Four months ago my father was alive. He was a country doctor. He was very good, everyone loved him. He caught diphtheria, and died. My mother has heart disease, and my father felt sure that the shock of losing him would kill her. He loved her most tenderly. When he lay dying he was certain that God would allow them both to leave the world together. My mother was kneeling by his bedside; and George, my brother, knelt there too. And my brother said. 'Don't take mother away, father;' and then father said to mother, 'Stay with George.' At that moment something strange must have happened—all my mother's great love seemed suddenly directed into a new channel. Her love for George since that moment has been the passion of her life. He was not strong-minded."
"No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Gering.
"No; and he yielded to temptation and got into trouble, and—and lost money. But all the time my mother has been imagining that he is the best and steadiest fellow in London. She lives in a sort ofgolden dream about him. If she learns the truth she will certainly die, and George will be lost. He will then, as he himself expresses it, 'go under' forever. He won't be able to stand the thought that through his sin and weakness he has killed his mother."
"I should hope not," interrupted Mr. Gering.
"Therefore I want you to forgive him—it is your duty."
"My duty, child! What right have you to come and talk to me about my duty?"
"Every right, if I can only make you perform it."
"You are either impertinent or very brave, young lady. I was never spoken to in this strain before."
"Well, you see, it is a matter of life and death," said Effie. "I can't mince words when life and death hang in the balance."
"You're a queer girl—a queer girl; I don't know what to make of you. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry for that mother of yours—poor soul, poor soul! It's a pity she didn't bring up her son as conscientiously as she did her daughter. Now, you wouldn't have taken fifty pounds out of my till?"
"No," said Effie.
"I wish you were a boy—I'd give you that lad's place within an hour."
"Thank you, but I don't think I should care to have it. Will you come now and do your duty?"
"Come! Where am I to come?"
"To see George."
"The rascal! Where is he?"
"I'll take you to him."
"Do you know that you are bullying me in the most shameful way, Miss Staunton?"
"I know that you have a very kind heart," answered Effie.
At this moment the room door was opened, and Power came in again.
"Mr. Fortescue has called, sir."
"Tell Mr. Fortescue that I can't see him."
"And Ford has sent round about that shipping order. When can you give him his answer?"
"Some time this afternoon."
"But they want it this morning."
"Well, they can't have it; I'm going out for a bit. Come along, Miss Staunton; we can't let the grass grow under our feet."
CHAPTER XXIII.
There come moments in the lives of all of us when we feel as if a restraining and powerful hand were pulling us up short. We have come to a full stop; we cannot go back, and we do not know how to proceed. These full stops in life's journey are generally awful places. We meet there, as a rule, the devil and his angels—they tear us and rend us, they shake us to our very depths with awful and overpowering temptation; if we yield, it is all over with us, we rush at headlong speed downhill.
But, on the other hand, if in this pause we turn our back upon the devil, good angels come in his place—they whisper of hope and a new chance in life even for us.
When Effie left George on that miserable evening, and when Lawson retired presently to his room, the young man found that he had come to such a fearful place of trial as I have just described. He was pulledup short, and the devil was tempting him. At one side was the devil, at the other he saw the face of his mother. It was impossible for him to lie down and sleep. He fought with the devil all night. In the morning there was neither victory nor defeat, but the young, smooth face looked haggard and gray, and the upright, well-knit figure was bowed.
Lawson came into the sitting room for a moment.
"I am sorry I can't stay with you, George," he said. "I am due at St. Joseph's at nine o'clock. Have you made any plans for yourself?"
"No—at least, yes. I've had an awful night, Lawson, and there seems to be but one end to it."
"What is that?"
"I must give myself up. I'm not the sort of fellow to play the hiding game successfully. I'm safe to be caught sooner or later. I deserve punishment, too—I've been doing badly for months. What I deserve, it seems likely I'll have. In short, I think I'd better make a clean breast of everything, and take my—my punishment like a man."
"Do sit down for a minute," said Lawson. "There's a good deal in what you say, and if you had only yourself to consider, I'd counsel you to do it—I would, truly; but there's your mother to be thought of."
"My mother! Don't you suppose I've been thinking of my mother all night? It is the thought of my mother that maddens me—maddens me, I say. Look here, Lawson, there's only one thing before me: I'll go first to mother and tell her everything straight out, and then I'll give myself up."
"You will?" said Lawson, with a start of sudden admiration. "Upon my word, George, old chap,I didn't think you had the grit in you—I didn't, truly."
"Then you approve?"
"It is the only thing to be done; she must hear it, sooner or later, and no one can tell it to her as you can."
"All right; I'll go to her before my courage fails me."
George left the room without even saying good-by to his friend.
When he left the house, he turned round and saw the man whom he had noticed watching him the day before at Waterloo Station.
"I'll be ready for you soon, my friend, but not quite yet," muttered the young man.
He walked quickly—the man followed him at a respectful distance.
George let himself into his mother's house with a latch-key. He ran up to the little sitting room. Agnes was bending with red eyes over a kettle which was boiling on the fire. She was making a cup of tea for her mother, who had just awakened. Katie was cutting bread and butter, and Phil and Marjory were standing by the window. Marjory was saying to Phil, "I 'spect George will be turning the corner and coming home in a minute."
"Hush!" whispered Phil: "hush, Marjory! George isn't coming back any more."
At this moment the door was opened, and George came in. Marjory gave Phil a scornful glance, and flew to her big brother. Katie flung down the piece of bread she was buttering and Agnes turned from the fire. George put out his hand to ward them all off.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"She's awake, but she has been very ill," beganAgnes. "Oh, George, George, do be careful; where are you going?"
"To my mother," answered the young man. "Don't let anyone come with me—I want to be alone with her."
He went straight into the bedroom as he spoke, and shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Staunton was lying propped up high by pillows. The powerful opiate had soothed her, but the image of George still filled all her horizon. When she saw him come into the room, she smiled, and stretched out her weak arms to clasp him. He came over, knelt by her, and, taking her hot hands, covered his face with them.
"You've come back, my boy!" she said. "I'm not very well to-day, but I'll soon be better. Why, what is it, George? What are you doing? You are wetting my hands. You—you are crying? What is it, George?"
"I have come back to tell you something, mother. I'm not what you think me—I'm a scoundrel, a rascal. I'm bad, I'm not good. I—I've been deceiving you—I'm a thief."
"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Staunton. "Come a little closer to me. You're not well, my dear boy—let me put my arm round your neck. You're not well, my own lad; but if you think——"
"I'm as bad as I can be, mother," said George, "but it isn't bodily illness that ails me. I said I'd make a clean breast of it. It's the only thing left for me to do."
A frightened look came into Mrs. Staunton's eyes for a moment, but then they filled with satisfaction as they rested on the dark head close to her own.
"Whatever you've done, you are my boy," she said.
"No, no; a thief isn't your boy," said George. "I tell you I'm a thief," he added fiercely, looking up at her with two bloodshot eyes. "You've got to believe it. I'm a thief. I stole fifty pounds from Gering yesterday—and I was bad before that. I won money at play—I've won and lost, and I've lost and won. Once Lawson gave me two hundred and fifty pounds to invest, and I stole it to pay a gambling debt, and Effie got it back for me—she borrowed it for me. My father wouldn't have given you to me if he had known that. I had it on my conscience when I was kneeling by his deathbed, but I couldn't tell him then; and when he gave you to me, I felt that I never could tell. Then we came to London, and I began to deceive you. I told you a false story about that rise of salary—I never had any rise; and I took your fifty pounds two days ago out of the bank, and I stole money to pay it back again. That's your son George, mother—yourtrueson in hisrealcolors. Now you know everything."
George stepped a pace or two away from the bed as he spoke. He folded his arms.
Mrs. Staunton was looking at him with a piteous, frightened expression on her face. Suddenly she broke into a feeble and yet terrible laugh.
"My son George," she said. "That explains everything. My son still—still my son!" She laughed again.
There came a knock at the outer door.
"Don't go, George!" said his mother.
"George, you're wanted," said Agnes. "Effie is here, and Mr. Gering—they want to see you. Come at once."
"Mr. Gering!" exclaimed the mother. "He was the man you took the money from. He's coming to—punishyou, to—George, you're not to go. Stay here with me. I'll hide you. You're not to go, George—I won't let you, I won't let you!"
"Dear mother! dear, dearest mother! you must let me—I must take the punishment. I've deserved it and I'm determined to go through with it. Just say a wonderful thing to me before I go, and I'll be strong enough to bear it—and to—to come back to you when it's over. Say you love me still, mother."
"Loveyou!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton.
"Yes, mother, although I'm a thief."
"Bless the boy! that has nothing to do with it. You're my boy, whatever you are."
"Then you do still love me?"
"Yes, yes, yes! Of course I love the lad!"
George went straight to the door and opened it. He walked straight into the other room.
"I'm ready to take the punishment, sir," he said, going straight up to Mr. Gering.
His manner and the look on his face amazed his late employer.
"Eh—eh—well, young sir," he said, backing a step or two. "And so you confess that you robbed me?"
"I do."
"And you know what lies before you?"
"Yes."
"Have you been deceiving that mother of yours again?"
"No; I've been telling her the truth at last."
"Effie, Effie!" called Mrs. Staunton from the bedroom.
Effie ran to her mother.
"Do you know, young man," said Mr. Gering, "that you have got a very remarkable sister?"
"Do you mean Effie? Oh, I always knew she was a girl in a thousand."
"A girl intenthousand, more like. Do you know, young rascal, that she has been pleading with me for you, and—'pon my word, it's true—melting my old heart till I don't know what I'm doing? In short, I've made her a promise."
"A promise! Oh, sir, what?"
"A promise that I'll let you off—all but the moral punishment. That, of course, you'll have to bear."
"Mr. Gering, is this true?"
"Yes, it's true. I'm doing it all on account of your sister. You may come back to the office to-morrow, and consider that you've got a fresh start. Now, for goodness' sake, don't keep me any longer. Open the door, one of you children, can't you? I must hurry back to my work."
That is the story, for George really did learn his lesson, and in his case the new leaf was turned. He will carry the scars, however, of that time of sin and suffering to his grave.
Effie kept her promise, and went as governess to little Freda Harvey for a time, but only for a time. When money affairs were straight again, she gladly returned to the life which she really loved, and is now superintendent of one of the wards at St. Joseph's.
It is true that there are whispers afloat with regard to her and Lawson—whispers which always give a feeling of consternation in the ward which she manages so skillfully—but only Effie herself can tell if there is truth in them or not.
THE END
HURST & COMPANY'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
A Volume of Cheerfulness in Rhyme and PictureKINDERGARTEN LIMERICKSBy FLORENCE E. SCOTTPictures by Arthur O. Scott with a Foreword by Lucy Wheelock