A Girl in Ten Thousand Part 9

Effie watched them from the parlor window. There was a queer lump in her throat. She could not get over the strange sensation of nervousness and coming disaster. The foreboding which filled her could not be fought down. She had laughed almost against her will at supper-time, but now she ceased to smile--she no longer made the faintest attempt to be cheerful. She hated the pretty room, and the sweet-peas, and the roses and mignonette.

The children were idly lolling about. She turned, and spoke almost crossly.

"Don't you know, Aggie, that it is long past the younger children's hour for staying up? Can't you make yourself useful for once, and go up and put them to bed?"

"Can't you come, Effie--we'd much rather have you," said little Phil and Walter, the brother next in age. "Agnes is so cross, she pulls our hair so when she combs it out."

"I don't, you bad boys!" exclaimed Agnes, coloring high. "Won't I give it to you next time we are alone for saying that!"

"She does, Effie; she does indeed," said little Phil, running up to his elder sister, and clasping his arms round her light blue dress.

"Don't, Phil; you will spoil my pretty frock!" she cried.

"Why, you are cross too," he answered, looking up at her. He was so startled and amazed at this new tone in Effie's voice, that words failed him altogether for a minute. It seemed to him as if a castle of cards had tumbled all over his head, and as if he stood in the middle of the ruins. If Effie were going to turn nasty, according to Phil's idea, there was nothing further to be looked for in life. Walter, however, who was older, had more discernment than his little brother.

"Effie has a headache," he said; "can't you see that she has a headache?

We'll be very good indeed, Effie, if Agnes will put us to bed."

"Come along, then," said Agnes, scuttling them out of the room in front of her. "You must be quick about it, for I have not half prepared my to-morrow's lessons. Now then, out you go."

The children disappeared.

The room was once more empty, except for the silent figure who stood in the window. She could catch a glimpse of her father and mother walking up and down in the garden. Presently the two approached the house. Mrs.

Staunton went straight upstairs to her room, and the doctor returned to the parlor.

"Your mother is very tired to-night, Effie," he said in a grave voice.

He sat down in the armchair just where he could smell the sweet-peas and the Banksia roses.

"Yes," he continued, "I am anxious about her." There was not a trace now of any of the jollity which had marked him at supper. His face was gray and worn--his voice decidedly husky. That huskiness in her father's voice went like a stab to Effie's heart. She shut the door and went and stood by his side.

"Don't you think you had better go upstairs and help your mother to get to bed?"

"No; she likes best to be alone," replied Effie. "I want to sit by you.

What is the matter with your throat?"

"My throat!--why?"

"You are so husky."

"I am dead beat, that's the truth of it. I am as weak as a cat, and for no earthly reason. Don't bother about my throat, it will be all right after I have had a good night's rest. I tell you, Effie, I never saw a child so ill as that little Freda Harvey. That woman who nursed her is an angel--an angel."

"I didn't say too much about her, father, did I?" said Effie, with a little note of triumph coming into her voice even in the midst of her anxiety.

"That you didn't, my darling--she is one of G.o.d's angels and I say 'G.o.d bless her!' Now I want to talk about your mother."

"Yes, father," said Effie, laying her hand on his. She started back the moment she did so. The evening was a very hot one, and touching the doctor's hand was like clasping fire.

"How you burn!" she exclaimed.

"That's weakness," he said. "I shall take some bromide to-night; I am completely worn-out, shaken, and all that sort of thing. Now, Effie, don't interrupt me. I wish to talk to you of your mother. Are you prepared to listen?"

"Of course, father."

"She has been talking of you--she says you have got an idea into your head that you ought to make more of your life than you can make of it staying at home, and being the blessing of the house, and the joy of my life and of hers."

"Oh, father, father, I did wish it," said Effie, tears springing into her eyes. "I did long for it, but I'll give it up, I'll give it all up if it makes you and mother unhappy."

"But it doesn't, my dear. The old birds cannot expect to keep the young ones in the nest for ever and ever. Your mother spoke very sensibly to-night. I never saw any woman so altered for the time being. She would not let me imagine there was a thing the matter with her, and she spoke all the time about you, as though she wanted to plead with me, your father, to give you a happy life. Do you think I would deny it to you, my dear little girl?"

"No, father; you have never denied me anything."

"I have never denied what was for your good, sweetheart."

Dr. Staunton clasped Effie to his breast. She flung her arms round him with a sudden tight pressure.

"Easy, easy!" he exclaimed; "you are half-choking me. My breathing certainly feels oppressed--I must have taken a chill. I'll get off to bed as fast as I can. No, child, you need not be alarmed. I have often noticed this queer development of hoa.r.s.eness in people who have long breathed the poisonous air which surrounds diphtheria and scarlet fever, but in my case the hoa.r.s.eness means nothing. Now, Effie, let me say a word or two to you. I don't know what the future has in it--it is impossible for any of us to know the future, and I say, thank G.o.d for the blessed curtain which hides it from our view; but whatever it has in it, my child, I wish you to understand that you are to do your best with your life. Make it full if you can--in any case make it blessed. A month ago, I will admit frankly, I did not approve of lady-nurses. After my wonderful experience, however, with Dorothy Fraser, I must say that I have completely changed my opinion. The girl with heart and nerve, with common sense, with an unselfish spirit, can be a nurse whatever her station in life. If to these qualifications she adds the refinements of good breeding and the education of a lady, she is the best of all."

"Hurrah!" cried Effie--tears filled her eyes. "What a grand triumph for Dorothy!" she exclaimed.

"She deserves every word I have said of her. If she wishes to take you back with her to London when she goes,--if that is what is now at the bottom of your heart,--go, child, with my blessing. We shall miss you at home, of course, but we are not worth our salt if we are going to be selfish."

"You never, never were that," said Effie.

"Now I have one more thing to say--it is about your mother. I have never really told you my true fears about her. You know, of course, that she suffers from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springs from no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which make me fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the more serious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It is that fear which haunts my life--I could not live without your mother, child. Effie, child. I could not live without her."

The doctor's voice suddenly broke--he bowed his head on his hands, and a broken sort of groan escaped his lips.

"We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not have any pain, nor fear, nor anxiety."

"I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leave her----"

"I'll never leave her if it is to injure her--there, I have promised."

"You are a good girl. I trust you. I lean on you. Your mother could not live through an anxiety--a great fear, a great trouble would kill her."

"It shan't come," said Effie.

"G.o.d grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice.

He rose suddenly to his feet.

"I must go to bed," he said. "I have not had a real proper sleep for nights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my life is insured for a thousand pounds. If--if at any time that should be needed, it will be there; it is best for you to know."

"I wish you would not talk about it, father."

"Very well, I won't; but talking about things doesn't bring trouble any nearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrange all he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future never hastens matters. There is a G.o.d above. He has led me all my days. I trust Him absolutely. I submit to His mighty will."