When Rhoda opened her eyes she was lying in a strange bed, and some one
was sitting by her side, anxiously watching her face. It was not Nurse
_par excellence_, but the matron of another house, whose features seemed
unfamiliar, despite their kindly expression.
"You are better? You feel rested now?" she questioned, and Rhoda
struggled wearily to form a a reply.
"My head aches. I feel--tired!"
"Yes, yes, of course. Don't speak, but lie quite still; I will stay
beside you."
A soothing hand was pressed upon her own, and once again her eyes
closed, and she floated away into that strange, dream-like world.
Sometimes all was blank, at other times she was dimly conscious of what
went on around, as when voices murmured together by her side, and Nurse
related how she had spoken and answered a question, and the doctor
declared in reply that she was better, decidedly better! She was heavy
and weary, and had no desire but to be left alone, while time passed by
in a curious, dizzy fashion, light and darkness succeeding each other
with extraordinary celerity. Then gradually all became clear; she was
lying in the sick room where patients suffering from non-infectious
complaints were taken. The pressure at her head was giving way,
allowing glimmering flashes of memory. What was it?--a terrible,
terrible nightmare; a horror as of falling from a great height; a
sudden, numbing crash... Where has she been? What had she done? And
then with another struggling gleam--the toboggan!
Her cry of distress brought the nurse to her side, while she gasped out
a feeble--
"I remember! I was tobogganing.--I was too quick. I suppose I fell?"
"Yes, you fell, but you are better now; you are getting on finely. Just
keep quiet, and you will be up again in a few days."
There was a tone of relief in the good woman's voice as though there had
been another remembrance which she had feared to hear, but Rhoda did not
notice it, for a very few words seemed to tire her in those days, and
her brain was unable to grasp more than one idea at a time.
The next time she awoke her mother was sitting by the bed. It appeared
that she had been staying in the house for the past four days, peeping
in at the invalid while she slept, but waiting the doctor's permission
to appear before her waking eyes. Rhoda was languidly pleased to see
her, but puzzled to account for the air of depression which lay so
constantly on the once cheery face. If she were getting better, why did
everyone look so doleful--the doctor, her mother, Miss Bruce--everyone
whom she saw? She questioned, but could get no answer, struggled after
a haunting memory, which at one moment seemed at the point of shaping
itself into words, and at the next retreated to a hopeless distance.
And then suddenly, by one of those marvellous actions of the brain which
we can never understand, the whole scene flashed upon her as she lay
upon her pillow, thinking of something entirely different, and not
troubling her head about the mystery.
She saw herself dragging the toboggan up the bank, felt again the horror
of that first mad rush, saw the girls flying to right and left before
Evie's waving arms, and heard Evie's voice shriek aloud in the pain of
the sudden collision. Her own agonised exclamation brought mother and
nurse hurrying across the room to lay soothing hands upon her, and hold
her down in bed as she cried out wildly--
"Oh, I remember! I remember! Evie! The toboggan dashed up the bank,
and she was looking after the girls, and I crashed into her, and she
shrieked. Oh, Evie! Evie! She was hurt, terribly hurt... She fell
down over me. Where is she now? I must go to her--I must go at once!"
The two watchers exchanged a rapid glance, and even in that moment of
agitation Rhoda realised that this was the awakening which they had been
dreading, this the explanation of the universal depression. A new note
of fear sounded in her voice, as she quavered feebly:
"Is Evie--dead?"
"No, no, nor likely to die! She has been ill, but is getting better
now. She is in her own room, with Nurse to look after her. You cannot
possibly see her yet, for it would be bad for both."
"But you are sure she is better? You are sure she will get well? You
are not deceiving me just to keep me quiet?"
"No, indeed. It is the truth, that she is getting stronger every day.
When I say that, you can believe that I am not deceiving you, can't you,
dear?"
Yes, of course, she was bound to believe it; but in some patients the
faculties seem strangely sharpened in convalescence, and despite her
mother's assurance Rhoda felt convinced that something was being kept
back--that something had happened to Evie which she was not to be
allowed to know. She asked no more questions, but with sharpened eyes
watched the faces of the visitors who were now allowed to see her, and
found in each the same shade of depression. She was waiting for an
opportunity, and it came at last on the first day when she was allowed
to sit up, and Miss Bruce came in to pay her usual visit. No one else
was in the room, and Rhoda looked up into the strong, grave face, and
felt her heart beat rapidly. Now was her opportunity! Miss Bruce could
be trusted to answer truthfully, however painful might be the news which
she had to unfold; she was neither hard nor unsympathetic, but she had
the courage of her convictions, and had faced too many disagreeable
duties to understand the meaning of shirking. Rhoda clasped her hands
tightly together, swallowed nervously once or twice, and began--
"Miss Bruce please--I want to ask you--Mother won't tell me. Was it my
fault that--Evie was hurt?"
The Principal's face hardened involuntarily.
"What do you think yourself, Rhoda? Your companions, as you know, are
never ready to speak against a friend, but I have made the strictest
enquiries into this sad affair, and I hear that the girls warned you
that you were attempting a dangerous feat, and implored you to wait
until Miss Everett returned. You chose to disregard them, and to take
no thought of the risk to others, and--"
Rhoda turned, if possible, a shade paler than before.
"I see!" she said slowly. "I suppose it's no use saying that I never
thought I could hurt anyone but myself. I _should_ have thought!
Everyone who knows me, knows that I love Evie, and would rather have
been smashed to pieces than have harmed her in any way."
"Yes, Rhoda!" Miss Bruce sighed heavily, "that is quite true,
nevertheless it seems to me a little inconsistent that you did not think
more of her feelings. She was responsible for your safety, and you can
hardly have believed that she would have allowed such a mad trick.
However, I don't wish to reproach you, for your punishment has been
taken out of my hands. Nothing that I could do or say could affect you
half so much as the thought of the trouble which you have brought upon
your kind, good friend--"
It was coming now; it was coming at last! Rhoda's heart gave a wild,
fluttering leap; she looked up breathlessly into the unbending face.
"What is the trouble? I thought she was like me--stunned and shaken. I
never heard--"
"No, it is not at all the same. You had a slight concussion, from which
you have now recovered. Her injury is much more lasting. Her right
knee-cap was broken, and the doctors fear it will never be quite right
again. She will probably be lame for life."
Rhoda turned her head aside, and said no word, and Miss Bruce stood
looking down at her in silence also. The curly hair was fastened back
by a ribbon tied in the nape of the neck, and the profile was still
visible leaning against the pillows. It was motionless, except for one
tell-tale pulse above the ear which beat furiously up and down, up and
down, beneath the drawn skin. The Principal looked on that little
pulse, and laid her hand pitifully on the girl's head.
"I will leave you now, Rhoda. You would rather be alone. I am truly
sorry for you, but I am powerless to help. One can only pray that some
good may come out of all this trouble."
She left the room, and Rhoda was alone at last, to face the nightmare
which had come into her life. Evie _lamed_, and by her doing! Evie
injured for life by one moment's thoughtlessness--rashness--call it
_wickedness_ if you will--even then it seemed impossible that it should
be _allowed_ to have such lasting consequences! One moment's
disobedience, and then to suffer for it all her life! to see Evie--dear,
sweet, graceful Evie--limping about, crippled and helpless; to keep ever
in one's mind the memory of that last wild run--the last time Evie would
ever run! Could retribution possibly have taken to itself a more
torturing form? She had spoiled Evie's life, and brought misery into a
happy home.
"I could have borne it if it had happened to myself," she gasped. "But
no! I must needs get well, and be strong, and rich, and healthy. I
suppose I shall laugh again some day, and forget, and be happy, while
Evie--. I am a Cain upon earth, not fit to live! I wish I could die
this minute, and not have a chance to do any more mischief."
But we cannot die just because we wish to escape the consequences of our
own misdoing; we are obliged to live, and face them day after day.
Crises of suffering, moments of humiliation, stabbing returns of pain
just when we are congratulating ourselves that the worst is over--they
must be lived through, and though we fly to the ends of the world they
will still follow in our wake.
One of the consequences which Rhoda dreaded, and yet longed for in
curious, contradictory fashion, was her first interview with Evie
herself. What would she say? What would she do? Would she be sweet
and self-forgetful as of old, or full of bitter reproaches? She could
gather no clue from her companions, and her first request to be allowed
to visit the invalid in her room was vetoed on the ground that the
excitement would be bad for herself, and could do Evie no good. When,
however, she was allowed to walk about, and even entertain her
companions to tea, the first excuse could no longer be offered, and at
last, consent being given, she tapped tremblingly at the well-known
door. Nurse's voice bade her enter, and she walked forward with her
eyes fixed on the bed on which Evie lay. Her face was thin and drawn,
and had lost its colour, yet it was none of these things which struck a
chill to Rhoda's heart, but the expression in the eyes themselves--
Evie's sweet brown eyes, which of old had been alight with kindly
humour. They were blank eyes now, listless eyes, which stared and
stared, yet seemed hardly to see that at which they gazed. Rhoda stood
before her for a full moment, before the light of recognition showed in
their depths, and even then it was a flicker more than a light, and died
out again with startling rapidity.
The girl stood trembling, the carefully rehearsed words fading away from
memory, for excuses and protestations seemed alike useless in the
presence of that despairing calm. She looked pitifully into the set
face, and faltered out:
"Evie, I've come... I wanted to see you! I have thought about you
every minute of the time... I could not stay away--"
No answer. Evie might not have heard her speak, for all signs of
emotion which appeared on her face. Rhoda waited another moment and
then with a catch in her voice asked another question:
"Is--is your knee very painful, Evie?"
"No!" Evie winced at that, and turning towards the other side of the
bed, held out her hand appealingly towards the Nurse, who took it in her
own, and frowned a warning to the visitor.
"You had better go now, Miss. She isn't equal to much yet. You have
got your way and seen her, so just give her a kiss, and go quietly
away."
Tears of disappointment rushed to Rhoda's eyes, and as she stooped to
give that farewell kiss the salt drops fell upon Evie's cheeks, and
roused her momentarily from her lethargy.
"Poor Rhoda!" she sighed softly. "Poor little Rhoda!" then her eyes
closed, and Nurse took hold of the girl's arm and led her resolutely
away.
"You look as if you were going to faint yourself, and I can't have two
of you on my hands," she said as soon as the corridor was reached, and
the door closed behind them. "You'll just come back to your own room,
my dear, and lie down on the bed."
"Nurse--tell me! you have been with her the whole time, and know how she
feels. Will she ever forgive me? I never, never thought it would be so
bad as this. She would not speak to me, would not look at me even."
"She wasn't thinking of you at all, my dear, she was thinking of her
knee. That is all she can find time to think of just now. The doctors
kept it from her as long as they could, but she questioned them, and
would not be put off, so they had to tell her the truth. She knows she
will be lame, and it has pretty well broken her heart. It's the bread
out of her mouth, poor lamb, and she knows it. It will be many a long
day before she is herself again."
And this was the end of Rhoda's first meeting with Laura Everett after
her accident!