DORA GROWS METHODICAL.
IT was decided that with turning and a little alteration the dress
would do very nicely for the Pafford's party. And as soon as tea was
over, Dora, Katie, and Olive, who was very proud to help, set about
taking out the seams. Before the unripping was finished, Robert
returned. He did not seem in a very talkative mood, and glancing up
presently from the little sock she was darning, his mother was struck
by the weary look on his face.
"You seem tired, dear," she said. "What have you been doing all day?"
"Oh, lots of things," he replied, as he hastily took up a book and
opened it. "Jack and I were out of doors the greater part of the time."
"And I could declare I saw you once," said Katie briskly—unpicking the
dress was a delightful occupation—"But I knew I was mistaken because
this boy who was so like you was on the ice. It couldn't have been you
skating."
"No, of course it couldn't," and Robert gave a short laugh. But behind
his book, his face, which had been crimson a moment before, suddenly
grew pale. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard Giles ask for an
explanation of a passage in the story he was reading. In a few minutes
he rose, and saying he was "tired out," asked his mother to excuse him
and let him go to bed.
Poor Robert! He carried a heavy heart with him upstairs, because for
the first time since he had understood the sin that is committed in
giving utterance to a lie, he had sullied his lips with a falsehood.
The dress was unpicked at last, and a note sent to the dressmaker who
often worked at 99, Madeira Street, to beg her to come to superintend
the re-making of the white serge as soon as possible. Then, when Katie
had taken her departure to bed, Dora put herself in her favourite
attitude on the hearthrug, and with her elbow on her mother's knee,
said,—
"Now, please, let us have our talk together. I have a pencil and
note-book, and I mean to write down all the duties you are going to
give me to do."
[Illustration: "NOW, PLEASE, LET US HAVE OUR TALK TOGETHER."]
"Again I ask you not to be too eager, Dora," said Mrs. Grainger. "Those
who start too hurriedly in the race are apt to come in last."
"Yes, I know, but I am so anxious to have things settled. As soon as
the holidays are over, and that will be at the end of the week, will
you let me take your place in the schoolroom and teach the children
without any help from you?"
"You would find that no light task, dear."
"I am sure I could do it," said Dora. "I am quite aware Giles is
often trying to one's patience. He asks the why and the wherefore of
everything, and it is not always easy to explain. And then Lottie
frequently loses her temper. But I am certain I could manage them and
teach them into the bargain."
"I cannot have you neglect your own studies, and you must keep up your
music and French. You know, dear, you are very young to have left
school, and you must try to carry on your education for a while alone,
or with such little help as Edgar or I can give you. I hope you will
some day have the advantage of more lessons."
"Of course I must study, but I shall have plenty of time for
everything," said Dora. "Now see here," and she began to use her
pencil. "From half-past nine till twelve I shall teach the children.
Then I shall take them out for a walk till one. After that, lessons
again from half-past two till four."
"That leaves you very little time for yourself."
"I can practise from four till five," went on Dora. "Then in the
evening I can have half an hour for French, and an hour for other
things, and after that, help you with the mending. There, mother, shall
I not be your right hand if I do all that?"
"Indeed, my Dora, if you do half, you will relieve me of much,"
and Mrs. Grainger stroked back the soft curly hair from the girl's
forehead. "I shall indeed be thankful," she continued, "if this should
prove a new starting-point in your life. It has seemed to me that my
daughter was getting a habit of dreaming of what might be, instead of
acting in the what is. Now I think she is going the right way to work
to cure that defect in her character."
"Yes, I know that is a fault of mine," and tears sprang to Dora's eyes,
"but I will try to struggle against it, and not only dream, but do.
Perhaps writing stories isn't a good thing for me. I won't write any
more for a whole year."
"It will do you no harm to indulge in your favourite pursuit, if you do
it in moderation," said her mother, smiling. "Only you must not let it
interfere with more important occupations. I do not think it improbable
that some day your desire will be fulfilled, and that you will find
yourself a recognised authoress."
"Oh! Do you?" And Dora's face grew rosy red, and her eyes glistened
through the tears that had gathered in them.
"You know the old precept and promise, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord;
trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' Be content that God
shall direct your life and guide your steps. Then, if this desire of
yours should be good for you, He will accomplish it; if not, you will
still be able to say, 'It is well.' But leave all that for the future,
dear child. You will be doing as true work for God now in teaching your
little brothers and sisters, and helping me in my household duties,
as ever you would be as a famous writer. Yet, my Dora, your power
of imagination, and your love of literature, and that appreciation
of loveliness in nature and art with which God has gifted you, are
responsibilities not to be lightly considered."
"How do you mean, mother?" asked Dora, wonderingly.
"This, dear, that where much is given, much will be required. You often
have beautiful thoughts; you are quick to recognise the deeper, hidden
meanings which the lessons of nature, and of our own lives, teach us. I
heard what you said to Lancie about the coat of self-sacrifice, and was
struck by the truth of your remarks and the insight they displayed. In
proportion to the light that has been given you, my child, so will you
be expected to mould your life."
"Oh, mother, how solemn and serious a thing you make of it all!"
"Life is solemn and serious, but remember you have only to live one
day, nay, one hour at a time. Do the duty which that hour brings with
a whole heart and singleness of purpose, and you need not fear for the
rest." Then changing her voice, Mrs. Grainger continued,—
"I am glad you have put down on paper what you intend doing. There is
nothing like having fixed and settled rules, and I think you know you
are naturally wanting in order and system. At the same time, I am sure
it would be better if I were in the schoolroom in the afternoon. The
children do nothing then except read and prepare their lessons for the
next day, and so it does not matter if I leave them for a little while
every now and again. I must own it has always troubled me that I was so
constantly going from the room in the morning to attend to household
duties. They will certainly be the gainers if you become their teacher,
for with me they were often alone for an hour together."
"Oh, please give them up to me entirely," said Dora, pleadingly. "I
don't want to do a little to help you; I want to do a great deal."
"Very well, dear," replied her mother, "you shall make the trial, and
until you say you cannot get through all your duties properly, I shall
not interfere with you. But you must not feel ashamed to tell me that
you have set yourself too hard a task."
Dora made no audible answer, but in her heart arose the words—"I shall
never do that. Mother doubts my powers, I see, but in a little while
she will own she has misjudged me."
At this point the conversation was interrupted by Edgar's entrance. He
looked very tired as he threw himself wearily down in an arm-chair.
Mrs. Grainger went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"For your sake I shall be glad when Mr. Barfitt has balanced his
accounts, dear boy," she said, fondly. "Now you shall have a cup of
cocoa, and then you must go off to bed at once. You were awake at
half-past four this morning, and that left you a very short night's
rest."
"I suppose that is the reason why I feel so tired," he replied with a
sigh. "But you know I am very glad to go to Mr. Barfitt in the evening,
and it's really very good of him to have me. He must find me a very
different accountant from father. Need you go to make the cocoa,
mother?"
Edgar would have liked to keep her soft warm hand in his, and she
knew it. But the little maid had gone to bed, and Dora, sitting on
the hearthrug, was gazing fixedly at the clear, red-hot coal. She was
enjoying a reverie, and her mother would not disturb her.
"I shall not be a minute, dear. I will fetch the little kettle, and
boil it here."
Dora was still in the same position when she returned, and not a word
had passed between the brother and sister. But the clatter of the
teacup and saucer, as Mrs. Grainger placed the tray on the table,
aroused her, and the next instant she rose from the floor.
"I think I'll go to bed now, mother," she said. Then as she saw the
kettle, she added, "Why didn't you ask me to fetch that for you?"
"You were busy, dear, with your own thoughts, and I did not wish to
interrupt you."
Dora laughed a low, happy laugh.
"I was dreaming a dream that shall come true," she said, and having
wished her mother and brother good-night, she ran lightly upstairs to
her room.
But she did not undress and prepare for bed. She first of all wrapped
an old shawl around her, and sat down at the little deal table on which
stood her writing materials. Then she took from a drawer a sheet of
manuscript paper, and with a ruler carefully ruled some lines. These
formed divisions for the labours of each day in the week, and Dora then
began to write the hours at which the many tasks she intended to do
should begin and end.
"Mother thinks I am wanting in order and system," she said to herself
with a smile, "but perhaps she will own herself just a little bit
mistaken when she sees this."
Monday's work was thought over, and put down, and from early morning
till late at night every minute was occupied. Tuesday was treated in
the same fashion, and Wednesday was being taken into consideration,
when there came a soft tap at her door. It was so soft that she did not
hear it.
But on a repetition she said "Come in," and glancing up she saw it was
Robert.
"Why! I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago," she exclaimed in
surprise, "and you haven't even undressed yet."
"No, there's—there's something bothering me, and I saw a light under
your door, and I thought perhaps you'd let me talk to you a bit."
"Oh dear!" said Dora, with a sigh. "And I did so want to finish this
while I've got everything fresh in my mind." Then she added impatiently
"Is it very particular, Robert?"
He did not answer, but bending over her table asked what she was doing.
"It's a time-table," she replied. "It is settled that I am to teach
Lancie, and Giles, and Olive, and Lottie. Then there are my own studies
and countless other things. I shall be busy all day long. You see,
Robert—"
"Yes?" he said, for Dora had stopped short.
"I am determined to fufil dear father's trust, and the more I relieve
mother, the better I shall be doing it."
"And what about the promise?" Robert asked. But he did not put the
question without difficulty.
"Oh! I mean to do great things this year," returned Dora, eagerly and
confidently. "Mother and I have been having a lovely talk, and I shall
set to work so that I may have a good account to give father. Why,
Robert," as her eye for the first time fell upon his face; "you are
shivering, and you look so pale. You had better go to bed, and leave me
to finish this."
He moved away, but before he had reached the door, turned and came back.
"Dora," he said, in a low voice, "I wonder whether father is thinking
about us all now?"
She was just in the act of dipping her pen in the ink to continue her
work, but at Robert's question, she leaned back in her chair, and
answered slowly,—
"Yes, I am sure he is. He is thinking—"
"Well, go on. You are dreaming again, I know that by the look in your
eyes. What is he thinking about?"
"He is wondering what we are all doing, and in fancy, he sees each one
of us, and can read our hearts as well. It troubles him that every
minute is putting a farther distance between him and us, but he has no
fear that separation will weaken our love for him. He knows, indeed,
that we shall only love him more, and strive to show that we do. And
as he remembers this, the sorrowful expression leaves his face, and
raising his eyes, he whispers softly, 'God bless and keep them all!'"
In imagination Dora saw her father standing on the deck of a ship.
Around him was a wide vast expanse of ocean, and the silent silvery
stars looked calmly down from the deep blue sky above. So distinct was
the vision that she seemed to hear the throb of the engine, and the
rush of water as the vessel ploughed her rapid way through the sea.
And thus it was she did not perceive that tears were running down
Robert's cheeks, nor that he had great difficulty in choking down his
sobs. She only knew that a moment after she ceased speaking, he left
the room.
And then accompanying the words, "Now I really must get this finished,"
with a little shake of her body, as if to detach herself from the scene
she had conjured up, she once more concentrated her thoughts on the
time-table before her.
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