DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE.
BUT many days passed before Robert was able to come downstairs. The
long time he had sat in his wet clothes had given him a severe chill,
which, combined with the great nervous shock he had experienced,
brought on a low fever. He required constant attention and nursing, and
the unceasing care with which he was tended would have touched a harder
heart than his.
"Oh, mother," he would say, "what a trouble and expense I am to you.
This is a nice way, truly, of fulfilling the trust father left me."
"It is not too late yet, Robert, to prove that you have endeavoured to
live up to the high standard he put before you," would be the gentle
reply. "Your duty now is to do your best to get well as quickly as
possible, and the less you worry and distress yourself, the sooner it
will come to pass."
During the fortnight he spent in bed, Robert learnt that the hardest
thing in the world is to be patient, and bear weakness and suffering
without complaint. But he did try to let his weariness and restlessness
have as little outward expression as possible.
This common bond of suffering drew him and Lancie very near together.
Robert had had no illness since he was a baby, and for the first time
he gained some true idea of what the little cripple's ill-health and
feeble body entailed upon him.
And now Lancie, to his great joy, found himself able to render active
service. For about a fortnight Robert was extremely weak, and Lancie
delighted in waiting on him and being hands and feet to his sick
brother. As soon, too, as he was well enough to care for the amusement,
he read aloud to him, and many hours that would otherwise have passed
heavily and wearily were made pleasant and bright by Lancie's loving
anxiety to do "what he could."
Nor was Robert forgotten by those outside his home circle. Mrs.
Armstrong was especially kind. During the first days of his illness it
was necessary for somebody to sit up with him at night, and she had
shared these nights of watching with his mother. Then as he began to
get better, many a little dainty to tempt his appetite did she bring in
her basket to 99, Madeira Street.
But, perhaps, of all who came to the house to inquire for the invalid,
Jack paid the most frequent visits. He himself had felt too poorly to
do much on the day following the accident; he had got up late, and,
by his own request, gone to bed early. But on the Monday he was well
enough to go to school, and on his way he looked out anxiously for
Robert.
No Robert, however, did he see, and when at half-past twelve the boys
were dismissed, he determined to ask the head master, Mr. Bullen, if
he knew the reason of his friend's absence. In reply he was told that
Mrs. Grainger had written saying her son was seriously ill, and though
she did not think the fever would end fatally, yet it might be several
weeks before he would again be able in attend school.
The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of
vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to
find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the
little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger
came to him.
She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the
previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong
in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against
his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh
or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what
trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in
his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into
mischief again.
And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand
gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done
to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to
give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good,
Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big
baby," as he told Robert afterwards.
He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was
able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked
home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he
would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of
her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the
sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.
Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for
his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to
his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and
the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a
long and lasting effect.
It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was
allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not
without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother
and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but
feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of
thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he
saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked
for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That
he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his
repentance was sincere.
"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his
convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody
but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when
are you going to write to father again?"
"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when
you are all in bed."
"Does he know I have been ill?"
"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to
trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really
doubted your recovery."
"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been
obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please
tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."
"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."
"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough
yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your
letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a
pencil."
She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now
lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as
follows:—
"DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the
ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I
let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven
me. Can you?
"Your sorrowful boy,
"Robert."
After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that
had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.
His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to
all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room
after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very
business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke
the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.
Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced
at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager,
half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low,
breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.
This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an
energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a
bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole
family was gathered.
"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above
her head, "What do you think has happened?"
"If I know I couldn't say, for you are nearly stiffing me," replied
Mrs. Grainger, laughing.
At that Dora released her mother from the close clasp of her arms,
and, darting across to Lancie—he, not Robert, was on the sofa this
evening—gave him a similar embrace, crying—"Oh, Lancie! Who would have
thought it? You shall have—yes, I think I may promise you at least
a dozen rides in a bath chair. And mother shall have the prettiest,
bonniest cap I can find, and I'll buy that little fluffy toy rabbit
that Phil saw in a shop yesterday, and cried because he couldn't have
it. And I'll write, oh! I'll write heaps of stories, and who knows
whether I mayn't have made a fortune before I die?"
Incoherent as her speech was, it gave her mother some idea of the truth.
"You have been writing a story and received that cheque in your hand
for payment?" she asked. "My child, I can hardly believe it possible."
"That's not a bad guess, mother mine, but it isn't quite exact." And
Dora, who was now somewhat quieted, sat down in front of the fire and
took Phil on her knee. "I wouldn't tell you before," she went on,
"because I never really thought anything would come of it. But when
we all went to Mrs. Armstrong's to tea, she told me of some prizes
that were offered for original stories, and showed me the notice in a
magazine. Then I thought, 'Why shouldn't I try?' for there was a guinea
prize offered for the best tale written by girls of from fourteen to
sixteen. I had not very long to do it in, but I got up early and sat up
late, and so managed to get it off in time. That's more than six weeks
ago, and I had almost forgotten—"
"And you have got the prize?" interrupted Lancie, with glowing cheeks
and glistening eyes. "I knew it. Oh, Dora, how proud we all are of you!"
And then Dora did what she afterwards called "a very silly thing." She
buried her face on Lancie's shoulder and burst into a fit of weeping.
It was not until Phil began to cry for sympathy that she was able to
stay her tears, and tell them brokenly "they mustn't take any notice of
her. She couldn't help it, for she was just so happy she did not know
what she was doing."
Surely very few guineas have given greater pleasure than did that which
Dora received as a reward for her story. So many plans were discussed
for its expenditure that Mrs. Grainger, thinking it would save much
after disappointment, said not half Dora's promises could be carried
out.
This remark cast a temporary cloud over Olive and Lottie's faces; they
soon cleared again, however, and both little girls declared Lancie
should not be robbed of one of his dozen rides, and that they would
be content with their fair share of the "lovely plum cake" which Dora
declared should celebrate the memorable event.
After that it was impossible for the happy winner of the prize to
settle down to her usual evening occupations. The best part for her,
she said, was yet to come; for though she was glad enough of the money,
it would afford her infinitely more pleasure to see her story in print.
The editor had told her it would be published in the next month's
number, and there were joyful anticipations of its appearance, and much
talk of father's astonishment and delight when he should see it, for
it was agreed that the circumstance should be kept a secret until the
story could be sent out to him in the magazine.
So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it
happened that she and her mother were the last up.
"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora
asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to
which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.
"Yes, dear."
"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I
should break down!"
"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I
have feared the strain is getting too much for you."
"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I
mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."
"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."
"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a
little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a
writer than ever you will be as a musician."
"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger.
"To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others,
and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire,
Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that
first night of your father's absence?"
The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her
meaning clear.
"Mother, I had forgotten. Oh, if I had only made it easy for Robert to
tell me, instead of making him feel it was impossible to say a word.
But you do know how sorry I have been, don't you?"
There were tears in her eyes again now, and this time they were not
tears of happiness.
"I do, dear," and her mother took her hand, and stroked it fondly;
"but there is the danger that you will be so wrapped up in striving
to do great things, that opportunities for little acts of kindness
will pass unnoticed. It is 'he that is faithful in that which is least
is faithful also in much;' not, he that is faithful in much is also
faithful in the least."
After all it was with a grave face that Dora went up to bed that night.
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