ENDING AND BEGINNING.
DORA went up for her examination at the end of June. For two or three
weeks previously she had consented to let her mother take her place
in the schoolroom in the afternoon. But that was the only part of her
daily work of which she would allow herself to be relieved. Early and
late she studied, and, though she would not own it, she was fooling
wretchedly ill when the first day of the examination arrived.
The important event over, she did take a short rest, for as soon as
the necessity of a constant strain was over, she was too exhausted and
languid to do anything. In a few days, however, she was teaching again,
both in the morning and afternoon, and though it was suggested that
the younger children had better have their holiday then, she strongly
objected, saying it would be much pleasanter for everybody concerned if
they went on with their lessons till the end of July, when Robert and
Katie would also break up.
One very warm evening she went out to do some shopping for her
mother, and on her way home met Percy Armstrong. He could not but
notice her pale face and listless air, and, after a little general
conversation—for being in no hurry to get home he had turned to walk
a little distance with her—he discovered that she never cared to eat,
that she slept very badly, and that her back was always aching. She
told all this hardly knowing that she was telling it, so cleverly did
Percy draw her out.
Then he went home, and begged his mother to write to Mrs. Grainger and
say that Dr. Fowler ought to be called in at once to see Dora; "for if
this kind of thing is permitted to go on," he said, "she will become a
confirmed invalid, and then good-bye to all her hopes and schemes for
the future."
Mrs. Armstrong lost no time in making Mrs. Grainger acquainted with her
son's opinion, and in consequence Dr. Fowler received a note asking
him to call at 99, Madeira Street. This he did, and after seeing
Dora, he told her she must give up her teaching and studying and take
a long rest. He also found that she had a slight curvature of the
spine. It was not very serious at present, but if allowed to increase,
the mischief might become great, and he told her she must lie on a
reclining board for at least three hours every day.
Dora heard her sentence with dismay.
"It can't be so bad as that!" she exclaimed. "Don't say I must lie down
all that time."
"Indeed, you must." Then as he saw her look of hopeless despair, he
asked, impatiently, "Do you want to be deformed, and in a year or two
become a weak, helpless invalid?"
By way of answer she burst into tears. The doctor was touched directly.
"Poor child! There, I don't want to scold you," and he took her hand
and kept it gently in his own as he spoke; "but if you have any real
regard for your mother, and don't want to bring endless trouble and
expense upon her, you must obey my orders. One of my daughters had to
spend the best part of a year on her back once. You shall have the
loan of her board for as long as you require it. If you could go to
the seaside for a month, it would do you all the good in the world.
Couldn't it be managed?"
His last words were addressed to Mrs. Grainger, who had been an anxious
listener to the conversation between him and Dora.
"Whatever is necessary shall be done," she said, quietly.
"Well, well, I'll tell my man to bring round the board," said the
kind-hearted doctor, "and I'll look in again in a few days to see what
effect the lying down and the medicine have taken," and bidding them
good-bye, he bustled away.
No sooner had he gone than Dora broke down completely. So violent
was her weeping that when at length her sobs ceased she was quite
exhausted. Perhaps it was because she was too weak to resist, that
she suffered herself to be led to her room. Then having darkened the
window, her mother sat down by her side, and gently bathed her heated
forehead.
"Oh, mother, and this is the end of it!"
They were the first words she had spoken since the doctor had left.
Only too well did Mrs. Grainger understand them.
"I should not wonder," she replied softly, "if in the future you will
look back to this time and say, very happily, 'That was the beginning
of it all.'"
"That could not be. See the trouble I have brought upon you when I only
tried to be a help."
"Dora, you would not take the rest Nature demanded, and as her laws
bring their own punishment if disobeyed, you must pay the penalty. Be
thankful it is no worse."
"Nothing could be worse. Dr. Fowler said he didn't know when I should
be able to do my work again."
"I believe good will come out of the evil. In the enforced quietude you
will have time for thought, and you will see how, in attempting what is
beyond your strength, you have made a fatal mistake. But your head is
aching too much to talk now. Try to go to sleep, and presently I will
bring you up a cup of tea."
And then as her mother turned to go, the truth flashed upon her.
What she had considered unselfishness and noble sacrifice of self,
had been utter selfishness and indulgence in self-glorification. The
incident connected with Robert returned to her memory. The same thing
had underlain every action since her father went. She had certainly
taught her brothers and sisters, and with unhoped-for success. But
what had been her motive for that work, for toiling so hard at her
story-writing, and for going up for the examination? It was not for the
good of others. It had been that she might think well of herself and
should stand well in the opinion of her friends and relations. It had
been for her own self-glory, self-praise, self-satisfaction; for that
and nothing more.
And how low an object is self, none knew better than Dora. If she had
been more ignorant, her distress would not have been so great. As she
lay thinking in the cool, darkened room, she recollected what her
mother had said on that evening, many months ago, when they had talked
in the quiet sitting room by firelight.
"In proportion to the light that has been given you, so will you be
expected to mould your life."
Then she remembered those far more solemn words which, having been once
spoken, are spoken for all ages:
"'And that servant which knew his Lord's will and prepared not himself,
neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes.'"
Yes, indeed, that did apply to her. A little reflection, a little
serious self-examination, and she would have seen her mistake long ago.
Now it was too late. She who had hoped to stand at the head of the list
in the fulfilment of the trust received from her father, and in the
promise he had asked of all his children, would be last of all. Poor
Dora! Within and without all was darkness and despair to her that day.
But the rest and invalid life of the next week did her so much good
physically that, at the end of that time, she took a much less gloomy
view of the future. In her ample leisure for quiet thought she saw,
too, she had no cause to despair. True, that instead of relieving her
mother of care, she had brought more trouble upon her; for not only
was her present ill-health a great anxiety, but by the persistent
following out of her own inclinations, she must have given her constant
uneasiness during the past months. But, by God's help, she would profit
by the mistake she had made, and for the future, love of others, not of
self, should be the motive power to influence her actions.
Meantime it was her duty to try to get well, and she found it a far
harder task than she had anticipated.
One evening, about a fortnight after Dr. Fowler's first visit, she was
lying on the reclining board in the drawing room, when she heard a rap
at the door, and the next moment Percy Armstrong entered. She would
have got up to receive him, but he begged her to remain where she was.
"Remember I'm a doctor," he said, "and have due respect for a
fellow-doctor's orders." And then he talked so pleasantly that Dora
forgot she was feeling wretchedly dull and depressed, and laughed and
chatted quite gaily.
"Dora," he said, presently, "I am going to ask you to do me a kindness."
"If I can I will," she replied, for she greatly liked the young doctor,
and would have done anything to oblige him. "But you must not forgot I
am only a helpless invalid at present."
"All the better, for you'll give my mother the pleasure of looking
after you. As you know, she hates to be idle, and is never happy unless
she has plenty to do. I am going to send her to Ilfracombe for five or
six weeks and I want you to be so good as to go with her and keep her
company."
"But—but—" and between surprise, happiness, and a wish to say she
couldn't think of letting her friends put themselves to extra expense
on her account, she broke down completely.
"Not a word, if you please," said Percy. "I see quite well you are
willing to oblige me, and you have only to see that your box is packed,
and that you are ready to start at ten o'clock the day after to-morrow.
And remember, the pleasure you will have, cannot be greater than my
pleasure in being able to give my mother the change of air and scene
she needs almost as much as you."
"But mother?" again began Dora.
"She knows, and will be very glad to hear I have had so little trouble
in getting you to consent to my scheme."
Dora blushed so painfully that Percy immediately changed the
conversation. But he left her very happy, and with the promise that she
would be ready to start at the appointed time.
So it happened that Dora spent such a delightful six weeks at the
seaside as she had before only imagined to herself in dreams. At first
she could do little more than admire the beautiful view of hill,
sea, and sky from the windows of their lodgings. But she grew daily
stronger, and even the news that she had failed in her examination did
not check her improvement. It was just what she might have expected,
and certainly what she deserved, she remarked quietly. When at length
she went back home, she looked so different that at first glance Phil
actually didn't know her.
How rejoiced they all were to see her! The love which she saw in every
caress, and smile, and action of her mother and brothers and sisters
seemed to Dora, as it most certainly was, her most precious possession.
Her return reminded them of another return, which, all being well,
would take place in the winter. It was September now, and in the dusky
half-hour after tea, when all were present, there was a long talk about
that happy time.
From the future they came back to the present. Their father's trust,
their promise, and the way in which each had been fulfilled were
discussed. They all spoke very openly and freely that evening. Each
owned where he or she had failed, and each resolved that the weakness
should be guarded against and struggled with for the future. Even Olive
and Lottie wont to bed serious and thoughtful, for they could not
forgot the words so gravely uttered by their mother: "Even a child is
known by his doings."
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