Effie saw very little of Dorothy Fraser, but on the following day, to
her great surprise and pleasure, as she was leaving the dining-hall,
Dorothy came up and spoke to her.
"You have a minute to spare," she said; "just come out on this balcony
and talk to me."
Effie obeyed her.
"What do you want with me, Dorothy?" she asked.
"I wish to know why you look so pale and worried--you seem to have
displeased Sister Kate, too."
Effie very nearly burst into tears, but she restrained herself.
"I'll tell you what it is," she said. "It is the most unjust thing!"
She then mentioned in as few words as possible the circumstance of
Lawson having spoken to her--of her great anxiety about George--and of
her having walked back with the young medical student from her home on
the previous evening.
Dorothy looked very grave while Effie was speaking.
"It is unfortunate," she said. "This is just the sort of thing that
injures a girl at the commencement of her hospital life."
"But it is so ridiculous and unjust," said Effie. "What in the world can
Mr. Lawson be to me?"
"Oh, nothing, of course, my dear," replied Dorothy. "But still the rules
cannot be too strict on this point. You know I am not a prude, but all
girls are not like you, Effie; and, in short, Sister Kate is in the
right. Someone must have seen you walking back with Mr. Lawson, and must
have told her, or hinted, at least, at the state of the case. Nothing
else would have induced her to question you."
"She had no right to speak to me about acquaintances that I meet out of
the hospital."
"Strictly speaking, she has no right; that's why I say she must have got
a hint."
"Oh, well, never mind her," said Effie. "I won't speak to Mr. Lawson
again, unless I meet him out of doors, where I can, and shall, whatever
Sister Kate may say."
"Effie, you must be careful."
"I don't want to think of myself at all. Can't you see how miserable I
am about my mother and about George?"
"Yes; it is a most wretched business. I am more sorry for you than I can
say."
"Oh, I wish something could be done," said Effie. "I feel tired and
fettered here--I feel almost wild. I cannot devote myself to my
necessary duties."
"Poor child," said Dorothy in her caressing voice. "Let me think: I must
help you in some way. Suppose I go to-day to see your mother? I had a
chance of having the whole afternoon to myself, but, as I had nowhere in
particular to go, was determining not to avail myself of it, but now I
can be of use to you."
"Oh, Dorothy! would you really go to see mother? It will be of the
greatest possible use. You have such tact--you can say things that no
one else would venture to say; and then if only you could see George!"
"I'll take the thing up somehow," said Dorothy; "you shan't be dragged
and worried to death, you dear, brave little girl. Give me a kiss,
Effie, and go back to your work. Between Mr. Lawson and me, we will
pull you through this trouble, see if we don't!"
"Do you know Mr. Lawson, Dorothy?"
"Know him! Of course I do. He is one of the very nicest fellows here--as
good as gold and as steady as a rock, and with such a beautiful
enthusiasm for his profession--he'll make a splendid doctor by and by.
Yes, Effie, don't mistake me: it is not the man I object to, it is the
fact that he is a medical student, and that you are a nurse. So many bad
things have been said about nurses and medical students that all nurses
worthy of the name have to make up their minds to show the world that
they can and will nurse without even the thought of flirtation coming
into their head."
"You're right, of course," said Effie, with burning cheeks. "But it's a
shame, it's horrible! How can anyone think I wish to flirt?"
She turned away--she was obliged to go back to her duties; but her heart
felt much lighter after her conversation with Dorothy.
That afternoon Sister Kate, watched Effie as she would, could find no
fault with her. She was attentive, tactful, kind, and considerate; a
little bit of her old pleasant cheerfulness had also returned to
her--her face looked less careworn.
The fact is, she was leaning on Dorothy, and felt the comfort of
Dorothy's strong support.
The patients were only too glad for Effie to do things for them; and No.
47, who was very weak and low, smiled whenever the girl approached her
bedside.
"Hold my hand, love, whenever you have a minute to spare," said the poor
creature. "I feel low like, awfully low; I am going down--down, and it
supports me to hold your hand; you're a good girl, anyone can see that."
"I try to be," said Effie, tears springing to her eyes.
"Ah, it's well to be good," continued the woman. "When we come to lie as
I'm lying now, we think a sight of goodness."
"I hope you'll soon be better," said Effie.
"Never, my love, never again. I'm going out--that's what is happening to
me; it's a lonesome thing to die, but I don't feel so lonesome when I'm
holding your hand."
Effie came to the poor creature as often as she could. Once again the
fascination of the life she so dearly loved drew her out of herself, and
enabled her to forget the heavy home cares.
In her bedroom that night Sister Dorothy paid her a visit.
"Well, Effie," she said, "I've news for you. Mr. Lawson saw George last
night. He spoke to him quite frankly, and said that, if he did not
immediately give over this awful gambling, he'd go and see his cousin,
Mr. Gering."
"And what did George say?" asked Effie.
"Oh, he promised as faithfully as possible that he'd give it up. Mr.
Lawson seemed quite pleased with him, and said he didn't think he'd have
been so penitent and so easily influenced as he has been."
"But will he give it up?" questioned Effie.
"He promised to. Of course he is anxious at not being able to earn more
money, for the foolish fellow encouraged your mother to be extravagant,
and now there are several debts which must be met somehow. What's the
matter with you, Effie? Why do you start?"
"How can I help it? Debts would kill mother. Perhaps I ought to tell
you, Dorothy--you have been so good to me, and I trust you so much that
I don't think it can be wrong to tell you any trouble which concerns
me."
"No, of course it isn't. Speak out what is in your mind, Effie."
"Well, George was in trouble that time he came to see father--that time
when father was dying. He owed Mr. Lawson--I can't tell you how, I
can't tell you why--£250. He said that if the money were not paid back
within six weeks, that he, George--oh, Dorothy, how can I say it?--that
he'd have to go to--to _prison_! He said he must have the money; I felt,
too, that he must have the money; for our mother's sake. So I went to
see Squire Harvey, and he--he lent it to me."
Dorothy sat down on the side of the bed. Effie's story made her feel
very grave. She paused for a moment, puzzled what to say.
"He lent me the money," continued Effie, looking straight at her friend
with her bright eyes. "I know he never wants it back again, but he must
have it back."
"Oh, yes! he must have it back," exclaimed Dorothy.
"Well, he lent it to me," continued Effie, with a sigh; "and I thought,
of course, that George would be all right after that, and I arranged
that the Squire should have his interest regularly. I thought my own
salary would nearly cover that."
"It can't be done," interrupted Dorothy. "Your salary barely pays for
your washing and your few out-of-pocket expenses. It's absolutely
impossible that you can live here without a penny; the little you earn
must go to yourself."
"Then there's nothing for it," said Effie; "I must go where I can earn
more. I hate the thought beyond all words, but I must--I must do it!"
"You don't mean to tell me that you would give up your life as a nurse?"
"Do you think for a moment, Dorothy, that I'd give it up willingly? It
makes me sick to think of relinquishing what has been my dream ever
since I was a little girl; but I see plainly that I must do something to
earn money to help mother; and then, if George does keep straight,
perhaps we may all be happy some day."
Tears choked Effie's voice, her eyes grew dim.
"What do you think of doing, dear?" said Dorothy in a gentle voice.
"I'll go to the Harveys and ask them to take me as a governess for
Freda. I fancy, somehow, that they might be induced to give me a good
salary--something like fifty or sixty pounds a year, and I can teach a
child like Freda very well indeed, for her father saw that I was well
educated. There's nothing else for it, I can see that; but it breaks my
heart all the same."