Dorothy talked a little longer to Effie. When at last she left her, the
poor girl felt soothed and strengthened. She dropped off to sleep, to
dream of the old days when she was living in the pretty little cottage
in Whittington, and when she longed so earnestly to go out into the wide
world. Effie woke long before it was time to get up. She thought of her
dream, and sighed heavily to herself. She was in the wide world now with
a vengeance. Did it look as fair, as rose-colored, as fascinating, as it
used to look in her early dreams? No; the reality was bitter enough. She
would have given a great deal at that heavy moment of her life to turn
back the page and be a child at home again.
The nurses' bell rang, and she got up quickly. Next week she was to take
her turn at night-nursing. She was getting on well, and, notwithstanding
the small cloud which now existed between her and Sister Kate, Sister
Kate knew Effie's value. There are nurses and nurses. Many girls who go
as probationers to the great hospitals are thoroughly unsuited to the
life; their qualifications are not those essential to the good nurse;
they are destitute of tact, of presence of mind, of that tenderness
which can be firm as well as gentle. But Effie was an ideal nurse; her
soft and gentle ways, her kind yet firm glance, the cleverness she
showed, the tact she displayed, all proved to Sister Kate that the young
probationer might one day be a valuable help to her. She was angry with
Effie at present, but she was determined to leave no stone unturned to
help the girl and train her thoroughly in her noble profession.
During that night Sister Kate had thought of Effie. She had noticed her
pale face during the past day, the sadness in her eyes, the heaviness in
her steps, and her heart smote her a little, a very little.
"I don't believe that girl could do anything mean or underhanded," she
reflected. "Of course it is tiresome that she should know any of the
medical students, but I believe I can trust her word that she will never
speak to this young man except out of the hospital."
Accordingly, Sister Kate met Effie the next morning with much of her
old pleasantness. Effie's sad heart bounded again in her breast when
Sister Kate spoke kindly to her, and she went about her duties with the
determination not to leave even the smallest matter undone. Thoroughly
but carefully she went through all the minutiæ of those everlasting
cleanings and brushings.
At last her morning's work was over, and now came the crucial moment
when she must speak to Sister Kate. The doctors had gone their rounds,
the patients were all settled for the morning. Effie came up to Sister
Kate in one of the corridors.
"Can you spare me a few moments of your time?" she asked.
The Sister looked up at the tall clock in the passage.
"Do you want to see me about anything important?" she asked.
"Yes, it is something important."
"Well, come into my private room; I can give you five minutes."
Sister Kate sat down--Effie stood before her.
"I'll try and tell you what I want as briefly as possible," she said. "I
wish to know if I can be spared to go out this afternoon?"
"It is not your afternoon out. What do you mean?"
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary. The fact is, there's great
trouble at home, and I--I must see my mother, and perhaps I may have to
make another visit."
Sister Kate frowned.
"I don't wish not to sympathize with you, of course," she said, after a
pause, "but the fact is, nurses should detach themselves as much as
possible from home-life. The nurse who really gives herself up to her
splendid calling has to try to forget that she has a home. She has to
remember that her first duties consist in taking care of her patients
and in learning her profession."
"Then I can't be a nurse," said Effie, the color rushing into her face.
Sister Kate looked at her and shook her head.
"I am very sorry," she said, after a pause. "The fact is, I had great
hopes of you--you have many of the qualifications which go to make a
splendid nurse; I won't recount them here. I had, as I said, great hopes
of you, but your words now make me fear that, excellent as those
qualifications are, they are overbalanced."
"By what?" asked Effie.
"By sentimentality--by nervous overworry about matters which you should
leave in other hands."
"I have no other hands to leave them in; the fact is, home duties must
always be first with me. I've got a mother and several young brothers
and sisters. I am the eldest daughter. I cannot let my mother suffer,
even to indulge what has been for a long time the great dream of my
life. It is very probable that I shall have to give up being a nurse."
"How can you? You are engaged here for three years."
"I must beg of the Governors of the hospital to let me off; the case is
a special one--the trouble under which I am suffering is most
unexpected. I fear, I greatly fear, that I shall be obliged to leave the
hospital for a time."
"I am truly sorry to hear that," said Sister Kate. "Does your friend
Miss Fraser know of this?"
"Yes."
"I hope it may not be necessary. As I said, you have the making of a
good nurse in you. You want to go away for a few hours? Well, I'll try
and manage it. Perhaps when you go home and see your people, you will
find that it is unnecessary for you to sacrifice yourself to this
extent. Anyhow you can have from two till five to-day. Now go and much
in train for the afternoon as you can. You can stay out from two till
five. I hope you'll have good news for me when you return."
"I hope I shall," said Effie; but her heart felt low. She had little
expectation of being able to continue the life which she longed to
perfect herself in. At two o'clock she went out, and did not take many
minutes in reaching her mother's door.
Mrs. Staunton looked surprised to see her.
"What is the matter. Effie?" she said. "How white and worn you look! Why
have you come back to-day?"
"I wanted to see you, mother, so I got an afternoon off duty. Sister
Kate was kind--I begged of her to let me come. I have a great longing to
see you."
"Well, my dear, I'm all right. The fact is, I get better and better."
Mrs. Staunton was seated by the window. She was making a pinafore for
little Marjory--her needle flew in and out of the stuff. She was
trimming the pinafore with narrow lace. Effie took it up and sat down by
her mother.
"Your hands tremble, mother; are you really well?"
"Oh, yes, my love; yes! You look at me as if you thought there was
something the matter. Have you--Effie, your looks frighten me."
"Don't let them frighten you, dear mother. You know the greatest longing
of my heart is to help and serve you. If there is anything worrying
you, you'll tell me, won't you?"
"I will," said Mrs. Staunton. She paused and looked at her daughter.
"There's nothing _exactly_ worrying me," she said, after a pause, "but
still I feel a little bit anxious."
"You'll tell me, won't you?"
"You won't scold me, Effie?"
"As if I could, mother darling!"
"Well, perhaps I did a rash thing--poor dear George!--You know how
devoted I am to him, Effie?"
"Oh, yes, mother darling, anyone can see that."
"Well, the fact is, I--I yielded to his entreaties. Perhaps I ought not
to tell you, Effie--perhaps it will displease him."
"Yes, do tell me," said Effie. "There ought not to be any secrets in
one's family. I ought to know--I will know. You are worried about
something, and I will know what your burden is. What is it, mother?"
"I'll tell you in a few words. There's nothing in it, after all. Shortly
after you left us, George persuaded me to put my money into the City
Bank in his name. He said it seemed such folly to have two accounts for
such very small sums."
"You did it?" said Effie, her face turning white.
"Yes, yes, I knew you would reproach me. I won't be reproached--I
won't!"
"I will not say a word, dearest, dearest mother. Take my hand--your hand
does shake so. Now tell me all about it."
"Oh, it's nothing, my love, really, only----"
"Yes, mother--only?"
"Only this morning I asked George to fill in a check for me before he
went to town. He did so. It was for five pounds. He seemed vexed at my
requiring so much, but I said I couldn't do with less, for there was the
landlady to pay, and the butcher has been so troublesome with his bills.
I couldn't do with less than five pounds, and George drew a check for me
for that amount. I sent Aggie with it straight to the bank, and----"
Mrs. Staunton's face became very pale, her hand shook more violently
than ever.
"Yes, mother?" said Effie.
"They sent it back. Effie, with 'No _effects_' written across the back.
I am sure there must be a mistake, but they told Aggie that George had
overdrawn his account, and that they couldn't cash this check--there
were no effects, that was it."
"No effects!" said Effie, her face scarlet. "But hadn't you some of your
money still left in the bank?"
"Yes, I had over fifty pounds. I put the money into the bank in George's
name over a week ago. It was to last us for some time. Oh, Effie, don't
look at me with those reproachful eyes! I feel faint."
Effie got up quickly; she poured some sal-volatile into a wineglass,
and, filling it up with water, brought it to her mother to drink.
Mrs. Staunton was soon better. The passing weakness went off quickly.
"What is to be done?" she said, raising her eyes to her daughter. "Oh, I
am so glad you don't scold me, Effie."
"Of course I don't, mother darling. You must have money, you can't get
on without it."
"That's just what I say. I am sure I am as saving as woman could be, but
the expenses are so heavy."
"Yes, of course."
"I'm expecting George in every minute," said Mrs. Staunton. "He has very
likely put the money back into the bank now. He is doing such a splendid
business that perhaps he drew the fifty pounds--meaning to return it at
once. He has such a capital head for making money--really, I never knew
such a boy. I dare say he has put it back _doubled_."
"Oh, mother, don't you know better?--how can he do that? But now let us
talk of something else. Here's Agnes, that's right. Agnes, will you get
some tea for mother? She's quite weak and upset. I'm going out. I must
hurry, for I've to be back at the hospital at five. I'm going out, but
I'll come to see you mother, before I return to the hospital. Get the
tea, Agnes; don't be long about it."
Agnes put a little kettle on the fire.
"Do you know about--about the check?" she asked Effie in a whisper.
"Oh, yes; don't make a fuss over it--it will be all right."
"Mrs. Robinson says she must be paid--she is owed four weeks' rent, and
she won't let it go on any longer."
"I'll see her when I come back," said Effie. "Now, do take care of
mother. I won't be away a minute longer than I can help."
"Won't you have a cup of tea first, Effie?"
"No, no; I've no time."
Effie ran downstairs, and went out into the street. She felt nerved and
braced now. The moment of indecision was past--the moment for definite
action had arrived. There was no question with regard to her duty. It
lay plain and straight before her.
She happened to know that the Harveys were in town. They were staying in
Eaton Place. She took an omnibus, which presently brought her into the
neighborhood of Victoria; a few minutes afterward she rang the bell at
their hall door.
A man-servant, whom she did not know, opened it.
"Is Mrs. Harvey at home?" asked Effie.
"I believe so," he replied, "but I'm not sure if she can see anyone."
"Perhaps she will see me if you give her my name," said Effie in a
gentle voice. "Say Miss Effie Staunton, please, and that I am anxious to
see her on pressing business."
The man withdrew, inviting Effie as he did so into the hall.
"He takes me for a servant," she said to herself. "Well, what matter?
That truly is only a pinprick."
In a minute or two he returned, with a changed expression on his face.
"Follow me upstairs, please, miss," he said. "My mistress will see you."
Effie followed him up some low stairs--her feet sank into the rich
carpets. The contrast between this luxurious house and the severity of
the hospital sickened her.
"I shall choke if I live here," she said to herself. But then she
crushed all thought of self.
The men led her up two or three short flights of stairs. At last he
knocked at a door, before which a rich curtain hung. A voice said "Come
in," and Effie found herself in Mrs. Harvey's presence. She was seated
in a deep armchair; her maid stood before her, holding out different
rich brocades and silks which had just been sent round for her to see.
"That will do, Carey," she said, when she saw Effie. "You can take all
those things away. Tell Madam Miller that I have decided on this blue
silk crépon, and this rose-colored silk. I'll call round to be fitted
to-morrow morning. Now, Miss Staunton, I'm sorry to have kept you
waiting. How do you do? I am so glad to see you."
Mrs. Harvey was not so impulsively glad as she had been the last time
she saw Effie. The doctor's death--the death he had died for her--seemed
removed into the background; her existence was absorbed in pleasure, in
gayety and excitement. She had an affectionate, kindly nature, however,
and one glance into Effie's sad eyes softened her toward the poor girl.
"Well, what can I do for you?" she said. "How are you? Why, you are a
nurse--you are in nurse's dress--how capital! What a splendid idea!"
"Yes, I am a probationer at St. Joseph's," said Effie.
"Oh my dear child, that's splendid for you, of course; but I trust you
have brought no infection in your clothes."
"No," said Effie, with the faintest of smiles. "I have nothing to do
with any of the infectious wards. I am quite safe. I want to speak to
you."
"I shall be very glad to listen to you, my dear. You know, of course,
that the Squire and I take the deepest interest in you and in your
family. By the way, how is your dear mother, and how are all those
pretty girls and boys getting on?"
Effie could not remember that Mrs. Harvey had ever seen her mother--why,
therefore, should she speak of her as "dear"? and as to the boys and
girls, they were not specially remarkable for their good looks, and if
they were, Mrs. Harvey knew nothing about it. She answered these
conventional inquiries in a quiet voice.
"I hope you'll forgive me," she said, at the first possible pause, "but
I am in a very great hurry. I have promised to be back again at St.
Joseph's at five o'clock, and it's nearly four now. May I tell you what
I really came about?"
"Oh, yes, of course, of course!"
"Do you remember, before I came to London, the very kind offer you and
the Squire made me?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Harvey, "if you mean our wish that you should
become governess to little Freda. But Freda goes to a kindergarten now.
Carey takes her around every morning, and Rhoda goes to fetch her at
dinner time. The life seems to suit her very well. Of course we did wish
for you very much, but as you could not come--oh, no doubt you have
chosen wisely."
Mrs. Harvey yawned; she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. The
servant appeared almost immediately.
"Tea for two," she said, "and be quick, Andrews."
"I can't wait for tea," said Effie, rising. "I am very much obliged. I
only came to say that circumstances would make me inclined to accept
your offer now, but as you don't want a governess there's nothing more
to be said."
"Oh, it's so sweetly good of you, Miss Staunton, and had matters been
different we should have been pleased. Well, good-by, if you must go.
Where did you say your mother lived?"
"A long way from here."
"But do give me her address. I should be so pleased to drive round and
see her some day. Perhaps she would go for a drive with me. What a good
idea! Yes, I'll come. Where did you say you lived?"
Effie had not said anything.
Mrs. Harvey held out her limp, long hand. "Good-by, Miss Staunton. You
know I take a great interest in you," she exclaimed.