SOME CAUSE FOR CARE
EUPHRASIA stood close to the bay-window, deep in thought. Her brows
were knitted, her eyes fixed upon the dull street, seeing nought.
Most of the West Norton streets were dull; and this particular row
of houses, built all upon the same fashion, fronted by a long blank
wall which enclosed Dr. North's kitchen-garden, could not be called an
exception. A girl who had lived there all her life might be expected
to grow used to the dulness, but Euphrasia had not always lived there.
Three years at a Brighton school, by way of educational finish, had
made a marked break.
West Norton, after Brighton, wore a slumbrous aspect. For the
sleepiness Euphrasia cared little. She had within her young self, life
and vigour enough to counteract it. What she did mind was separation
from her one friend, Letitia Johnston. Girl-like, she had flung
herself, heart and soul, into this friendship; and Letitia had grown to
be the centre of her world. An occasional letter by post was found to
be a poor substitute for daily and hourly intercourse.
Moreover, Euphrasia was suffering from the abrupt ending of
school-work. She had not yet found her niche in life, and her unused
energies craved for more scope than seemed at present to be within
their reach. A certain restlessness was upon her; and this added to
the zest with which she looked forward to the promised visit. A whole
month in a new place with Letitia's unknown relatives, above all with
Letitia herself—all this contained a promise of delight, without a
shadow. Euphrasia had not by nature her mother's unquiet spirit, always
expecting ills. Her spirit was unquiet only in the desire for more
change; and she was unsophisticated. Life thus far had been easy, on
the whole.
And now as the day drew near, only two nights remaining between, the
question arose sharply, Ought she to give it up?
Euphrasia was a girl of right principle, and to some extent, of
subjection to duty. Religion in her was as yet a thing rather desired
than possessed; and the personal love for an unseen Lord and Master,
which cannot but result in obedience to His Word, had not yet
dawned—although she wished for it. She had a very distinct aim in her
mind, to do what was right, not to be selfish, not to be lazy. But the
self-pleasing will was strong, as in most young natures—not to speak of
older ones, unless transformed under a nobler force of love. She wanted
very much to do her duty, but she wanted still more to get her own
way. In this particular natter of the projected visit to Letitia, the
craving to have her way was overmastering.
"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she
asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?"
as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have
remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply
because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference
between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up.
Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie
might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would
decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice.
After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go
wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might
suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business
worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help.
To be sure, her father did sometimes seem to find it a relief to
confide in his eldest girl, when afraid to say a word to his wife lest
she should magnify his meaning tenfold, and worry herself ill with
unreasonable fears. He could be sure that Euphrasia would understand.
But he would not expect that she should be invariably at hand for such
confiding . . . To be sure, it was a very short time since her return
from school, and she had not meant to go away again so soon. But the
invitation had come, and was irresistible. Under a momentary impulse
she had offered to withdraw from the promised pleasure; and the instant
throb of fear lest her offer should be accepted, had shown her what
such withdrawal would mean. Each hour since had made the giving up
harder to contemplate.
She resolved to wait through the night, and to see how her father
seemed in the morning.
At breakfast, he called himself "better," and looked wretched. His
fixed paleness, yet more, his fixed look of trouble, gave her a guilty
feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie, rather singularly, while noting and commenting
on the former, did not perceive the latter.
Euphrasia was haunted through the meal by a sense of threatening
trouble. Something surely had happened, or was going to happen. So
she told herself, and then she tried to believe the notion a mistake.
Anything rather than allow herself to feel that she might not go.
He kissed Euphrasia when starting for his day's work. "Pack up your
traps, Little Eyebright. You will be off to-morrow. Mid-day train, is
it not?"
"Father, are you really better?"
His smile was not cheerful. "'A man's weel or wae as he thinks himsel'
sae.' I'm not going to be fancying myself an invalid, till I grow into
one."
"If you would like me to put off my visit—"
Again the momentary gleam of half-assent, and the quick pulling in of
himself. "No, no!—no need—it is best over. Have your pleasure while you
can, child."
A deep sigh was audible as he turned away.
Then it was that Euphrasia found her way into the bay-window, to stand
lost in thought.
"Ought I to go? I wonder if I ought? Is it wrong? 'Must' I give up?
I don't see any real reason. It may be all just nothing at all. And
Letitia would be so hurt. Perhaps she would never ask me again."
That thought won the day. Euphrasia resolved to leave arrangements
undisturbed. She did not feel satisfied, but it was something to have
come to a decision of any sort; and she went in vigorously for packing.
She went in also for anticipations. This coming month promised to
be the happiest she had ever known. Letitia and Letitia's parents,
Letitia's home, and Letitia's brother—Euphrasia's imagination rang the
changes on these thoughts hour after hour. But ever and anon rose once
more the question, "Ought I really to go?"
"It is settled now. I can't unsettle things. Mother would be worried
if I did. My box is packed, and why 'should' I put off? It would be
absurd!" So she made answer, yet the little questioning voice would not
be entirely put down.
Mr. Mackenzie, as an ordinary rule, came home to early dinner, but once
in a way, if very busy, he would take lunch at a confectioner's close
by. On this day they saw no more of him till the evening, and then his
gray shadowed look sent a fresh thrill through the girl.
"Ought I to go?" the voice asked again.
"Oh, but I can't give it up now," she cried within herself. "Now! How
can I? Just when everything is settled! Oh, I can't!"
And so the evening passed, till bed-time drew near.
"Euphrasia, my dear, I should rather wish—I should like a few words
with you."
Mr. Mackenzie's voice broke into a half-happy, half-uneasy dream. Mrs.
Mackenzie was upstairs, called away by some domestic appeal; and Flo
had retired with Ken to the dining-room, where he prepared his lessons.
"Not here, I think. Your mother will be back directly."
"No. She said she would be more than half-an-hour. Nobody will
interrupt us just now."
His face worked uneasily, the muscles twitching, the eyes sombre.
"I should like to say—something. It would be a—something of a relief to
me. For yourself alone, mind—absolutely for yourself alone. Not a word
to anyone."
"Father, you can trust me. You know I would never repeat a single
thing." Euphrasia drew her chair a little nearer, and his hand came on
hers. "How hot you are!" she said involuntarily.
"No, my dear, you never repeat things. I am quite aware! You are a good
child! . . . Perhaps I am not wise to speak, but this burden on me—"
"What burden?"
"A sense of coming calamity. And if I do not speak now—if I should
never have another opportunity—"
"Never—'what,' father?" A spasm of terror almost deprived her of
utterance.
"My dear, nobody ever knows. Nobody can tell. Anything might happen
before you come home. A whole month! Nations have changed owners in
less than a month!" And he laughed faintly.
"But in West Norton—what 'could' happen? I don't understand what you
mean!"
"I am—not wise, perhaps. Looking forward and expecting ill is not a
sensible occupation. But the feeling overpowers me at times. It has
been upon me so strongly of late—a constant sense of coming trouble. I
can hardly define what I mean; it weighs me to the ground! And it will
come true!" The last few words were almost whispered.
Euphrasia's heart beat thickly. "Then it is not only a feeling. It is
something that you really know, something going wrong at the Bank."
"Hush! Hush!" and he glanced round apprehensively. "You must not
suggest such things." He held one hand over his brow. "I wish my head
did not feel as it does of late. But that is a small matter. If I could
only think—"
"Father, what is wrong really?"
"Did I say—anything was?"
"Yes. You meant it."
Another anxious look round.
Euphrasia went to the door and demonstrated the fact of its being fast
shut. Then she returned to his side, standing close and speaking low.
"Please tell me. I will not talk. I will not repeat a word. Only tell
me what you mean."
He hid his face, groaned, and said, "Everything is going."
"Not the Bank!"
"Hush!"
"Father—do you mean—is 'that' going to fail?"
He laid his large hot hand again on her little plump one, and held it
in a grasp which gave positive pain.
Euphrasia endured the pain without flinching. As she stood thus,
waiting, listening to the loud ticks of the clock, watching the veins
swollen on her father's forehead, she had a strange sense of growing
older fast, of each minute being almost as a year in her existence, of
all remnants of childhood slipping from her. Whatever her father's mood
might imply, it certainly implied something serious.
A mutter came at length, hoarse and low, "Loss of everything."
"For 'us?'"
He moved his head in silent assent.
"When? How?"
"I cannot tell. I see it looming."
"And nothing can be done to keep it off?"
"Nothing whatever."
She crept closer, and caught her breath audibly.
"Hush! If your mother comes in—"
"Must she not know?"
"Not a day earlier than need be! . . . It will kill us both! . . .
Let her be happy a little longer." His haggard eyes looked into
Euphrasia's. "I do not know why I have told you—such a child as you
are! It does no good. I have been selfish to speak."
"Poor father!" Euphrasia's voice was seldom so tender.
Mr. Mackenzie was stirred by it to strong emotion. He hid his face.
"Poor Euphrasia! Poor little Eyebright! They will say I have been a bad
father to you all! But—not from want of love!"
"Oh, no! Don't say that! Don't talk so, please! The dearest and best of
fathers! Please don't say such things. I can't go to-morrow. I'll stay
at home."
"No, my dear. You must go."
"I can't! How can I? There will be no pleasure in it at all—now."
"You must. We could give no reason. I would not have this guessed for
anything! I do not know how I have come to say so much. It has been
foolish—selfish of me! To spoil your pleasure for no good. But the
burden seemed more than I could endure alone."
"I'm glad you told me." She wondered vaguely—might not some word of
trust be helpful here? People had to trust in trouble. Mrs. Landor
would say so at once. But the trouble seemed so real, and the trust so
dim. Euphrasia could not feel conscious of anything like real trust
within herself; and how then might she advise another to exercise it?
No, all she could do was to give up going away, and stay at home, to
be, if possible, some little comfort to him. But she strove in vain.
His will was as a flint in opposition. The dread lest anything might
in consequence be guessed overmastered all other considerations. To
Euphrasia the fear seemed unreasonable, but she had no power to make
him see as she saw.
"If you had decided against it earlier—of your own will—before I spoke,
that would have been different," he said once, wistfully.
And a stab of self-reproach shot through the girl, for she knew "now"
that conscience had spoken plainly, and that she had refused to listen.
"But not since I have spoken—not on any account! I could not permit it!"
When she pleaded further, a look of distress and confusion came. "I
cannot stand discussion. You must go, my dear, and enjoy yourself.
Nothing can alter the plan now."
Euphrasia's train was not until after mid-day. And an early message
from Mrs. Landor intimated that a good-bye call was expected at the
Rectory.
"I told you she would not be pleased if you didn't go," Mrs. Mackenzie
observed.
"Mother, I was there the day before yesterday."
"Well, you must run round again now. There's no need to stay long, and
your packing is finished."
Mrs. Landor was always especially kind to Euphrasia, treating her in
some sort as she would have treated a favourite niece. She had no
nieces, and she had known "Little Eyebright" from infancy. Euphrasia
gave much quiet love to Mrs. Landor—a steady affection, without
romance, but reliable.
Although Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Landor had, since her marriage some
ten or twelve years earlier, lived always at the Rectory. Her own house
lay at a good distance—inconveniently far for the clergyman. So it was
let to strangers, and she quietly devoted herself to Parish work. Some
people thought and whispered that Mrs. Landor's affairs had become
involved, and that her wealth was by no means what it once had been.
She seldom spoke of her own affairs, however, and conjecture went no
further.
"Did you mean to flit without one word to me?" Mrs. Landor asked, when
the girl came slowly in.
It was not Euphrasia's way to go about with lagging step, and Mrs.
Landor noted the change instantly. Then she saw a look in the young
face not commonly there, and she put aside the work over which she was
busy, motioning Euphrasia to a seat by her side.
Euphrasia did not take it. She went to a chair at a little distance,
resolutely reticent in air. Mrs. Landor would see, of course, that
something was wrong, for Mrs. Landor always saw everything, and
Euphrasia knew that she must guard her words carefully. It was so
natural to tell Mrs. Landor all that was in her mind, and here she
might not do so. She had an odd feeling that distance meant greater
safety. But Mrs. Landor quietly moved to the nearest sofa, so she
gained nothing.
"Mother said I was to come."
"Against your will, child?" Mrs. Landor scrutinised the grave face. "It
is not a question of 'Little Eyebright' to-day. Those eyes have been
awake nearly all night. What have you been doing with yourself?"
One glance answered, quickly veiled.
"Some little matter that you do not want to tell me? Girls have their
troubles, have they not? Don't make too much of it, whatever it may be.
Yours is not, I think, a peculiarly anxious temperament, but most of us
possess some power of self-worrying."
"I don't think—" Euphrasia failed to complete her sentence.
"You are pleased, on the whole, to go to your friend."
"I didn't want to give it up."
"Not even if your mother wanted you at home?"
"But my father says I must go. I did offer—last night."
"Ah! That alters the question." A pause; and then—"Euphrasia, what is
the matter with your father?"
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