A STEP IN THE DARK
"LETITIA, what is that noise?"
"Somebody has let something fall, I suppose. The servants are always
dropping trays about."
"Somebody has fallen down, I am sure. Not Miss Mackenzie, I hope! Do
pray see."
Mrs. Johnston did not wait for Letitia's reluctant motion. Although
usually far from rapid herself, being of lymphatic temperament, she
started out of her chair, and hurried into the hall.
"Nothing here, but the sound seemed to come from above. Do find out.
How you dawdle, child! I declare, the fright has turned me positively
ill. If Miss Mackenzie—"
Letitia, mounting unwillingly to the half-way landing, broke into a
scream: "Mother, it is Euphrasia! Down a whole flight!"
And Mrs. Johnston hastened thither.
Euphrasia was coming to herself. The first shock had driven away all
conscious sensation. For though the flight was not a long one, she had
fallen with considerable force. But she woke up to her position as Mrs.
Johnston arrived on the scene.
Letitia stood looking in blank dismay, not offering to help.
"I'm sorry—so stupid of me—" were Euphrasia's first words, uttered
vaguely. She was hardly yet awake to actual pain, but an odd dread of
the least movement held her in a cramped heap. "It isn't—it won't be
much."
"Can I help you up, my dear?" asked Mrs. Johnston, with extended hand.
Euphrasia could have cried out, "Oh, don't!" merely from that instinct
that she might not move. She resisted the impulse and made an effort
to raise herself, only to sink back, voicelessly clutching the nearest
baluster.
"What is it? Where are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Johnston, much concerned.
"Somewhere, surely. She does look white! Letitia, pray call somebody.
Call Horris. Oh no, he is out. Call anybody. Do make haste. Oh, here is
Howard."
"Something wrong?" enquired Howard's voice.
"Miss Mackenzie missed the top step somehow, and has fallen down. She
has hurt herself, I am afraid."
"If I may just wait a minute! It isn't so very bad—if only I needn't
move! If I may just wait—please—" That terrible thrill of pain had
turned her sick, and she did not know how to endure another.
"You will have to let me carry you upstairs." Howard spoke as if it
were the most everyday thing in the world.
"Oh no, thank you, indeed, I'll walk in a few minutes. If I may just
wait!" pleaded Euphrasia, dreading the most kindly touch, and only
craving to be left alone.
The servants by this time were gathering round. "Dear me, ma'am, this
is bad!" Jerrold was saying. "Hadn't we best send for the doctor,
ma'am?"
"Robert should certainly come," Howard said in a decisive under-tone,
as Mrs. Johnston hesitated.
"Doctor! I don't want a doctor," exclaimed Euphrasia, a vivid
recollection springing up of the state of the home finances. "I shall
be all right after a night's rest."
"You think so really?"
"Oh yes, of course. It's only a little—a little twist, I think."
"Where?"
No answer came. She made another resolute effort to rise, endeavouring
to pull herself up by means of the baluster, but again the result was
failure. "My—knee, I think—" she said faintly,—"and—and—"
"My dear Howard, she is too heavy for you! Don't, pray," urged Mrs.
Johnston. "Do wait for Horris. He will be in directly."
"Please don't!" echoed Euphrasia, as he prepared to lift her.
Both appeals were disregarded. "Then don't take her all the way. Bring
her to my room, at all events, just for the moment,—only one little
flight, Howard!"
"Two moves are better avoided."
Euphrasia protested no further. All her strength of will was required
to suppress outward signs of suffering. The jar of each step was
as much as she could possibly endure. And by the time Howard laid
her on the bed in her little front bedroom, she was on the verge of
unconsciousness.
"Poor girl! Fainted away. Really, she has borne it very pluckily.
Better send at once for Bob, and the less movement the better,
meantime, till we know what is wrong. I am afraid she is a good deal
hurt." And again he said,—"Poor girl!"
Euphrasia, though too far gone to speak or to open her eyes, heard
distinctly, as from a distance—
"Yes, indeed, I am very sorry for her,—though really I do think,
Howard, that 'we' are to be pitied too! I suppose it will mean no end
of trouble and bother to everybody. One wouldn't say it to her, of
course, but it is true."
"I shall go for Bob myself," Howard responded shortly.
The doctor, Robert Wells by name, nephew to Mrs. Johnston, paid his
visit and departed, leaving dismay behind him.
Though young in appearance, he was several years older than his cousin
Howard, a man of skilful fingers and of few words, not in the least
good-looking, but pleasant-mannered. He spent some time with Euphrasia,
putting her to as little pain as could consist with needful examination
of her injuries. Euphrasia endured bravely, and waited for the
opportunity of a brief tête-à-tête with him to ask in earnest tones,
"Will it be much? How soon may I go home?"
"It is an awkward twist," Mr. Wells said in answer. "Everything depends
on perfect rest from the first."
"But I may get up to-morrow morning?"
"Certainly not. This knee has to be kept entirely still. I don't think
you would advance far in your dressing, if you made the attempt; and
you must not make the attempt. You will feel very stiff all over
to-morrow, apart from the knee."
"But staying in bed means giving trouble, and I can't bear to do that.
I would rather go home to be nursed, please."
The doctor looked her over gravely, asked, "Where is your home?"—Then
said, "H'm!"
"I can't stay here to be a bother. I don't know Mrs. Johnston well
enough. I couldn't bear to give such trouble to strangers. May I go
home to-morrow?"
He shook his head.
"Then on Monday—I may go on Monday!"
Another shake.
"It isn't such a very long journey; and only one change. Somebody could
meet me there, and I might be helped in and out of the train. I would
not make any fuss, really."
"I am sure you would not. But this knee must have a few days of
absolute rest. You don't want to be troubled with it for months to
come. There is nothing like taking a thing in time."
"Only a few days! Not more, you are sure?"
"I'll tell you that when I see the effect of the few days."
Further questioning failed to bring a more definite answer. Euphrasia
lay after his departure, conning over his words, trying to extract some
comfort from them. If not Monday, then Tuesday, or Wednesday at the
latest! To lie here, giving "no end of trouble and bother" to people
who did not care in the slightest for her personally—no, not even
Letitia!—seemed unendurable!
"I can't do it; oh, I can't," she said aloud. "It is too dreadful. If
only I were at home. If only I had never come. Oh, I can't stay here!
And I don't see the need. The pain isn't so very bad, except when I
move. I couldn't stay here to be nursed!" But one often has to do in
life just that thing which one most shrinks from.
The doctor's reticence was of small avail. Letitia presently came in,
by her mother's desire, not as it appeared too willingly. She stood at
the foot of the bed, and in moody tones said—
"Well, you've done for yourself now, at any rate!"
"I couldn't help falling, Letitia."
"You could have helped it with common care. So absurd, to go rushing
about in a strange house, where you didn't know your way. It was not
your business to offer to get the basket at all. If you hadn't meddled,
this wouldn't have happened." The implied rebuke of Euphrasia's action
to her own lazy inaction rankled still.
"I thought I ought," in a constrained tone.
"Well, I hope you are satisfied!"
Letitia's unkindness cut deeply. Euphrasia could hardly have believed
in such a display of temper to one in her then position. She had to
wring her hands under the bed clothes, for self-control before speaking
again.
"I want to say one thing. Please don't let this make any difference
about your going to Bath. If I should not get away quite so soon as I
had meant to do, I should like you to go just the same. There's no need
for you to be here. It would only make me miserable to think that you
stayed at home on my account."
"Mother won't hear of it."
Then the question had been already mooted!
"I would so much rather—I would, indeed. I don't want anybody. I shall
just lie quiet, and nobody need take any trouble, till the doctor says
I may travel. I want to go on Monday or Tuesday, but it might perhaps
have to be Wednesday."
"Tuesday! Wednesday! Why, Robert says you won't be able to travel for a
month at least—six weeks very likely. He says it's out of the question.
And he won't even hear of your getting up for some days. I am sure I
don't know how we shall manage. The servants are always grumbling as it
is about their work."
A month or six weeks. Euphrasia's heart died within her.
"He can't mean that! He didn't tell me. He only talked of a few days."
"Oh, that was to pacify you, of course. I suppose I ought not to have
told you, but I forgot. Don't go and repeat it, or you'll get me into a
scrape."
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