A PRISONER
BEFORE morning, Euphrasia knew well that getting up was at present
a matter, not of course, but of absolute incapacity. Bruised back
and strained side had asserted themselves, and might alone have been
enough to enforce a short imprisonment, but the knee was far worse. The
slightest movement meant an unbearable thrill of agony, and all through
the long night she had hardly dared to let herself drop asleep, because
of the inevitable awakening.
"Won't quite do for a journey yet, will it?" the doctor said kindly.
"But will this go on long?"
"I hope not. You have given the knee a most awkward twist, and the
least additional strain now might make it very serious. Nothing for
such a case but absolute rest. I don't want to keep you in bed longer
than need be, but I am afraid a few days are necessary. Then we must
try to get you on a sofa."
"But all that means so much trouble. Oh, I could not," Euphrasia was
dismayed almost to the point of tears. "How can I? Among strangers! I'd
rather just lie quiet here, and give no trouble. Much rather!"
"You are of an independent spirit."
"I shouldn't mind so much at home. But in somebody else's house—"
"Well, yes, that does make matters more trying, I grant. It can't be
helped. The more quiet you can keep your knee, the sooner it is likely
to improve. A great deal depends on yourself. Not much sleep last
night, I'm afraid."
"I couldn't. I kept waking with a start every time I dropped off. If I
moved ever so little, the pain woke me."
Mr. Wells took his leave, and Euphrasia was left to her own
cogitations. She had time enough for them that day and in days
following. Far more solitude was hers than had ever before fallen to
her lot; yet even solitude is better than a grudged companionship.
Mrs. Johnston, while expressing all polite concern for her guest's
condition, never visited the room without letting it appear how great
an exertion she counted the effort. Letitia never spent half-an-hour
there without showing a desire to be elsewhere.
Worse than the worst bodily suffering was Euphrasia's consciousness of
being looked upon as a mere burden. No doubt the Johnstons, mother and
daughter, were in a general sense sorry for her, but they were a great
deal more sorry for themselves. To have a guest in the house requiring
care and nursing was simply a "bother" in their eyes. And if they could
politely have got rid of their unwished-for invalid, they would gladly
have done so. Euphrasia realised this to the core of her being.
The very servants, pampered and trained in self-indulgence, objected to
the "extra work," and seeing this feeling plainly in their mistress,
they did not hesitate to speak it out plainly among themselves. A lazy
young housemaid had been told off to wait upon Euphrasia; and due
orders were given to her, but nobody saw whether these orders were
carried out. In point of fact, they often were not. And Euphrasia was
allowed to wait long for many things that she needed. Proudly, she
would not ask or remind the girl. At least it should not be said of her
that she gave unnecessary trouble.
"And I need not have come! I might have escaped all this! If I had just
given it up when I really felt as if I ought, I might be at home now,
and quite well—not boxed up here where nobody wants me!" Such regrets
haunted Euphrasia unceasingly.
She would not let her parents know what had happened. Why should she?
It would only make them anxious, and could do no good. Nay, in her
father's condition, the additional worry might even break him down
altogether. So reasoned Euphrasia, putting bravely aside her own
longings for home sympathy. One short note she sent, to notify the fact
of her arrival, carefully worded, and dealing only with generalities.
No mention was in it of her accident; and a request for silence stopped
any communication from Mrs. Johnston.
Two or three days later came a hasty scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie,
telling little or no news, and merely hoping that Euphrasia would enjoy
her visit. After which followed silence. Mrs. Mackenzie did not write
again. Mr. Mackenzie did not write at all; and Mrs. Landor sent only
a line on Parish matters. Ken and Flo were equally remiss. Absence of
home letters made easier the keeping of her secret, since she too could
thus be silent, without causing particular remark.
But the state of things was unusual, and she fretted over it a good
deal. During her long absences at school, letters had been frequent and
regular. She could only conjecture now that her father was not well,
and that they would not write for fear of having to say what might
shadow her pleasure. As for her own silence—doubtless they would think
that she was selfishly so enjoying herself as to forget to write.
"But I must bear that for a little while. They will soon know," she
said.
Days crept by with such desperate slowness that a week seemed like a
month. And the silence therefore appeared a great deal longer than it
really was. Euphrasia did not allow for this fact.
Improvement in the injured knee was slow, so slow that she sometimes
wondered if it improved at all. At the end of a week, she was allowed
to be moved to a small sofa, which the doctor ordered to be brought to
her room, and from this sofa she could gain glimpses of the outside
world through the window. But the unwelcome trouble to others involved
by even so slight a change pressed upon Euphrasia's mind, and destroyed
her pleasure in it.
"To have to be such a bother!" she said.
Yet she could not do without the help. Her restless young spirit chafed
under her own incapacity to stand or move about alone.
One day, nearly a fortnight after the accident, she lay alone on the
sofa, looking out wearily into a blaze of sunshine. She could just
see the square tower of the old Parish Church beyond and away from
the further end of the Crescent; and a sound of bells came thence,
ringing merrily. It was almost half-past two. And Mrs. Johnston and
Letitia were gone to a wedding which would be immediately taking place.
Euphrasia did not expect their return till late in the afternoon, since
a "reception" was to follow the wedding.
"So much the better!" she said. "If they come up here to see me, it is
only because they think they must. And I hate to be a disagreeable duty
to anybody!"
Nevertheless, she felt somewhat forlorn in her dull little room, with
the bright sunshine and gay bell-ringing outside. And the afternoon
seemed long to get through.
Nobody had thought of bringing her a book to while away the tedious
hours. And true still to her resolution of making no needless requests,
she would not ask for one. A copy of "Hymns Ancient and Modern" was
the sole volume within reach, almost the sole volume in her room. No
bookcase was here, and Euphrasia had brought no books with her.
There was nothing to draw her mind away from the subject of home.
An absolute dearth of letters continued. Euphrasia had written once
again, this time to Ken, saying little of herself and nothing of her
condition, only begging to know how they all were, especially Mr.
Mackenzie. But to her note, posted only the day before, no answer could
yet arrive.
As she pondered, a favourite motto of her father's wove its measure
into the peal of bells, making itself heard with tiring persistency.
"A pund o' care winna pay an ounce o' debt—an ounce o' debt—an ounce o'
debt—an ounce—an ounce—an ounce o' debt—A pund o' care—a pund o' care
winna pay—winna pay—winna pay an ounce—an ounce o' debt."
"O dear, I wish I could forget that wretched proverb! And I don't see
the sense of it either. One doesn't worry because worrying does any
good, but only because one can't help it . . . Ought one to help it?
Mrs. Landor would say so. But then she has no cares—at least, none
worth speaking about. It is so easy not to be bothered when there is
nothing to bother one."
"Winna pay—winna pay—winna pay an ounce—an ounce—winna pay an ounce o'
debt," persisted the bells.
Euphrasia took up the small hymnbook and turned over its leaves with
fingers thinner than their wont. Anything to break the line of thought!
"If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word—"
"I've seen or heard that before."
"A pund o' care—a pund o' care winna pay—winna pay—an ounce—an ounce—an
ounce o' debt—winna pay an ounce o' debt!"
"O do stop! Where did I hear those lines before? Somewhere, I know."
And straightway she read the hymn:—
"Souls of men! why will ye scatter
Like a crowd of frightened sheep?
Foolish hearts! why will ye wander
From a love so true and deep?
"Was there ever kindest shepherd
Half so gentle, half so sweet,
As the Saviour who would have us
Come and gather round His feet?
"There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea;
There's a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.
"There is no place where earth's sorrows
Are more felt than up in heaven:
There is no place where earth's failings
Have such kindly judgment given.
"There is plentiful redemption
In the blood that has been shed;
There is joy for all the members
In the sorrows of the Head.
"For the love of God is broader
Than the measures of man's mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.
"Pining souls! come nearer Jesus,
And, oh, come not doubting thus,
But with faith that trusts more bravely
His huge tenderness for us.
"If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord."
[Illustration]