CHAPTER V
THE JOHNSTON FAMILY
"WHERE is Letitia? I can't imagine what has become of her. That girl will be here directly, and it will seem so rude, if Letitia is out. Somebody ought to have met her in Bristol, but really I have not known how to arrange it; and Letitia never thinks of anything."
"Except it be a thing that she wants for herself," chimed in Howard Johnston, a rather handsome and severe-looking young man, busy at a side writing-table in the large drawing-room. It was an upstairs drawing-room, after the manner of the big old-fashioned Royal York Crescent houses in Clifton; and its front windows overlooked the lengthy crescent-shaped stone terrace which partly hid from sight the road below.
"Girls always think of themselves first. What can you expect? I'm sure she is welcome to do what she likes, generally. 'I' don't expect my children to put themselves out for me," declared Mrs. Johnston complacently, from the depths of a luxurious chair. "But I do think she ought to have managed to meet her friend. She knows that I meant to send her down in a cab with Jerrold—and I didn't see the use of Jerrold going alone. She would never have managed to stumble on the right person. Jerrold is all very well as a maid, but she is stupid about that sort of thing."
"It might have been more polite to make the effort."
"Do you think so? But really I have been so busy, I am afraid it slipped my memory. Letitia should have seen to things. At all events, she ought to have managed to come home in time."
"No doubt the young lady knows Letitia too well to be astonished at anything."
"But I have never seen her, and she knows none of us except Letitia. It was so provoking that she should accept the invitation just now. Almost any other time would have been better. So much going on in Clifton! And, of course, we can't take Miss Mackenzie everywhere. People haven't always spare space; and I don't even know yet whether she is presentable; and Letitia can't be perpetually leaving her. It is provoking. Letitia said we were bound to ask her before winter because it has always been a promise. I am sure I shouldn't have remembered, but I suppose I did say something once, and Letitia seems to have made the most of it. So absurd of her. And I suppose the girl will stay a month at least. Country people of that sort have no notion of paying a short visit."
"Make some other arrangement, and tell her the room won't be free after a certain date."
"My dear boy, how can I? Letitia has asked her for a month. 'It was always promised,' she says."
"Promised! For whose sake?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Letitia 'used' to wish it."
"Well—if Letitia undertakes her—"
"But that is the very thing! I believe Letitia would be as glad to be off it as I should be. Of course they were very good friends at school, but that is another matter. It isn't really that Letitia 'wants' her now, only she feels bound. I don't suppose Miss Mackenzie is anything particular—not pretty, or clever, and she doesn't sing or play, and her father is only the manager of a little country branch bank. For my part, I can't imagine what made Letitia take to her; only girls do like to have a fuss made about themselves, and it is plain that Miss Mackenzie has an immense admiration for Letitia. That's how it has been. And at school, as I say, it was all very well. Letitia was glad of anything to pass the time. But here it is different. She has any amount of friends; and really, between ourselves, I believe she would have been glad if Miss Mackenzie had put off coming. Only, in a sort of way, Letitia is conscientious, you know, and she declared we had to ask the girl."
"Conscientious 'in a sort of way!' I should think her sense of obligation might extend so far as to include a kind welcome."
"Oh, of course! Letitia means to be as kind as possible. She always does. I don't say the child isn't a little scrap spoilt, but she really has very nice manners—generally. Of course she will take Miss Mackenzie about, and make it a pleasant visit. Only it really is 'rather' a bore for poor dear Letitia because I don't suppose Euphrasia Mackenzie will suit Letitia's friends in the least. And a month is a long time. If it were only a week or ten days, one could manage better. But it can't be helped. That sort of thing has to be endured. Letitia ought to have been more cautious with her promises. I do wish she would come in first of the two."
Letitia failed to do so. At this very moment she was seated in a friend's house, deeply interested in a certain discussion of plans, and oblivious of the hour. At this very moment Euphrasia was driving alone into the road below the Royal York Crescent.
She had not expected to find nobody waiting for her at the big noisy Bristol station. Euphrasia was not yet much of a traveller.
"You will be met, of course," her mother had said, on seeing her off.
And though capable of managing for herself, she did look out, with eagerness amounting to certainty, for Letitia's pretty face, as the train drew up.
But no Letitia was there! Euphrasia wasted some little time gazing blankly about, before she could make up her mind to the reality. Then she secured a porter and found her luggage, not a little hurt at the apparent coldness. Something might unexpectedly have happened to keep Letitia away—still, Euphrasia felt that it must have been a very serious something which should have sufficed to keep her away, if Letitia had been coming to her home.
"And if she could not come herself, she might have sent somebody," thought Euphrasia, during the long drive through Bristol, and up a Bristol hill, into Clifton.
The cabman presently pulled up and leant over for a word. "Will you get out at the lower door, or at the steps?"
"Lower door!"
"Royal York Crescent is a terrace, Miss. The luggage 'll have to go in at the lower door, but there's steps up to the terrace, if you'd sooner go in at the front door."
Euphrasia forlornly decided to cling to her luggage, and the cab drove on.
Then the "lower door" was reached. And Euphrasia found herself, inwardly quaking, in a long stone passage—kitchen regions, plainly. The maid led to a flight of stairs, by means of which they gained the hall. But this was only the "ground-floor," ordinarily considered, level with the terrace. Here were dining-room and library, while for the drawing-room yet another climb was needful. Country-bred Euphrasia, used to two little sitting-rooms on a level with earth's surface, found this a somewhat breathless experience. She grew each instant more heated, bewildered and embarrassed. One glimpse of Letitia would have set all right, but no Letitia appeared.
Had her coming been forgotten? Was she really not expected?
CHAPTER VI
EUPHRASIA'S FRIEND
"MISS MACKENZIE," announced the man, who had taken the place of the maid on the front door level.
Euphrasia cast a hungry glance round the drawing-room as she entered, and she found there no Letitia. Not even when, advancing farther, she obtained a view of the smaller back part, at first hidden. The disappointment was so keen as actually to bring a threatening of something like tears. Reserved Euphrasia was by no means always so reserved as she liked to count herself. She had to clench her gloved hands, and to set her teeth.
A young man, seated at a side writing-table, stood up, and the lady beyond made a half motion, as of intent to do the same, but did not actually raise herself. Perhaps the object seemed hardly worth the exertion. She held out a hand of welcome, however, smiling in a lavish style.
"How do you do, Miss Mackenzie? Quite well, I hope? And not very tired with your long journey! Travelling really is most fatiguing, is it not? We are delighted to have you at last in our midst."
Mrs. Johnston's eyes ran all over Euphrasia, taking careful stock of her exterior, and farther than the exterior those eyes had no power to penetrate. ("Dear me! What a very ordinary girl!" decided the lady. "What 'could' have made Letitia ever take a fancy to her? Such a jacket! And no manner at all!")
"It's really most unfortunate that Letitia should have been prevented from meeting you at the station. Bristol is such a bustling place that she fully meant to be there, but she found it impossible, I suppose, to get back in time. Letitia has so many engagements, and Clifton is such a busy place, always something going on. I never can count upon her now for anything. One lives in a perpetual rush. (Has the girl nothing to say? Does she mean to stand and stare for an hour?) Pray sit down, Miss Mackenzie. Yes, that chair please, Howard. My son,—no doubt Letitia has mentioned her brothers to you. Girls always talk over their home-people together, don't they? And you and she are great friends, I know—'immense' friends. Letitia has so often spoken of the pleasure of having you here."
"Letitia is rather more given to speech than action," remarked Howard.
"Oh, that is too bad—poor dear Letitia! When she isn't present to defend herself! But Miss Mackenzie and I know better. Of course Letitia has her little faults—what girl has not?—and sometimes she may even forget to look at her watch when she has an important engagement on hand, but she would never be willingly neglectful of anybody. I'm really afraid she must have forgotten the hour this afternoon, but she will be back directly. We shall see her in a minute or two; and I know how distressed she will feel at her own carelessness. (I declare, the girl has not uttered one single syllable, good, bad or indifferent! Is she a dummy? I'll try a direct question!) Have you had a pleasant journey?"
"Yes, thanks." Euphrasia gazed with combative eyes at the speaker; eyes which had to be combative, if they would escape being tearful.
"Chilly, I should imagine."
"I don't mind cold." Euphrasia spoke curtly.
"Ah! So different from me! Now, cold quite shrivels me up, positively kills me! But you are young and vigorous. Have you ever seen Clifton before?"
"No, never." ("And I shall not stay long to see it now," thought Euphrasia. "If only I had not come!")
"A very pretty place, you know. Delightful walks and drives. Letitia must take you across the downs, and into the Leigh Woods."
Euphrasia was silent.
"Ah, here is the child at last!" Mrs. Johnston spoke in a tone of relief, feeling that her share of responsibility was ended. "My dear, you have been most thoughtless! Your friend has arrived in your absence, and you know that you were to have gone down to the station. I had looked upon that as a settled matter. Miss Mackenzie must have thought you quite unkind, really 'most' unkind, letting her come among us as a perfect stranger. But of course you could not help it!"
Letitia entered slowly—a pretty girl, prettily dressed—with a thundercloud of annoyance on her brow. No confirmation came from her of the last assertion—no disclaimer from Euphrasia of the preceding. A mechanical kiss was exchanged between the friends, and Letitia stood gazing into the fireplace, wrapped up in her own thoughts. Mrs. Johnston glanced from the one downcast face to the other, uncomfortably aware of something out of joint.
"Where have you been, my dear?"
"To the Fearings!"—shortly.
"Lady Fearing?"
"Yes, of course! You knew! I told you I was going there!" The tone spoke of ill-temper, and was, to say the least, disrespectful.
That her friend "had a temper," as the saying goes, Euphrasia was aware, but she had not before seen precisely this form of it. At school Letitia had been in wholesome subjection, and such a tone to the principal, or to any of the teachers, would not have been tolerated for a moment. At home the spoilt manner of a spoilt child was at once reassumed, but it came upon Euphrasia with a shock. She was not herself peculiarly sympathetic in manner to her own mother, but at least she never showed disrespect.
"Well, you may have told me, Letitia, but I am sure I don't remember. So many things are always coming up."
"Lady Fearing asked me to call, and I told you I had to go and couldn't get back early. You 'might' have remembered," Letitia continued curtly. "And it's most provoking. Lady Fearing wants me to go to Bath with her and Cecy next week for three or four nights—to one of the hotels. We should go everywhere and see everything. It would be so delightful. Of course, I said I could not, but—"
"No, of course not," assented Mrs. Johnston, with a warning glance, which had more effect on Euphrasia than on Letitia.
Letitia sighed, and dangled one of her gloves to and fro with a dismal air.
"Of all things I should have loved it," she murmured.
"Why should you not go?" asked Euphrasia.
"Oh, why—of course—" uttered Letitia, half-ashamed.
"It would not be convenient. Entirely out of the question." Mrs. Johnston launched another reproachful glance. She might be as much disappointed as Letitia at the impossibility, and she was not delighted at first sight with her daughter's friend, nevertheless, she knew what politeness required of them both.
"Then it is not because of my being here for a few days? That need make no difference. I shall be going home early next week."
"Oh, nonsense—why, you promised us a month at least." Letitia was beginning to get a glimpse of herself from outside, and to realise the rudeness into which temper had betrayed her.
"I don't think I promised anything. I have only come for a 'very' few days. My father isn't well, and I almost put off coming altogether."
"Oh, well—of course that makes a difference. I mean, I am very sorry he isn't well. What is the matter with him? But you wouldn't like to be long away, if he is poorly. And then, of course—"
"My dear, I think you had better show Miss Mackenzie to her room. Tea will be up in a few minutes, and Miss Mackenzie may be glad to remove her hat."
Euphrasia made no objection. She was upheld by a consciousness of having acted her part well. She certainly 'would' go home—if not before Sunday, then immediately after. At home she was wanted, here she was not wanted. A glow of affection for the dear little home crept over her as she walked silently in Letitia's rear; and she wondered how she could ever have been so eager to leave it.
CHAPTER VII
FRIENDS AND FRIENDS
A PANG came as Euphrasia remembered her father's forecast of loss and change, and she wondered how long the little home would still be theirs. How small other matters seemed by comparison!
"And yet I 'did' think Letitia really loved me! I didn't think she could be like this!" the girl said voicelessly.
The cloud had cleared from Letitia's brow and she tripped lightly upstairs showing the way. Once she paused to slip her arm within Euphrasia's in the old affectionate style, but there was no response.
"Why, Euphrasia! You are not vexed with me, are you?"
Euphrasia made no answer till the question was repeated. "I don't know," she said then, slowly. "Perhaps not—exactly—vexed! Only I thought you really wanted to have me, and now I see it was a mistake."
"You dear old goosie! Nonsense, Euphrasia! What 'can' have put such an absurd notion into your head? Not want you! Of course I want you. I wanted you to stay a whole month—you know I did."
"Only you are very glad I cannot."
"Really, Euphrasia, you are too ridiculous! What nonsense! Of course if your father isn't well, you are right to go home. That is another matter. I shouldn't be right to try and keep you."
"And then you will be free to go to Bath!"
"Oh, that—as to that, I shall see! Other things might prevent. I may not go, anyhow. It just depends! Of course, I should like it, and I don't see why you should mind! Anybody would like such a treat, and anybody would be provoked when things don't fit in properly. But my wanting to go there doesn't mean that I don't want to have you here too."
Euphrasia shook her head, almost imperceptibly.
"Why, they can all tell you that I have talked for months of your visit. But of course I have other friends too. And Cecy Fearing is the very dearest girl! If you knew her, you wouldn't wonder at me."
"I quite understand," Euphrasia answered, standing gravely near the dressing-table. By this time they were in the little bedroom.
"Well, I hope you are not going to have any more fancies. You ought to know me better by this time. Do you think you can find your way downstairs? Shall I send the maid to help you unpack? No? You dear piece of independence! Tea will be up in a few minutes, and there's something I 'must' do first. But don't be long coming down."
Letitia hurried off, plainly eager to be free; and Euphrasia gazed solemnly out of the window, seeing nothing.
"Father would say that one has to learn what the world is like. And Mrs. Landor would call this being désillusionnée. I did think I had one real friend in Letitia, and now I find I have not! Perhaps it is a good thing to find out early, not to be long deceived. She seemed so different at school. But everything was different there. These Fearings—why, they are quite new people. Letitia didn't know them three months ago. And yet she would rather be with them than with me. But they are somebodies and I am a nobody."
Euphrasia laughed faintly. One may be quite as proud of being a Nobody as of being a Somebody, but she did not know this.
"Anyhow, I am not going to make a goose of myself, or to let them see that I care. My father being poorly is excuse enough for me to hurry home. I shall not write to-night, because I might say too much. But to-morrow morning I'll tell him plainly that Letitia is not the friend I thought her, and that I'm not really wanted here, and so I mean to go home on Monday or Tuesday. Only he must not think that I am letting out anything he said to me. I shall have to be careful."
Meanwhile Letitia ran downstairs, and was greeted in the drawing-room by a—
"Really, Letitia—!"
"It's all right, mother. She's obliged to go home in a hurry because of her father! So now I can go to Bath."
"You will do nothing of the kind," Mrs. Johnston said, for once seriously displeased. "I would not on any account have Miss Mackenzie hurried away in such a fashion, just for your convenience. Of course I should like you to be in Bath with Lady Fearing, but I will not have a guest treated with rudeness, and that would be positive rudeness."
"She says she has to go home."
"Nonsense, my dear. Could you not see for yourself? Of course she felt bound to say so, when you showed so plainly what you wanted. But after asking her here for a month—really it was too bad, and Howard says the same. If you choose to make foolish promises to your friends, you must take the consequences. Nobody else wanted her, but now she is here, she will stay—at all events for ten days or a fortnight. I don't believe a word about her father's health. Why did she not mention it in writing?"
"I don't see why she should." Letitia spoke sullenly.
"Anybody else would see. Which day do the Fearings go to Bath?"
"Tuesday. To stay till Friday or Saturday."
"Then it is out of the question. You must give up all idea of such a thing." Mrs. Johnston spoke with unwonted decision. "It can't be, and that is the long and short of the matter."
A few minutes later Euphrasia made her appearance. She would not remain long upstairs. She did not wish for solitude or time to think, and she was especially desirous not to show signs of affront. Such signs would be tantamount to an avowal that her father's indisposition was not the real, or at all events not the sole cause of her shortened visit. "And it 'shall' be short," she told herself resolutely.
Letitia's face showed a fresh phase of affairs, which at first perplexed Euphrasia. Tea was come, and Mrs. Johnston while dispensing it talked continuously, to cover her daughter's silence. Euphrasia made necessary answers, not hearing half that was said, till the words caught her attention:
"Next Wednesday Letitia shall take you."
The "where" had doubtless been explained before.
"Thank you," she said at once, "but I shall not be here on Wednesday."
Mrs. Johnston laughed. "Indeed, Miss Mackenzie, we shall not let you off so early. If a whole month is impossible, a fortnight is the least we can be content with."
"Thank you. It is very kind." Euphrasia's eyes went straight to Letitia's face, and lingered there for two seconds. "But I must go home on Monday or Tuesday. Not later than Tuesday."
"No, indeed! I really could not consent. I shall write to your father myself, and ask him if it is necessary." Mrs. Johnston spoke with an air of pleasant determination. "I do not think he can be so ill as not to spare you for a short time. As for Letitia's absurd notion about Bath, pray do not let that trouble you. The plan is absolutely out of the question."
"It makes no difference. I must go on Monday or Tuesday."
A smile of dissent answered, and Mrs. Johnston put the matter aside, as if further discussion were superfluous. Since Letitia would not exert herself, Mrs. Johnston did, and the next hour was made as pleasant to Euphrasia as could be possible under the circumstances.
"Most fatiguing for myself, for the girl has no conversation," Mrs. Johnston stated inwardly, with compassion for her own arduous task. But she succeeded in winning Euphrasia's gratitude, and even to some extent Euphrasia's liking.
"Letitia, my dear, I wish you would run upstairs and get me that little work-basket out of my bedroom," she said, after a while. Lights had been brought in, for it was getting dark.
"Oh, bother,—why don't you ring for the maid? I'm tired." As with most spoilt children, "tired" with her meant "out of temper."
"Really, my dear, you might speak more civilly."
And Euphrasia started up, actually blushing for Letitia.
"Please let me! I should like so much to go. Yes, I know your bedroom—the front room over this. And the work-basket—"
"Well, really, you are very kind! I'm most obliged—but after all—yes, just a little work-basket, on the small table within the door. But I don't like—"
Euphrasia was gone. "I call 'that' obliging," said Mrs. Johnston.
Euphrasia had no difficulty in finding her way, though the landing above was dark. It seemed that the servants had delayed later than usual lighting the gas. She gained the room, found the work-basket, and set off swiftly to return. Too swiftly for one not familiar with the geography of the house.
Before she knew it, the first short flight was reached. When just about to move cautiously, in search of the stairs, her foot was already over the topmost step. Beyond that—a dead blank!
CHAPTER VIII
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."
CHAPTER IX
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."