by L. T. Meade
CHAPTER VI.
The raspberry tart was put in the oven, and Mrs. Staunton went upstairsto her own room.
She was a woman, who, as a rule, utterly disregarded dress. She gave butlittle thought to her personal appearance. Like many other women of themiddle class, she had sunk since her marriage from the trim, pretty girlto the somewhat slatternly matron.
Nothing could destroy the sweet comeliness of her face, however, but inthe struggle for life she and Fashion had fallen out--Fashion went inone direction, and Mrs. Staunton strayed gently in another. She did notmind whether her dress was cut according to the mode or not--shescarcely looked at her faded but still pretty face. Now and then thistrait in her mother's character vexed Effie. Effie adored her mother,she thought her the most beautiful of women, and anything that took fromher sweet charms annoyed her.
This evening, however, Mrs. Staunton made a careful and deliberatetoilet.
She removed her dowdy black dress, and, opening a drawer in herwardrobe, took out a soft gray silk which lay folded between tissuepaper and sprigs of lavender. She put the dress on, and fastened softlace ruffles round her throat and at her wrists. The dress transformedher. It toned with all her faded charms. She put a real lace cap overher still thick and pretty hair, and, going down to the little parlor,sat upright on one of the chairs near the window which looked into thegarden.
Effie came in presently, and started when she saw her mother.
"Why, mother," she said, "how sweet, how sweet you look!" She went overand kissed her. Mrs. Staunton returned her embrace very quietly.
"It is for your father," she said. "He would like me to look nice--I amsure he'd like us all to look nice to-night. Go upstairs, Effie, dear,and put on your pretty blue muslin. And you, Agnes, I wish you to wearyour Sunday frock."
Agnes, who had bounded into the room at this moment, stopped short inastonishment.
"Are we all going to a party?" she asked, excitement in her tone.
"No, no; but your father has come home."
"Only father! what does that matter?" Agnes lolled on to the sofa andcrossed her legs. "I want to read over my lecture for the High School. Ican't be bothered to change my dress!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Aggie, go at once when mother wishes you," said Effie. "Go and puton your Sunday frock, and tell Katie to do the same, and ask Susan toput the younger children into their white dresses. Go at once; motherwishes it."
Agnes flung herself out of the room, muttering.
Effie looked again at her mother.
She did not notice her, she was smiling softly to herself, and lookingout at the garden. Effie felt her heart sink lower and lower.
She went gravely upstairs, put on her blue dress, brushed out her brightdark hair, and, looking her sweetest and freshest, came downstairsagain. Mrs. Staunton was still sitting by the window. Her cheeks wereflushed, her eyes were unusually bright. She looked twenty years youngerthan she had done two hours ago--she looked beautiful. The soul seemedto shine out of her face. When Effie came in, she stood up restlesslyand looked at the supper table.
"Yes," she said, "it is just as he likes it--the fragrant coffee, theraspberry tart and the jug of cream, the new-laid eggs, the brown loafand the fresh butter. A simple sort of meal--yes, quite simple and verywholesome. Very homelike, that's the word. Effie, there never was such ahomelike sort of man as your father. Give him home and you fill hisheart. This supper table is just what he will like best. He does notcare for new-fangled things. He is old-fashioned--he is the best of men,Effie, the best of men."
"He will be glad to see you in your nice dress, mother--he is so proudof you--he thinks you are so lovely."
"So I am in his eyes," said Mrs. Staunton in a wistful voice. "I amold-fashioned like himself, and this dress is old-fashioned too. It wasa pretty dress when it was made up. Let me see, that was twelve yearsago--we went to Margate for a week, and he bought me the dress. He tookgreat pains in choosing the exact shade of gray; he wanted it to besilver gray--he said his mother used to wear silver gray when she sat inthe porch on summer evenings. Yes, this dress is like a piece of oldlavender--it reminds me of the past, of the sunny, happy past. I havehad such a happy life, Effie--never a cross word said, never a dour lookgiven me. Love has surrounded me from the moment of my marriage untilnow. I feel young to-night, and I am going to be happy, very happy. Thechildren must look their best too. Run up, darling, to the nursery andsee that Susan is doing them justice--they are pretty children everyone of them, worthy of your father. Now, let me see, would not a fewroses improve this table? That great jug of sweet peas in the middle isjust what he likes, but we might have roses and mignonette as well. I'llgo and gather a bunch of those Banksia roses which grow in front of thehouse."
"You'll tire yourself, mother. Let me go."
"No; I never felt stronger than I do to-night. I'd like to pick themmyself."
Mrs. Staunton went out of doors. She cut great sprays from the Banksiarose and brought them back with her. She placed them in a brown jug, andstood the jug on the table. Then she opened both windows wide, and leftthe door ajar. There was the sweetest smell wafted through the room--thesweet peas, roses, mignonette, seemed to be floating in the air.
The children all came down dressed in their Sunday frocks. They lookedpuzzled, uncomfortable, awed. One and all asked the same question:
"Is it a party, mother? Are any visitors coming to tea?"
"No. No!" replied the mother to each in his or her turn. "It is onlyyour father who has come home, and it is right that we should give him awelcome."
When she had answered the last of the children, Dr. Staunton entered theroom.
He started at the pretty sight which met his eyes. The room and thetemptingly laid out supper table--the children in their bestdresses--the old wife in her gray silk--looked to him the most beautifulsight his eyes had ever rested on.
What was all this festival about?--he drew himself up hastily--a sortof shudder went through him. In spite of his efforts his voice wasterribly husky.
"Are we going to have company?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.All the other eyes looked back at him--he knew perfectly well evenbefore the children burst out with the news, that he himself was thecompany.
"You have come back, father, and mother says we are to look our verybest," exclaimed little Phil.
"All right, Phil, I am more than agreeable," replied the doctor. "Nowyou must excuse me, good folk. I am bound in duty to do honor to allthis company splendor, by washing my hands and putting on mySunday-go-to-meeting coat."
"Effie, you may fetch the coffee," said her mother.
The supper that followed was a merry meal--Dr. Staunton told his beststories--they were capped by his wife's. Effie laughed as if she hadnever heard them before, and the children made themselves riotouslyagreeable.
When the meal was at an end, Dr. Staunton and his wife went out into thegarden at the back of the house. He drew his arm round her waist, andthey walked up and down together on the little rose path at the top ofthe garden.
Effie watched them from the parlor window. There was a queer lump in herthroat. She could not get over the strange sensation of nervousness andcoming disaster. The foreboding which filled her could not be foughtdown. She had laughed almost against her will at supper-time, but nowshe ceased to smile--she no longer made the faintest attempt to becheerful. She hated the pretty room, and the sweet-peas, and the rosesand mignonette.
The children were idly lolling about. She turned, and spoke almostcrossly.
"Don't you know, Aggie, that it is long past the younger children's hourfor staying up? Can't you make yourself useful for once, and go up andput them to bed?"
"Can't you come, Effie--we'd much rather have you," said little Phil andWalter, the brother next in age. "Agnes is so cross, she pulls our hairso when she combs it out."
"I don't, you bad boys!" exclaimed Agnes, coloring high. "Won't I giveit to you next time we are alone for saying that!"
"She does, Effie; she does indeed," said little Phil, running up to hiselder sister, and clasping his arms round her light blue dress.
"Don't, Phil; you will spoil my pretty frock!" she cried.
"Why, you are cross too," he answered, looking up at her. He was sostartled and amazed at this new tone in Effie's voice, that words failedhim altogether for a minute. It seemed to him as if a castle of cardshad tumbled all over his head, and as if he stood in the middle of theruins. If Effie were going to turn nasty, according to Phil's idea,there was nothing further to be looked for in life. Walter, however, whowas older, had more discernment than his little brother.
"Effie has a headache," he said; "can't you see that she has a headache?We'll be very good indeed, Effie, if Agnes will put us to bed."
"Come along, then," said Agnes, scuttling them out of the room in frontof her. "You must be quick about it, for I have not half prepared myto-morrow's lessons. Now then, out you go."
The children disappeared.
The room was once more empty, except for the silent figure who stood inthe window. She could catch a glimpse of her father and mother walkingup and down in the garden. Presently the two approached the house. Mrs.Staunton went straight upstairs to her room, and the doctor returned tothe parlor.
"Your mother is very tired to-night, Effie," he said in a grave voice.
He sat down in the armchair just where he could smell the sweet-peas andthe Banksia roses.
"Yes," he continued, "I am anxious about her." There was not a trace nowof any of the jollity which had marked him at supper. His face was grayand worn--his voice decidedly husky. That huskiness in her father'svoice went like a stab to Effie's heart. She shut the door and went andstood by his side.
"Don't you think you had better go upstairs and help your mother to getto bed?"
"No; she likes best to be alone," replied Effie. "I want to sit by you.What is the matter with your throat?"
"My throat!--why?"
"You are so husky."
"I am dead beat, that's the truth of it. I am as weak as a cat, and forno earthly reason. Don't bother about my throat, it will be all rightafter I have had a good night's rest. I tell you, Effie, I never saw achild so ill as that little Freda Harvey. That woman who nursed her isan angel--an angel."
"I didn't say too much about her, father, did I?" said Effie, with alittle note of triumph coming into her voice even in the midst of heranxiety.
"That you didn't, my darling--she is one of God's angels and I say 'Godbless her!' Now I want to talk about your mother."
"Yes, father," said Effie, laying her hand on his. She started back themoment she did so. The evening was a very hot one, and touching thedoctor's hand was like clasping fire.
"How you burn!" she exclaimed.
"That's weakness," he said. "I shall take some bromide to-night; I amcompletely worn-out, shaken, and all that sort of thing. Now, Effie,don't interrupt me. I wish to talk to you of your mother. Are youprepared to listen?"
"Of course, father."
"She has been talking of you--she says you have got an idea into yourhead that you ought to make more of your life than you can make of itstaying at home, and being the blessing of the house, and the joy of mylife and of hers."
"Oh, father, father, I did wish it," said Effie, tears springing intoher eyes. "I did long for it, but I'll give it up, I'll give it all upif it makes you and mother unhappy."
"But it doesn't, my dear. The old birds cannot expect to keep the youngones in the nest for ever and ever. Your mother spoke very sensiblyto-night. I never saw any woman so altered for the time being. She wouldnot let me imagine there was a thing the matter with her, and she spokeall the time about you, as though she wanted to plead with me, yourfather, to give you a happy life. Do you think I would deny it to you,my dear little girl?"
"No, father; you have never denied me anything."
"I have never denied what was for your good, sweetheart."
Dr. Staunton clasped Effie to his breast. She flung her arms round himwith a sudden tight pressure.
"Easy, easy!" he exclaimed; "you are half-choking me. My breathingcertainly feels oppressed--I must have taken a chill. I'll get off tobed as fast as I can. No, child, you need not be alarmed. I have oftennoticed this queer development of hoarseness in people who have longbreathed the poisonous air which surrounds diphtheria and scarlet fever,but in my case the hoarseness means nothing. Now, Effie, let me say aword or two to you. I don't know what the future has in it--it isimpossible for any of us to know the future, and I say, thank God forthe blessed curtain which hides it from our view; but whatever it has init, my child, I wish you to understand that you are to do your best withyour life. Make it full if you can--in any case make it blessed. A monthago, I will admit frankly, I did not approve of lady-nurses. After mywonderful experience, however, with Dorothy Fraser, I must say that Ihave completely changed my opinion. The girl with heart and nerve, withcommon sense, with an unselfish spirit, can be a nurse whatever herstation in life. If to these qualifications she adds the refinements ofgood breeding and the education of a lady, she is the best of all."
"Hurrah!" cried Effie--tears filled her eyes. "What a grand triumph forDorothy!" she exclaimed.
"She deserves every word I have said of her. If she wishes to take youback with her to London when she goes,--if that is what is now at thebottom of your heart,--go, child, with my blessing. We shall miss you athome, of course, but we are not worth our salt if we are going to beselfish."
"You never, never were that," said Effie.
"Now I have one more thing to say--it is about your mother. I have neverreally told you my true fears about her. You know, of course, that shesuffers from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springsfrom no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which makeme fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the moreserious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It isthat fear which haunts my life--I could not live without your mother,child. Effie, child. I could not live without her."
The doctor's voice suddenly broke--he bowed his head on his hands, and abroken sort of groan escaped his lips.
"We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not haveany pain, nor fear, nor anxiety."
"I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leaveher----"
"I'll never leave her if it is to injure her--there, I have promised."
"You are a good girl. I trust you. I lean on you. Your mother could notlive through an anxiety--a great fear, a great trouble would kill her."
"It shan't come," said Effie.
"God grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice.
He rose suddenly to his feet.
"I must go to bed," he said. "I have not had a real proper sleep fornights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my lifeis insured for a thousand pounds. If--if at any time that should beneeded, it will be there; it is best for you to know."
"I wish you would not talk about it, father."
"Very well, I won't; but talking about things doesn't bring trouble anynearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrangeall he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future neverhastens matters. There is a God above. He has led me all my days. Itrust Him absolutely. I submit to His mighty will."
The doctor left the room--his broad back was bowed--he walked slowly.
Effie stood near the door of the little parlor, watching him, until hisgray head was lost to view. Then she went back and sat on the oldhorse-hair sofa, with her hands clasped tightly before her.
"My father is the best man in the world," she murmured under her breath."I never met anyone like my father--so simple--so straightforward--sofull of real feeling--so broad in his views. Talk of a sequestered lifemaking a man narrower; there never was a man more open to realconviction than father. The fact is, no girl ever had better parentsthan I have; and the wonderful thing is that they give me l
eave to go,and take their blessing with me. It is wonderful--it is splendid. Agnesmust be taught to do my present work. I'll train her for the next threemonths; and then, perhaps, in the winter I can join Dorothy in London.Dear father, he is nervous about mother; but while he is there, no harmcan come to her. I do not believe one could live without the other.Well, well, I feel excited and nervous myself. I had better followfather's example, and go to bed."
