CHAPTER XI.
"Then you have done something wrong," said Effie, loosening her hold ofher brother's arm and backing to a little distance. He could scarcelysee her face in the ever increasing darkness, but he noticed the changein her voice. There was an indignant note of pained and astonished youthin it. Effie had never come face to face with the graver sins of life;the word "prison" stunned her, she forgot pity for a moment inindignation.
"George," she said, with a sort of gasp, "father left mother to you,--ina sort of way he gave her up to you,--and you have done wrong; you havesinned."
"You talk just like a girl," said George; "you jump at conclusions. You,an innocent girl living in the shelter of home, know as little about thetemptations which we young fellows have to meet out in the world, asyou know of the heavens above you. My God! Effie, it is a hard world--itis hard, _hard_ to keep straight in it. Yes, I have done wrong--I knowit--and father gave mother to me. If you turn away from me, Effie, Ishall go to the bad--I shall go to the worst of all; there will not be achance for me if you turn from me."
The tone of despair in his voice changed Effie's frame of mind in amoment. She ran up to him and put her arms round his neck.
"I won't turn from you, poor George," she said. "It did shock me for amoment--it frightened me rather more than I can express; but perhaps Idid not hear you aright, perhaps you did not say the word 'prison.' Youdon't mean to say that unless you get that impossible sum of money youwill have to go to prison, George?"
"Before God, it is true," said George. "I cannot, I won't tell you why,but it is as true as I stand here."
"Then you will kill our mother," said Effie.
"I know that."
"And father left her to you. George, it cannot be. I must think ofsomething--my head is giddy--we have not any money to spare. It will bethe hardest fight in the world to keep the children from starvation onthat hundred pounds a year, but something must be done. I'll go andspeak to the trustees."
"Who are the trustees?" asked George. He rose again to his feet. Therewas a dull sort of patience in his words.
"Mr. Watson is one,--you know the Watsons, father has always been sogood to them,--and our clergyman, Mr. Jellet, is the other. Yes, I mustgo and speak to them; but what am I to say?"
"You must not betray me," said George. "If you mention that I want themoney, all will be up with me. In any case, there may be suspicion. Menof the world like Mr. Watson and Mr. Jellet would immediately guessthere was something wrong if a lad required such a large sum of money.You must not tell them that _I_ want it."
"How can I help it? Oh, everything is swimming round before my eyes; Ifeel as if my head would burst."
"Think of me," said George--"think of the load I have got to bear."
Effie glanced up at him. His attitude and his words puzzled and almostrevolted her. After a time she said coldly:
"What hour are you leaving in the morning?"
"I want to catch the six-o'clock train to town. This is good-by, Effie;I shan't see you before I go. Remember, there are six weeks beforeanything can happen. If anyone can save me, you can. It is worth asacrifice to keep our mother from dying."
"Yes, it would kill her," said Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannotthink nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you havegiven me has come so unexpectedly, and it--it is so awful. But I'll getup to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me duringthe night."
"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and,entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for along time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standingin the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps hadtrodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about asick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverishpitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl oftroubled thoughts passed through her brain. It had been her onecomfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that herfather was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took thatfather's place.
George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly thesame age--Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago Georgehad been good to the little sister--they had never quarreled, they hadgrown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had beentrue--as true as anything in all the world.
George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent hadvisited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. Itwas so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed sonarrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy toldher what some women did with their lives.
Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps;then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes,and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear,brave, manly George! The brother who had passed out of childhood, andentered man's estate.
Her father's last message had been to George--he had given her preciousmother into George's care.
It seemed to Effie to-night, standing out under the stars, as if George,too, were dead. The old George was really dead, and a stranger had takenhis place. This stranger wore the outward guise of her brother--he hadhis eyes, his figure; his voice had the same tone, he could look at youjust in George's way, but he could utter terrible words which George hadnever known anything about. He could talk of _sin_ and _prison_. Hecould propose that Effie should rescue him at the risk of her mother'slivelihood. Oh, what did it mean? How was she to bear it?--how could shebear it? She clasped her hands, tears filled her eyes, but she was toooppressed, too pained, too stunned to weep long. Presently she went intothe house, and lay down on her bed without undressing.
During the whole of that terrible night Effie scarcely slept. It was theworst night in all her life. Toward morning she dozed a little, butsprang up with a start, fearing that George had gone to London withoutseeing her. For her mother's sake she must see him. Whatever happened,her mother must never know of this calamity. Effie got up, washed herhands and face, smoothed out her hair, and went downstairs. George wasalready up, he was standing in the little parlor. He turned round whenhe heard his sister's footsteps, and looked anxiously at her.
"What a brute I am!" he said, when he saw the expression on her face;"but I swear before God, Effie, if you will help me, I'll turn over anew leaf; I'll never do a wrong thing again as long as I live--I swearit."
"Don't swear it," said Effie; "it seems to make it worse to do that. Ifyou did wrong once, you may again. Don't swear. Ask God to help you. Idon't know that I have been praying all night, but I have been tryingto."
"Well, Effie, what have you determined to do?" he asked.
"Is there no one else who can help you, George?"
"Not a soul; I have only one friend, and that is Fred Lawson."
"Oh, yes! I remember you spoke of him last night. Would he help you?"
"He help me!" said George, with a hysterical laugh. "Why, he is the chapI have wronged. There, don't ask me any more. If you can help me, I amsaved; if you can't, say so, and I'll go straight to destruction."
"No, you shan't do that, George. I have thought of something--nothingmay come of it, but I'm going to try. It is terribly repugnant to me,but I would sacrifice much to save my mother. If it fails, all fails."
"I have thought," said George eagerly, "that, as the case is such anextreme one, we might take some of the capital. There is a thousandpounds; a quarter of that sum would put me right."
"It cannot be done for a moment," said Effie, her face flushing hotly."That money must under no circumstances be touched; my mother and thechildren depend on it for their bread."
"I don't know what is to be done, then," said George in a hopelessvoice.
"You must trust to me, George; I am going to try to help you in my ownway. If I fail, I fail; but somehow I don't think I shall. If I have anynews I will write to you soon; and now good-by, good-by."
George turned and kissed Effie; she gave him her cheek, but her lips didnot touch his. She was willing to help him, but her love for the timewas dead or dying.
The young man walked hurriedly down the village street. Effie stood inthe porch and watched him; his shoulders were bowed, he stooped. Georgeused to have a fine figure; Effie used to be proud of him--she was notproud of her brother now.
She went back to the house, and sat down listlessly for a time in thelittle parlor--her hands were folded in her lap. It seemed to her as ifthe end of all things had come.
Presently the sound of the children's voices overhead aroused her; shewent upstairs, and helped Susan to dress them. Returning to the everydayduties of life had a soothing effect upon her. She made a violent effortand managed to put her trouble behind her for the time being. Whateverhappened, her mother must not see any traces of it.
When the baby was dressed, she took him as usual to her mother's room.
Mrs. Staunton sat up in bed and stretched out her arms to receive him.Effie gave him to her mother, who began to kiss his little facehungrily.
"Has George gone, Effie?" said the mother.
"Yes, mother, dear."
"Did anyone see him off--did he have his breakfast?"
"Yes, he had a good breakfast; I got it ready for him last night."
"But did anyone see him off?"
"I did."
"That's right; I should not have liked him to have had his last meal byhimself. I miss him awfully. Effie, dear, how soon do you think we cango to London?"
"As soon as possible, mother--in about six weeks."
"Six weeks!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "I can't live without George forsix weeks."
"Oh, yes, you can, mother--at least you'll try."