Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Girl in Ten Thousand by L. T. Meade (old books to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «A Girl in Ten Thousand by L. T. Meade (old books to read .TXT) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
"I'll keep your secret, of course," said the Squire. "But permit me to say one thing before you begin to tell it to me: there's not the slightest fear of my not granting it. There is nothing that you can possibly ask of me, that, under the circumstances, I should think it right to refuse. Now, pray proceed."
"I want you," said Effie—she gulped down a great lump in her throat, and proceeded in a sort of desperation—"I want you to lend me 250 pounds. I'll pay you interest—I think five per cent. is fair interest—I'll pay you interest on the money, and return it to you by installments."
There was not the least doubt that Effie's request startled the Squire. The amount of the money required was nothing to him, for he was a very rich man; but the girl's manner, her evident distress, the93 look of shame and misery on her face, surprised him. He guessed that she was borrowing the money for another, but for whom?
"I can see you are in trouble," he said in his kindest tone. "Why don't you confide in me? As to the money, make your mind easy, you shall have it; but girls like you don't as a rule borrow a large sum of money of this kind. Do you want it for yourself?"
"No."
"You won't tell me who it is for?"
"I cannot, Mr. Harvey. Please don't ask me."
"I won't ask you anything that distresses you. As you are talking of money, you will forgive me for saying that I am told that your mother is left badly off."
"No; that's a mistake," said Effie. "She has money. My father left her very well off for a man in his position. He insured his life for a thousand pounds, and my mother had a little fortune of her own, which brings in about sixty pounds a year."
"And you think your mother well off with that?" said the Squire in a tone of almost amused pity.
"Yes, for a woman in her position," said Effie in almost a proud tone. "Forgive me," she said; "I know that, after the request I have just made, you would be justified in asking me any questions, but I would rather not say any more about my mother. If you'll lend me the money—if indeed you will be so good, so noble—when can I have it?"
"When do you want it?"
"I must have it before six weeks are up, but the sooner the better."
"You shall have it in a week. Come here this day week and I'll give you a check for the amount."'
"A check!" said Effie; "but I would have to pass94 that through mother's bank—and—and she might know."
"Are you really asking for this money without your mother's knowledge, Miss Staunton?"
"Yes; my mother is not to know. Mr. Harvey, the object of our lives is to keep all anxiety from our mother—she must never know."
"Forgive me," said the Squire, after a pause. "I know a great deal about business, and you very little. Would it not be best to open an account in your own name? I am told that you propose soon to go to London. I would introduce you to my bankers there, who would be very glad to open an account with you; and if at any time you should have need of assistance, Miss Staunton, you would give me the privilege of helping you. Remember, but for me and mine you would not now be fatherless. You must see that you have a claim on me. Allow me to fulfill that claim in the only possible way in my power."
"You are good, you are more than good," said Effie, rising. "But this is all I really need. I'll pay you the interest on the money every half year."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. I earnestly wish you would take it as a gift."
"Thank you, but that is impossible."
Effie stood up; she had nothing further to say.
"May I take you to my wife's room now?" said, the Squire. "I know she is waiting to see you, she is longing to be friends with you. Her recovery has been wonderful; and as to little Freda, she is almost herself again. You would like to see Freda, would you not?"
"Yes," said Effie, "but not to-day—I must hurry back to my mother. I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Harvey. Will you please tell your—your95 wife that I cannot stay to-day?—my mother wants me. Thank you—thank you."
The Squire himself showed Effie out. He stood for a moment by his open hall door, watched her as she walked slowly down the avenue.
"That is a plucky little thing," he said to himself. "Now, what in the world does she want that money for? Not for herself, I'll be bound. I do hope she has got no disreputable relations hanging onto her. Well, at least it is my bounden duty to help her, but I wish she would confide in me. She is a pretty girl, too, and has a look of the doctor about her eyes."
"Where is Miss Staunton?" asked Mrs. Harvey, coming forward.
"Vanishing round that corner, my love," returned the Squire. "The fact is, the poor little thing is completely upset, and cannot face anyone."
"But her business, Walter—what did she want?"
"Ah, that's the secret—she made me swear not to tell anyone. It is my opinion, Elfreda, that the child has got into trouble. We must do what we can for her."
"I wish she would come here and be Freda's governess," said Mrs. Harvey.
The Squire looked at his wife.
"That's a good thought," he remarked; "and we might give her a big salary—she is so innocent, she would not really know anything about it. We might give her two hundred a year, and then she could help her mother; but I doubt whether she would leave her mother—she seems simply bound up in her."
"It is our duty to help her," said Mrs. Harvey, "whatever happens. If she won't come to us, we must think of some other way."
"Yes we must," said the Squire.
In less than six weeks the Stauntons were settled in London. George had taken lodgings for them in a cheap part of Bayswater. The rooms were high up in a dismal sort of house. There were a sitting room and three small bedrooms. George occupied one—Effie and the girls another—Mrs. Staunton, the baby, and little Phil the third. It seemed to Effie as if they had always lived in this uninteresting house, looking out on that narrow dismal street. They knew nobody. Their lives were very dull. Mrs. Staunton occupied herself over George, morning, noon, and night. She mended his clothes with scrupulous care; she washed his shirts herself, and took immense pride in bringing the fronts up to a wonderful polish. There was not a young man in the City who went to his daily work with such snowy collars as George, such neat cuffs, such a look of general finish. This work delighted Mrs. Staunton—it brought smiles to her eyes and a look of satisfaction to her face.
Effie had got the money from Mr. Harvey, and had handed it without a word to George.
He took it; his face flushed all over—tears filled his eyes.
He said, "God bless you, Effie; you are the bravest, best sister a man ever had"; and then he went out of the room and out of the house.
"He never asked me where I got it," thought poor Effie; "and now there's the interest to pay, and how can it possibly be taken out of our hundred a year?97 Mother must never, never know; but how is that interest to be paid?"
The Stauntons had been settled about a fortnight in their new home, when Dorothy came to pay them a visit.
She was very busy in her hospital life. She came in with her accustomed eager, purposeful walk. She sat down on the nearest chair, and began to talk cheerfully to the children and sympathetically to Mrs. Staunton.
As soon as she had an opportunity, however, she drew Effie aside.
"Now, my dear," she said, looking straight into Effie's brown eyes, "when are you coming to us?"
"Oh, if I could come," exclaimed Effie, "I should indeed be happy, but I don't see any chance of it."
"I do. You are not really wanted here; Agnes is growing a big girl. Your mother is devoted to your brother George; provided he comes home every evening, she scarcely gives a thought to anyone else. You can be spared, Effie, and it will be good for you. You do not look a bit the same girl. You have lost your 'go' somehow. You are very young. It is wrong to have a look like that when one is only twenty. You ought to come to the hospital, and there is a vacancy now for a probationer, if you can take it."
"If I dare to," said Effie, "but it does not seem right."
"Yes, I believe it is right. I know the matron of St. Joseph's Hospital so well that I think I can arrange with her that you should spend a part of every Sunday at home—at least, while you are training Agnes. The fact is, Effie, you are a born nurse, and it is a sin to lose you to the profession."
"I should like to come beyond anything," said98 Effie. "It is the very highest wish of my heart. The last night that I ever saw my dear father he spoke to me on this subject. He used to hate lady-nurses, but you won him over, Dorothy, and he said, if the time came, I could go with his blessing."
"Then surely that settles the matter," exclaimed Dorothy. "I'll speak to Mrs. Staunton before I leave to-day."
"Oh, no; don't! Mother seems quite happy and comfortable. I would not for the world do anything to upset or distress her."
"If it upsets and distresses her, you must give it up, that's all," said Dorothy, "but it is worth sounding her on the subject. Don't say a word, Effie, I'll speak to your mother about it."
Effie looked puzzled and anxious.
"I would give anything to go," she murmured to herself. "It is torture to live on here, thinking of nothing but how to make a hundred pounds a year pay everything that is expected of it. Then I should be one off the family purse, for all my expenses would be paid by the hospital. Yes, surely it must be right. At any rate, I'll allow Dorothy to speak."
When tea was over, George, who had come in, and was as usual devoting himself to his mother, tried to coax her to come out with him a little.
"No, not to-night," said Dorothy suddenly. "I have something very special to say to Mrs. Staunton—perhaps you would stay and listen too, George?"
George did not mind being called by his Christian name by Dorothy. She was regarded by the Stauntons as part and parcel of the family.
"I'll do anything to oblige you," he said, giving the handsome nurse a look of genuine admiration. "Come, mother, if we are not to go out, we can at least sit near each other."99
He drew up a chair close to his mother as he spoke, and put one of his arms round her neck. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and sat there in perfect content.
After a time one of his strong hands closed over hers. She had never, even in the doctor's time, felt more warmly and happily protected.
"Yes, Dorothy, what have you to say?" she remarked. "George and I are all attention."
"George and you!" laughed Dorothy. "I never saw such a devoted pair. Why, you are just like a pair of lovers."
"Well, we are lovers, aren't we, mother?" said the son.
"Yes, my boy," she replied. "No love was ever stronger than that which binds us together."
"I love to hear you say that," remarked Dorothy; "but now I want to talk on quite another matter. I am very anxious about Effie."
"Effie!" said Mrs. Staunton, just glancing at her daughter. "What about her? She seems quite well. Are you well, Effie?"
"Yes, mother, I am perfectly well," replied Effie.
"Oh, it is not that," said Dorothy, a touch of scorn coming into her voice. "Effie may be well in body, but she is just starved in soul."
"Starved!" said Mrs. Staunton,
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