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
"Hurrah!" cried Effie—tears filled her eyes. "What a grand triumph for Dorothy!" she exclaimed.
"She deserves every word I have said of her. If she wishes to take you back with her to London when she goes,—if that is what is now at the bottom of your heart,—go, child, with my blessing. We shall miss you at home, of course, but we are not worth our salt if we are going to be selfish."
"You never, never were that," said Effie.
"Now I have one more thing to say—it is about your mother. I have never really told you my true fears about her. You know, of course, that she suffers63 from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springs from no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which make me fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the more serious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It is that 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 a broken sort of groan escaped his lips.
"We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not have any pain, nor fear, nor anxiety."
"I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leave her——"
"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 not live 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 for nights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my life is insured for a thousand pounds. If—if at any time that should be needed, 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 any nearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrange all he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future never hastens matters. There is a God above. He has led me all my days. I trust 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 his gray head was lost to view. Then she went back and sat on the old horse-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—so full of real feeling—so broad in his views. Talk of a sequestered life making a man narrower; there never was a man more open to real conviction than father. The fact is, no girl ever had better parents than I have; and the wonderful thing is that they give me leave to go, and take their blessing with me. It is wonderful—it is splendid. Agnes must be taught to do my present work. I'll train her for the next three months; 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 harm can come to her. I do not believe one could live without the other. Well, well, I feel excited and nervous myself. I had better follow father's example, and go to bed."
Effie's little room faced the east. She never drew down her blind at night, and the sun was shining all over her face when her mother came in the next morning to call her.
Mrs. Staunton, standing in her nightdress in the middle of the room, called Effie in a shrill voice.65
"What in the world is the matter?" said her daughter, sitting up, and pushing back her hair from her eyes.
"What I feared," said Mrs. Staunton. "I am not going to break down; don't think it for a minute. I am as well as possible." She trembled all over as she spoke. There was a purple spot on one cheek, the other was deadly pale. A blue tint surrounded her lips. "I am perfectly well," continued Mrs. Staunton, breathing in a labored way. "It is only that I have got a bit of a—— Your father is ill, Effie. He has got it—the—dip—dip—diphtheria. He is almost choking. Get up, child; get up."
"Yes, mother," said Effie.
She tumbled out of bed. Her pretty cheeks were flushed with sleep; her eyes, bright and shining, turned toward the eastern light for a moment.
"Oh, mother," she said, with a sudden burst of feeling, "do, do let us keep up our courage! Nothing will save him if we lose our courage, mother."
"We won't," said Mrs. Staunton; "and that's what I came to speak about. He must have good nursing—the very best. Effie, I want you to get Miss Fraser to come here."
"Miss Fraser! But will she leave little Freda Harvey?"
"She must leave her—the child is completely out of danger—anyone can nurse her now. She must leave her and come here, and you must go and fetch her. Your father may lose his life in the cause of that little child. There is not a moment to lose—get up, Effie. You can go at once to The Grange. Go, go quickly and bring Dorothy Fraser. We none of us can nurse him as she will. She will do it. He has been murmuring in his sleep about her, about something she did for little Freda, clasping his66 throat all the time and suffocating. One glance showed me what ailed him when I awoke this morning. He has a hard fight before him, but he must not die—I tell you, child, your father must not die!"
"No, no, mother! God will spare him to us," said Effie. Tears dimmed her eyes, she got quickly into her clothes.
"Now, I will go," she said. "I will bring Dorothy back with me."
"If there is any difficulty," said Mrs. Staunton, "if she hesitates for a moment, you must remember, there is only one thing to be done."
"Yes, mother; what do you mean?"
"You must offer to nurse Freda Harvey instead of her—do you understand?"
"And I am not to come back to father when he is ill?" said Effie, aghast.
"That is not the point," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton. "The only thing to be considered is, what will save him, and you and I, and our feelings, are of no consequence. His life is so valuable that no sacrifice is too great to keep it. Go, child, go. If you can come back, come—if not, stay."
"And who will manage the children—they ought not to remain in the house."
"Don't worry about the children. Get Dorothy as quickly as possible."
Effie buttoned her dress and pinned on her hat, and then went out on the landing.
"Where are you going, child? Why don't you go downstairs?"
"I must kiss father first."
"What folly!—why should there be this delay?"
"I won't be a minute."
Effie turned the handle of the bedroom door, and went softly into the room. Her father was lying on his back—there was a livid look about his face. Great beads of perspiration stood on his brow. His eyes were closed. He did not see Effie when she came into the room, but when she bent down and kissed his forehead, he opened his eyes and looked at her. He said something which she could not distinguish—he was too hoarse to make any words articulate.
"I am going for Dorothy," she said, with a smile,—"she'll soon make you better,—good-by. God bless you—father. I love you—father, I love you."
His eyes smiled at her, but his lips could not speak.
She went quickly out of the room.
It did not take Effie long to harness the old horse to the gig. She had often driven old Jock, and this part of her task did not put her out in the least. She had a curious sense, as she was driving toward The Grange in the fresh early morning air, of the complete change which was awaiting her. She was quite certain that one door in her life was shut—shut forever. She had longed for change,—it had come at last with a vengeance; it was horrible,—it made her shudder.
Effie was a thoroughly healthy girl, healthy both in mind and body, but now a sick pain was over her. She did not care to think of the real terror which haunted her. She arrived at The Grange between six and seven o'clock. The woman at the lodge ran out and opened the gate for the doctor's gig in some68 surprise. She thought something was wrong again up at the house, but her surprise strengthened to astonishment when she saw that Effie was driving the horse.
"Why, Miss Effie, what is the matter?" she exclaimed. Everyone in the place knew Effie, and loved her for her father's sake.
"The doctor is ill, Mrs. Jones," said Effie, "and I have come to fetch Miss Fraser."
"Oh, God help us! he hasn't taken it?" said the woman, falling back a step or two in horror.
Effie nodded her head—she had no words to speak. She whipped up Jock, and drove quickly down the avenue.
A kitchen-maid was on her knees whitening and polishing the front steps. Effie jumped from the gig, and asked the girl to call someone to hold the horse.
"There ain't any of the men round just now, it is too early," said the girl.
"Then take the reins yourself," said Effie. "Stand just here; Jock won't stir if I tell him to be quiet. Hold the reins. I am in a great hurry."
"You are Miss Effie Staunton, ain't you, miss?"
"I am. My father is ill, and I want Miss Fraser."
"God help us! the doctor ill!" exclaimed the girl.
She stood where Effie told her, holding Jock's reins.
"Be quiet, Jock; don't stir till I come out," said Effie. The old horse drooped his head. Effie ran up the steps and into the house. She had never been at The Grange before, but she had no eyes for the beauties of the old place this morning. There was something too awful lying at the bottom of her heart, for any external things to affect her. She went quickly up the broad front stairs, and paused on the first landing. How was she to discover the room where69 Dorothy and little Freda Harvey spent their time together? She was about to turn back in utter bewilderment, when, to her relief, she saw another servant. The servant stopped and stared at Effie. Effie came up to her quickly.
"You may be surprised to see me here," she said. "I am Miss Staunton, Dr. Staunton's daughter. He is ill. I want to see Nurse Fraser immediately. Take me to her at once."
"We are none of us allowed near that part of the house, miss," replied the woman.
"You can take me in the direction, anyhow, and explain to me how I am to get to Miss Fraser," said Effie. "Come, there's not an instant to lose—be quick."
"Oh, yes! I can take you in the direction," said the girl.
She turned down a corridor; Effie followed her. The servant walked rather slowly and in a dubious sort of way.
"Can't you hurry?" said Effie. "It is a matter of life and death."
The girl hastened her steps a little. Effie's manner frightened her. Presently they reached a baize door—the servant pushed it open, but stood aside herself.
"It is as much as my place is worth to open this door," she said. "It is here the infectious case is, and Miss Fraser's own orders are that the door is not to be opened; but you frighten me somehow, miss, and I suppose there's no harm in it."
"No, of course there is no harm. Now, tell me which is Miss Fraser's room?"
"The nurseries are entered by the third door as
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