CHAPTER III

SOME CAUSE FOR CARE

EUPHRASIA stood close to the bay-window, deep in thought. Her brows were knitted, her eyes fixed upon the dull street, seeing nought.

Most of the West Norton streets were dull; and this particular row of houses, built all upon the same fashion, fronted by a long blank wall which enclosed Dr. North's kitchen-garden, could not be called an exception. A girl who had lived there all her life might be expected to grow used to the dulness, but Euphrasia had not always lived there. Three years at a Brighton school, by way of educational finish, had made a marked break.

West Norton, after Brighton, wore a slumbrous aspect. For the sleepiness Euphrasia cared little. She had within her young self, life and vigour enough to counteract it. What she did mind was separation from her one friend, Letitia Johnston. Girl-like, she had flung herself, heart and soul, into this friendship; and Letitia had grown to be the centre of her world. An occasional letter by post was found to be a poor substitute for daily and hourly intercourse.

Moreover, Euphrasia was suffering from the abrupt ending of school-work. She had not yet found her niche in life, and her unused energies craved for more scope than seemed at present to be within their reach. A certain restlessness was upon her; and this added to the zest with which she looked forward to the promised visit. A whole month in a new place with Letitia's unknown relatives, above all with Letitia herself—all this contained a promise of delight, without a shadow. Euphrasia had not by nature her mother's unquiet spirit, always expecting ills. Her spirit was unquiet only in the desire for more change; and she was unsophisticated. Life thus far had been easy, on the whole.

And now as the day drew near, only two nights remaining between, the question arose sharply, Ought she to give it up?

Euphrasia was a girl of right principle, and to some extent, of subjection to duty. Religion in her was as yet a thing rather desired than possessed; and the personal love for an unseen Lord and Master, which cannot but result in obedience to His Word, had not yet dawned—although she wished for it. She had a very distinct aim in her mind, to do what was right, not to be selfish, not to be lazy. But the self-pleasing will was strong, as in most young natures—not to speak of older ones, unless transformed under a nobler force of love. She wanted very much to do her duty, but she wanted still more to get her own way. In this particular natter of the projected visit to Letitia, the craving to have her way was overmastering.

"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?" as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up.

Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice.

After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help.

To be sure, her father did sometimes seem to find it a relief to confide in his eldest girl, when afraid to say a word to his wife lest she should magnify his meaning tenfold, and worry herself ill with unreasonable fears. He could be sure that Euphrasia would understand. But he would not expect that she should be invariably at hand for such confiding . . . To be sure, it was a very short time since her return from school, and she had not meant to go away again so soon. But the invitation had come, and was irresistible. Under a momentary impulse she had offered to withdraw from the promised pleasure; and the instant throb of fear lest her offer should be accepted, had shown her what such withdrawal would mean. Each hour since had made the giving up harder to contemplate.

She resolved to wait through the night, and to see how her father seemed in the morning.

At breakfast, he called himself "better," and looked wretched. His fixed paleness, yet more, his fixed look of trouble, gave her a guilty feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie, rather singularly, while noting and commenting on the former, did not perceive the latter.

Euphrasia was haunted through the meal by a sense of threatening trouble. Something surely had happened, or was going to happen. So she told herself, and then she tried to believe the notion a mistake. Anything rather than allow herself to feel that she might not go.

He kissed Euphrasia when starting for his day's work. "Pack up your traps, Little Eyebright. You will be off to-morrow. Mid-day train, is it not?"

"Father, are you really better?"

His smile was not cheerful. "'A man's weel or wae as he thinks himsel' sae.' I'm not going to be fancying myself an invalid, till I grow into one."

"If you would like me to put off my visit—"

Again the momentary gleam of half-assent, and the quick pulling in of himself. "No, no!—no need—it is best over. Have your pleasure while you can, child."

A deep sigh was audible as he turned away.

Then it was that Euphrasia found her way into the bay-window, to stand lost in thought.

"Ought I to go? I wonder if I ought? Is it wrong? 'Must' I give up? I don't see any real reason. It may be all just nothing at all. And Letitia would be so hurt. Perhaps she would never ask me again."

That thought won the day. Euphrasia resolved to leave arrangements undisturbed. She did not feel satisfied, but it was something to have come to a decision of any sort; and she went in vigorously for packing. She went in also for anticipations. This coming month promised to be the happiest she had ever known. Letitia and Letitia's parents, Letitia's home, and Letitia's brother—Euphrasia's imagination rang the changes on these thoughts hour after hour. But ever and anon rose once more the question, "Ought I really to go?"

"It is settled now. I can't unsettle things. Mother would be worried if I did. My box is packed, and why 'should' I put off? It would be absurd!" So she made answer, yet the little questioning voice would not be entirely put down.

Mr. Mackenzie, as an ordinary rule, came home to early dinner, but once in a way, if very busy, he would take lunch at a confectioner's close by. On this day they saw no more of him till the evening, and then his gray shadowed look sent a fresh thrill through the girl.

"Ought I to go?" the voice asked again.

"Oh, but I can't give it up now," she cried within herself. "Now! How can I? Just when everything is settled! Oh, I can't!"

And so the evening passed, till bed-time drew near.

"Euphrasia, my dear, I should rather wish—I should like a few words with you."

Mr. Mackenzie's voice broke into a half-happy, half-uneasy dream. Mrs. Mackenzie was upstairs, called away by some domestic appeal; and Flo had retired with Ken to the dining-room, where he prepared his lessons.

"Not here, I think. Your mother will be back directly."

"No. She said she would be more than half-an-hour. Nobody will interrupt us just now."

His face worked uneasily, the muscles twitching, the eyes sombre.

"I should like to say—something. It would be a—something of a relief to me. For yourself alone, mind—absolutely for yourself alone. Not a word to anyone."

"Father, you can trust me. You know I would never repeat a single thing." Euphrasia drew her chair a little nearer, and his hand came on hers. "How hot you are!" she said involuntarily.

"No, my dear, you never repeat things. I am quite aware! You are a good child! . . . Perhaps I am not wise to speak, but this burden on me—"

"What burden?"

"A sense of coming calamity. And if I do not speak now—if I should never have another opportunity—"

"Never—'what,' father?" A spasm of terror almost deprived her of utterance.

"My dear, nobody ever knows. Nobody can tell. Anything might happen before you come home. A whole month! Nations have changed owners in less than a month!" And he laughed faintly.

"But in West Norton—what 'could' happen? I don't understand what you mean!"

"I am—not wise, perhaps. Looking forward and expecting ill is not a sensible occupation. But the feeling overpowers me at times. It has been upon me so strongly of late—a constant sense of coming trouble. I can hardly define what I mean; it weighs me to the ground! And it will come true!" The last few words were almost whispered.

Euphrasia's heart beat thickly. "Then it is not only a feeling. It is something that you really know, something going wrong at the Bank."

"Hush! Hush!" and he glanced round apprehensively. "You must not suggest such things." He held one hand over his brow. "I wish my head did not feel as it does of late. But that is a small matter. If I could only think—"

"Father, what is wrong really?"

"Did I say—anything was?"

"Yes. You meant it."

Another anxious look round.

Euphrasia went to the door and demonstrated the fact of its being fast shut. Then she returned to his side, standing close and speaking low.

"Please tell me. I will not talk. I will not repeat a word. Only tell me what you mean."

He hid his face, groaned, and said, "Everything is going."

"Not the Bank!"

"Hush!"

"Father—do you mean—is 'that' going to fail?"

He laid his large hot hand again on her little plump one, and held it in a grasp which gave positive pain.

Euphrasia endured the pain without flinching. As she stood thus, waiting, listening to the loud ticks of the clock, watching the veins swollen on her father's forehead, she had a strange sense of growing older fast, of each minute being almost as a year in her existence, of all remnants of childhood slipping from her. Whatever her father's mood might imply, it certainly implied something serious.

A mutter came at length, hoarse and low, "Loss of everything."

"For 'us?'"

He moved his head in silent assent.

"When? How?"

"I cannot tell. I see it looming."

"And nothing can be done to keep it off?"

"Nothing whatever."

She crept closer, and caught her breath audibly.

"Hush! If your mother comes in—"

"Must she not know?"

"Not a day earlier than need be! . . . It will kill us both! . . . Let her be happy a little longer." His haggard eyes looked into Euphrasia's. "I do not know why I have told you—such a child as you are! It does no good. I have been selfish to speak."

"Poor father!" Euphrasia's voice was seldom so tender.

Mr. Mackenzie was stirred by it to strong emotion. He hid his face.

"Poor Euphrasia! Poor little Eyebright! They will say I have been a bad father to you all! But—not from want of love!"

"Oh, no! Don't say that! Don't talk so, please! The dearest and best of fathers! Please don't say such things. I can't go to-morrow. I'll stay at home."

"No, my dear. You must go."

"I can't! How can I? There will be no pleasure in it at all—now."

"You must. We could give no reason. I would not have this guessed for anything! I do not know how I have come to say so much. It has been foolish—selfish of me! To spoil your pleasure for no good. But the burden seemed more than I could endure alone."

"I'm glad you told me." She wondered vaguely—might not some word of trust be helpful here? People had to trust in trouble. Mrs. Landor would say so at once. But the trouble seemed so real, and the trust so dim. Euphrasia could not feel conscious of anything like real trust within herself; and how then might she advise another to exercise it?

No, all she could do was to give up going away, and stay at home, to be, if possible, some little comfort to him. But she strove in vain. His will was as a flint in opposition. The dread lest anything might in consequence be guessed overmastered all other considerations. To Euphrasia the fear seemed unreasonable, but she had no power to make him see as she saw.

"If you had decided against it earlier—of your own will—before I spoke, that would have been different," he said once, wistfully.

And a stab of self-reproach shot through the girl, for she knew "now" that conscience had spoken plainly, and that she had refused to listen.

"But not since I have spoken—not on any account! I could not permit it!"

When she pleaded further, a look of distress and confusion came. "I cannot stand discussion. You must go, my dear, and enjoy yourself. Nothing can alter the plan now."

Euphrasia's train was not until after mid-day. And an early message from Mrs. Landor intimated that a good-bye call was expected at the Rectory.

"I told you she would not be pleased if you didn't go," Mrs. Mackenzie observed.

"Mother, I was there the day before yesterday."

"Well, you must run round again now. There's no need to stay long, and your packing is finished."

Mrs. Landor was always especially kind to Euphrasia, treating her in some sort as she would have treated a favourite niece. She had no nieces, and she had known "Little Eyebright" from infancy. Euphrasia gave much quiet love to Mrs. Landor—a steady affection, without romance, but reliable.

Although Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Landor had, since her marriage some ten or twelve years earlier, lived always at the Rectory. Her own house lay at a good distance—inconveniently far for the clergyman. So it was let to strangers, and she quietly devoted herself to Parish work. Some people thought and whispered that Mrs. Landor's affairs had become involved, and that her wealth was by no means what it once had been. She seldom spoke of her own affairs, however, and conjecture went no further.

"Did you mean to flit without one word to me?" Mrs. Landor asked, when the girl came slowly in.

It was not Euphrasia's way to go about with lagging step, and Mrs. Landor noted the change instantly. Then she saw a look in the young face not commonly there, and she put aside the work over which she was busy, motioning Euphrasia to a seat by her side.

Euphrasia did not take it. She went to a chair at a little distance, resolutely reticent in air. Mrs. Landor would see, of course, that something was wrong, for Mrs. Landor always saw everything, and Euphrasia knew that she must guard her words carefully. It was so natural to tell Mrs. Landor all that was in her mind, and here she might not do so. She had an odd feeling that distance meant greater safety. But Mrs. Landor quietly moved to the nearest sofa, so she gained nothing.

"Mother said I was to come."

"Against your will, child?" Mrs. Landor scrutinised the grave face. "It is not a question of 'Little Eyebright' to-day. Those eyes have been awake nearly all night. What have you been doing with yourself?"

One glance answered, quickly veiled.

"Some little matter that you do not want to tell me? Girls have their troubles, have they not? Don't make too much of it, whatever it may be. Yours is not, I think, a peculiarly anxious temperament, but most of us possess some power of self-worrying."

"I don't think—" Euphrasia failed to complete her sentence.

"You are pleased, on the whole, to go to your friend."

"I didn't want to give it up."

"Not even if your mother wanted you at home?"

"But my father says I must go. I did offer—last night."

"Ah! That alters the question." A pause; and then—"Euphrasia, what is the matter with your father?"

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