A Girl in Ten Thousand Part 8

"Very well, child, I'll remember. Now run and get the cream."

Effie left her mother standing by the raspberry plantation. She was pulling the ripe raspberries and dropping them into a large cabbage leaf which she held. Her slender but weak figure was drawn up to its full height. There was a look of nervous energy about her which Effie had not observed for many a long day. The curious phase into which her mother had entered had an alarming effect upon the young girl. It frightened her far more than her father's look of la.s.situde and the burning touch of his hands. She tried to turn her thoughts from it. After all, why should she become nervous herself, and meet trouble halfway?

She went across the village street, and entering the pretty dairy, asked for the cream.

"Is it true, Miss Staunton, that the doctor has come back again?" asked the woman of the shop, as she handed her the jug of cream across the counter.

"Yes, Mrs. Pattens, it is quite true," replied Effie. "There's good news now at The Grange. Mrs. Harvey is doing splendidly, and little Freda is nearly well again."

"Well, it is a good thing the doctor can be spared," said the woman; "we want him bad enough here, and it seemed cruel-like that he should have been sort of buried alive at The Grange."

"He is only able to be spared now," said Effie, "because he has secured the services of a very wonderful nurse."

"Oh, one of the Fraser girls," said the woman, in a tone of contempt--"those newcomers, who have not been settled in the place above a year. For my part, I don't hold with lady-nurses. I am told they are all stuck-up and full of airs, and that they need a sight more waiting on than the patients themselves. When you get a lady-nurse into the house you have to think more of the nurse than of the patient, that's what I am told."

"It is not true," replied Effie, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily--"at least,"

she continued, "it is not true in the case of Nurse Fraser. You must get my father to talk to you about her some day. I am afraid I haven't time to spare now. Good-evening, Mrs. Pattens."

Effie went home with her jug of cream. Mrs. Staunton was still in the larder making the raspberry tart. Effie went and watched her, as her long thin fingers dabbled in the flour, manipulated the roller, spread out the b.u.t.ter, and presently produced a light puff paste, which, as Effie expressed it, looked almost as if you could blow it away.

"That's the best raspberry tart I have ever made," said Mrs. Staunton.

"Now we will put it in the oven."

CHAPTER VI.

The raspberry tart was put in the oven, and Mrs. Staunton went upstairs to her own room.

She was a woman, who, as a rule, utterly disregarded dress. She gave but little thought to her personal appearance. Like many other women of the middle cla.s.s, she had sunk since her marriage from the trim, pretty girl to the somewhat slatternly matron.

Nothing could destroy the sweet comeliness of her face, however, but in the struggle for life she and Fas.h.i.+on had fallen out--Fas.h.i.+on went in one direction, and Mrs. Staunton strayed gently in another. She did not mind whether her dress was cut according to the mode or not--she scarcely looked at her faded but still pretty face. Now and then this trait in her mother's character vexed Effie. Effie adored her mother, she thought her the most beautiful of women, and anything that took from her sweet charms annoyed her.

This evening, however, Mrs. Staunton made a careful and deliberate toilet.

She removed her dowdy black dress, and, opening a drawer in her wardrobe, took out a soft gray silk which lay folded between tissue paper and sprigs of lavender. She put the dress on, and fastened soft lace ruffles round her throat and at her wrists. The dress transformed her. It toned with all her faded charms. She put a real lace cap over her 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 the garden.

Effie came in presently, and started when she saw her mother.

"Why, mother," she said, "how sweet, how sweet you look!" She went over and kissed her. Mrs. Staunton returned her embrace very quietly.

"It is for your father," she said. "He would like me to look nice--I am sure 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 wear your Sunday frock."

Agnes, who had bounded into the room at this moment, stopped short in astonishment.

"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 and crossed her legs. "I want to read over my lecture for the High School. I can't be bothered to change my dress!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Aggie, go at once when mother wishes you," said Effie. "Go and put on your Sunday frock, and tell Katie to do the same, and ask Susan to put the younger children into their white dresses. Go at once; mother wishes 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 looking out at the garden. Effie felt her heart sink lower and lower.

She went gravely upstairs, put on her blue dress, brushed out her bright dark hair, and, looking her sweetest and freshest, came downstairs again. Mrs. Staunton was still sitting by the window. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were unusually bright. She looked twenty years younger than she had done two hours ago--she looked beautiful. The soul seemed to s.h.i.+ne out of her face. When Effie came in, she stood up restlessly and looked at the supper table.

"Yes," she said, "it is just as he likes it--the fragrant coffee, the raspberry tart and the jug of cream, the new-laid eggs, the brown loaf and the fresh b.u.t.ter. A simple sort of meal--yes, quite simple and very wholesome. Very homelike, that's the word. Effie, there never was such a homelike sort of man as your father. Give him home and you fill his heart. This supper table is just what he will like best. He does not care for new-fangled things. He is old-fas.h.i.+oned--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 proud of you--he thinks you are so lovely."

"So I am in his eyes," said Mrs. Staunton in a wistful voice. "I am old-fas.h.i.+oned like himself, and this dress is old-fas.h.i.+oned too. It was a pretty dress when it was made up. Let me see, that was twelve years ago--we went to Margate for a week, and he bought me the dress. He took great pains in choosing the exact shade of gray; he wanted it to be silver gray--he said his mother used to wear silver gray when she sat in the porch on summer evenings. Yes, this dress is like a piece of old lavender--it reminds me of the past, of the sunny, happy past. I have had such a happy life, Effie--never a cross word said, never a dour look given me. Love has surrounded me from the moment of my marriage until now. I feel young to-night, and I am going to be happy, very happy. The children must look their best too. Run up, darling, to the nursery and see that Susan is doing them justice--they are pretty children every one of them, worthy of your father. Now, let me see, would not a few roses improve this table? That great jug of sweet peas in the middle is just what he likes, but we might have roses and mignonette as well. I'll go and gather a bunch of those Banksia roses which grow in front of the house."

"You'll tire yourself, mother. Let me go."

"No; I never felt stronger than I do to-night. I'd like to pick them myself."

Mrs. Staunton went out of doors. She cut great sprays from the Banksia rose and brought them back with her. She placed them in a brown jug, and stood the jug on the table. Then she opened both windows wide, and left the door ajar. There was the sweetest smell wafted through the room--the sweet peas, roses, mignonette, seemed to be floating in the air.

The children all came down dressed in their Sunday frocks. They looked puzzled, 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 only your father who has come home, and it is right that we should give him a welcome."

When she had answered the last of the children, Dr. Staunton entered the room.

He started at the pretty sight which met his eyes. The room and the temptingly laid out supper table--the children in their best dresses--the old wife in her gray silk--looked to him the most beautiful sight his eyes had ever rested on.

What was all this festival about?--he drew himself up hastily--a sort of shudder went through him. In spite of his efforts his voice was terribly 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 even before the children burst out with the news, that he himself was the company.

"You have come back, father, and mother says we are to look our very best," exclaimed little Phil.

"All right, Phil, I am more than agreeable," replied the doctor. "Now you must excuse me, good folk. I am bound in duty to do honor to all this company splendor, by was.h.i.+ng my hands and putting on my Sunday-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 best stories--they were capped by his wife's. Effie laughed as if she had never heard them before, and the children made themselves riotously agreeable.

When the meal was at an end, Dr. Staunton and his wife went out into the garden at the back of the house. He drew his arm round her waist, and they walked up and down together on the little rose path at the top of the garden.