A Girl in Ten Thousand Part 2

He was the young Squire of the neighborhood. His name was Harvey. His place was two miles out of Whittington. He was married; his wife was the most beautiful woman Effie had ever seen; and he had one little girl.

The Harveys were rich and proud; they spent the greater part of their time in London, and had never before condescended to consult the village doctor. What was the matter now? Effie rushed from her room and knocked furiously at her father's door.

"Father, do you hear the night-bell? Are you getting up?" she called.

"Yes, child, yes," answered the doctor.

The bell downstairs kept on ringing at intervals. Effie stood trembling on the landing; she felt positively sure that something dreadful must have happened.

"May I go down stairs and say you are coming, father?" she called again through the key-hole.

"Yes, I wish you would. Say I will be downstairs in a minute."

Effie ran off; she took the chain off the heavy hall door and threw it open.

"Is Dr. Staunton in?" asked the Squire. He stared at Effie's white trembling face. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair in disorder; he looked like a man who is half distracted.

"Yes," said Effie, in as soothing a voice as she could a.s.sume; "my father will be down in a minute."

Harvey took off his cap.

"You are Miss Staunton, I presume? Pray ask your father to be as quick as possible. My little girl is ill--very ill. We want a doctor to come to The Grange without a moment's delay."

"All right, Squire; here I am," said the hearty voice of Dr. Staunton on the stairs.

The Squire shook hands with him, made one or two remarks in too low a voice for Effie to hear, sprang into his dog-cart, the doctor scrambled up by his side, and a moment later the two had disappeared. Effie stood by the open hall door looking up and down the quiet village street. The great man of the place had come and gone like a flash. The thing Mrs.

Staunton had longed for, dreamed of, and almost prayed for, had come to pa.s.s at last--her husband was sent for to The Grange. Effie wondered if Fortune were really turning her wheel, and if, from this date they would be better off than they had been.

Dorothy Fraser's people lived in the house nearly opposite. From where Effie stood she could see a light still burning in her friend's window.

The thought of Dorothy raised the girl's state of excitement almost to fever pitch. She longed to go over and see her friend; she knew she must not do that, however. She shut the hall door, and went slowly back to her bedroom. She wanted to sleep, but sleep was far away. She lay listening during the long hours of the summer night, and heard hour after hour strike from the church clock close by. Between two and three in the morning she dropped off into a troubled doze. She awoke in broad daylight, to start to her feet and see her father standing in the room.

"Get up, Effie," he said. "I want you; dress yourself as quickly as you can."

There was an expression about his face which prevented Effie's uttering a word. She scrambled into her clothes--he waited for her on the landing. When she was dressed he took her hand and went softly down through the house.

"I do not want your mother to be disturbed," he said. "There is a very bad case of illness at The Grange."

"What is it, father?" asked Effie.

"Well, I fear that it is a complication of scarlet fever and diphtheria.

The child will have an awful fight for her life, and at the present moment I am afraid the odds are terribly against her."

"Oh, father, and she is the only child!" said Effie.

"Yes, yes, I know all that; but there is no use in going into sentiment just now--the thing is to pull her through if possible. Now, look here: I can send to London, of course, for a nurse, but she would not arrive for several hours--do you think your friend Miss Fraser would undertake the case?"

"Yes, I am sure she would," said Effie.

"That's just like you women," said the doctor impatiently; "you jump to conclusions without knowing anything at all about the matter. The child's case is horribly infectious. In fact, I shall be surprised if the illness does not run right through the house. The mother has been sitting up with this baby day and night for the last week, and they were so silly they never sent for a doctor, imagining that the awful state of the throat was due to hoa.r.s.eness, and that the rash was what they were pleased to call 'spring heat.' The folly of some people is enough to drive any reasonable man to despair. They send for the doctor, forsooth, when the child is almost in the grip of death! I have managed to relieve her a bit during the night, but I must have the services of a good nurse at once. Go over and awake Miss Fraser, Effie, and bring her to see me.

If she has the pluck she gave me to understand she had, she will come in as a stop-gap until I get somebody else. And now, look here: the case is so infectious, and your mother is so weak just now, that I am going to devote myself altogether to it for the next few days. I am going to take up my abode at The Grange, and I shall wire to my old friend Edwards to look after the rest of my patients. There are only half a dozen to be seen to, and he will keep them quiet until I am free again. Now go over and bring Miss Fraser for me to see. I have driven down on the Squire's dog-cart, and will take her back with me if she will come. Run along, Effie, and wake her up."

CHAPTER II.

Dorothy Fraser was sound asleep when Effie rushed into her little room.

"Get up!" said Effie, shaking her friend by the shoulder.

As a nurse Miss Fraser was accustomed to unexpected disturbances. She opened her eyes now and gazed at Effie for a bewildered moment, then she sat up in bed and pushed back her heavy hair.

"Why, Effie," she exclaimed, "what do you want? I fancied I was back at St. Joseph's and that one of the nurses had got into trouble and had come to me, but I find I am at home for the holidays. Surely it is not time to get up yet?"

"It is only five o'clock," said Effie. "It is not the usual time to get up; but, Dorothy, father wants you. There is a bad case of illness at The Grange--very bad indeed, and father is nearly distracted, and he wants to know if you will help him just for a bit."

"Why, of course," cried Dorothy. "I shall be delighted."

"I knew you would; I knew you were just that splendid sort of a girl."

Miss Fraser knit her brows in some perplexity "Don't, Effie," she said.

"I wish you would not go into such ecstasies over me; I am only just a nurse. A nurse is, and ought to be, at the beck and call of everyone who is in trouble. Now run away, dear; I won't be any time in getting dressed. I will join you and your father in a minute."

"Father will see you in the street," said Effie. "The fact is----"

"Oh, do run away," exclaimed Dorothy. "I cannot dress while you stand here talking. Whatever it is, I will be with your father in two or three minutes."

Effie ran downstairs again. Mrs. Fraser, who had let her in, had gone back to bed. Effie shut the Frasers' hall door as quietly as she could.

She then went across the sunlit and empty street to where her father stood on the steps at his own door. The groom who had driven the doctor over was standing by the horse's head at a little distance.

"Well," said Dr. Staunton, "she has fought shy of it, has she?"

"No; she is dressing," said Effie. "She will be down in a minute or two."

"Good girl!" said Dr. Staunton. "You didn't happen to mention the nature of the case?"

"No, no," answered Effie; "but the nature of the case won't make any difference to her."

The doctor pursed up his mouth as if he meant to whistle; he restrained himself, however, and stood looking down the street. After a time he turned and glanced at his daughter.

"Now, Effie," he said, "you must do all you can for your mother. Don't let her get anxious. There is nothing to be frightened about as far as I am concerned. If mortal man can pull the child through, I will do it, but I must have no home cares as well. You will take up that burden--eh, little woman?"

"I will try, father," said Effie.

Just then Dorothy appeared. She had dressed herself in her nurse's costume--gray dress, gray cloak, gray bonnet. The dress suited her earnest and reposeful face. She crossed the road with a firm step, carrying a little bag in her hand.

"Well, Dr. Staunton," she said, "I hear you have got a case for me."

The doctor gazed at her for a moment without speaking.