Tom and Some Other Girls Part 19

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE CONSEQUENCES.

When Rhoda opened her eyes she was lying in a strange bed, and some one was sitting by her side, anxiously watching her face. It was not Nurse _par excellence_, but the matron of another house, whose features seemed unfamiliar, despite their kindly expression.

"You are better? You feel rested now?" she questioned, and Rhoda struggled wearily to form a a reply.

"My head aches. I feel--tired!"

"Yes, yes, of course. Don't speak, but lie quite still; I will stay beside you."

A soothing hand was pressed upon her own, and once again her eyes closed, and she floated away into that strange, dream-like world.

Sometimes all was blank, at other times she was dimly conscious of what went on around, as when voices murmured together by her side, and Nurse related how she had spoken and answered a question, and the doctor declared in reply that she was better, decidedly better! She was heavy and weary, and had no desire but to be left alone, while time pa.s.sed by in a curious, dizzy fas.h.i.+on, light and darkness succeeding each other with extraordinary celerity. Then gradually all became clear; she was lying in the sick room where patients suffering from non-infectious complaints were taken. The pressure at her head was giving way, allowing glimmering flashes of memory. What was it?--a terrible, terrible nightmare; a horror as of falling from a great height; a sudden, numbing crash... Where has she been? What had she done? And then with another struggling gleam--the toboggan!

Her cry of distress brought the nurse to her side, while she gasped out a feeble--

"I remember! I was tobogganing.--I was too quick. I suppose I fell?"

"Yes, you fell, but you are better now; you are getting on finely. Just keep quiet, and you will be up again in a few days."

There was a tone of relief in the good woman's voice as though there had been another remembrance which she had feared to hear, but Rhoda did not notice it, for a very few words seemed to tire her in those days, and her brain was unable to grasp more than one idea at a time.

The next time she awoke her mother was sitting by the bed. It appeared that she had been staying in the house for the past four days, peeping in at the invalid while she slept, but waiting the doctor's permission to appear before her waking eyes. Rhoda was languidly pleased to see her, but puzzled to account for the air of depression which lay so constantly on the once cheery face. If she were getting better, why did everyone look so doleful--the doctor, her mother, Miss Bruce--everyone whom she saw? She questioned, but could get no answer, struggled after a haunting memory, which at one moment seemed at the point of shaping itself into words, and at the next retreated to a hopeless distance.

And then suddenly, by one of those marvellous actions of the brain which we can never understand, the whole scene flashed upon her as she lay upon her pillow, thinking of something entirely different, and not troubling her head about the mystery.

She saw herself dragging the toboggan up the bank, felt again the horror of that first mad rush, saw the girls flying to right and left before Evie's waving arms, and heard Evie's voice shriek aloud in the pain of the sudden collision. Her own agonised exclamation brought mother and nurse hurrying across the room to lay soothing hands upon her, and hold her down in bed as she cried out wildly--

"Oh, I remember! I remember! Evie! The toboggan dashed up the bank, and she was looking after the girls, and I crashed into her, and she shrieked. Oh, Evie! Evie! She was hurt, terribly hurt... She fell down over me. Where is she now? I must go to her--I must go at once!"

The two watchers exchanged a rapid glance, and even in that moment of agitation Rhoda realised that this was the awakening which they had been dreading, this the explanation of the universal depression. A new note of fear sounded in her voice, as she quavered feebly:

"Is Evie--dead?"

"No, no, nor likely to die! She has been ill, but is getting better now. She is in her own room, with Nurse to look after her. You cannot possibly see her yet, for it would be bad for both."

"But you are sure she is better? You are sure she will get well? You are not deceiving me just to keep me quiet?"

"No, indeed. It is the truth, that she is getting stronger every day.

When I say that, you can believe that I am not deceiving you, can't you, dear?"

Yes, of course, she was bound to believe it; but in some patients the faculties seem strangely sharpened in convalescence, and despite her mother's a.s.surance Rhoda felt convinced that something was being kept back--that something had happened to Evie which she was not to be allowed to know. She asked no more questions, but with sharpened eyes watched the faces of the visitors who were now allowed to see her, and found in each the same shade of depression. She was waiting for an opportunity, and it came at last on the first day when she was allowed to sit up, and Miss Bruce came in to pay her usual visit. No one else was in the room, and Rhoda looked up into the strong, grave face, and felt her heart beat rapidly. Now was her opportunity! Miss Bruce could be trusted to answer truthfully, however painful might be the news which she had to unfold; she was neither hard nor unsympathetic, but she had the courage of her convictions, and had faced too many disagreeable duties to understand the meaning of s.h.i.+rking. Rhoda clasped her hands tightly together, swallowed nervously once or twice, and began--

"Miss Bruce please--I want to ask you--Mother won't tell me. Was it my fault that--Evie was hurt?"

The Princ.i.p.al's face hardened involuntarily.

"What do you think yourself, Rhoda? Your companions, as you know, are never ready to speak against a friend, but I have made the strictest enquiries into this sad affair, and I hear that the girls warned you that you were attempting a dangerous feat, and implored you to wait until Miss Everett returned. You chose to disregard them, and to take no thought of the risk to others, and--"

Rhoda turned, if possible, a shade paler than before.

"I see!" she said slowly. "I suppose it's no use saying that I never thought I could hurt anyone but myself. I _should_ have thought!

Everyone who knows me, knows that I love Evie, and would rather have been smashed to pieces than have harmed her in any way."

"Yes, Rhoda!" Miss Bruce sighed heavily, "that is quite true, nevertheless it seems to me a little inconsistent that you did not think more of her feelings. She was responsible for your safety, and you can hardly have believed that she would have allowed such a mad trick.

However, I don't wish to reproach you, for your punishment has been taken out of my hands. Nothing that I could do or say could affect you half so much as the thought of the trouble which you have brought upon your kind, good friend--"

It was coming now; it was coming at last! Rhoda's heart gave a wild, fluttering leap; she looked up breathlessly into the unbending face.

"What is the trouble? I thought she was like me--stunned and shaken. I never heard--"

"No, it is not at all the same. You had a slight concussion, from which you have now recovered. Her injury is much more lasting. Her right knee-cap was broken, and the doctors fear it will never be quite right again. She will probably be lame for life."

Rhoda turned her head aside, and said no word, and Miss Bruce stood looking down at her in silence also. The curly hair was fastened back by a ribbon tied in the nape of the neck, and the profile was still visible leaning against the pillows. It was motionless, except for one tell-tale pulse above the ear which beat furiously up and down, up and down, beneath the drawn skin. The Princ.i.p.al looked on that little pulse, and laid her hand pitifully on the girl's head.

"I will leave you now, Rhoda. You would rather be alone. I am truly sorry for you, but I am powerless to help. One can only pray that some good may come out of all this trouble."

She left the room, and Rhoda was alone at last, to face the nightmare which had come into her life. Evie _lamed_, and by her doing! Evie injured for life by one moment's thoughtlessness--rashness--call it _wickedness_ if you will--even then it seemed impossible that it should be _allowed_ to have such lasting consequences! One moment's disobedience, and then to suffer for it all her life! to see Evie--dear, sweet, graceful Evie--limping about, crippled and helpless; to keep ever in one's mind the memory of that last wild run--the last time Evie would ever run! Could retribution possibly have taken to itself a more torturing form? She had spoiled Evie's life, and brought misery into a happy home.

"I could have borne it if it had happened to myself," she gasped. "But no! I must needs get well, and be strong, and rich, and healthy. I suppose I shall laugh again some day, and forget, and be happy, while Evie--. I am a Cain upon earth, not fit to live! I wish I could die this minute, and not have a chance to do any more mischief."

But we cannot die just because we wish to escape the consequences of our own misdoing; we are obliged to live, and face them day after day.

Crises of suffering, moments of humiliation, stabbing returns of pain just when we are congratulating ourselves that the worst is over--they must be lived through, and though we fly to the ends of the world they will still follow in our wake.

One of the consequences which Rhoda dreaded, and yet longed for in curious, contradictory fas.h.i.+on, was her first interview with Evie herself. What would she say? What would she do? Would she be sweet and self-forgetful as of old, or full of bitter reproaches? She could gather no clue from her companions, and her first request to be allowed to visit the invalid in her room was vetoed on the ground that the excitement would be bad for herself, and could do Evie no good. When, however, she was allowed to walk about, and even entertain her companions to tea, the first excuse could no longer be offered, and at last, consent being given, she tapped tremblingly at the well-known door. Nurse's voice bade her enter, and she walked forward with her eyes fixed on the bed on which Evie lay. Her face was thin and drawn, and had lost its colour, yet it was none of these things which struck a chill to Rhoda's heart, but the expression in the eyes themselves-- Evie's sweet brown eyes, which of old had been alight with kindly humour. They were blank eyes now, listless eyes, which stared and stared, yet seemed hardly to see that at which they gazed. Rhoda stood before her for a full moment, before the light of recognition showed in their depths, and even then it was a flicker more than a light, and died out again with startling rapidity.

The girl stood trembling, the carefully rehea.r.s.ed words fading away from memory, for excuses and protestations seemed alike useless in the presence of that despairing calm. She looked pitifully into the set face, and faltered out:

"Evie, I've come... I wanted to see you! I have thought about you every minute of the time... I could not stay away--"

No answer. Evie might not have heard her speak, for all signs of emotion which appeared on her face. Rhoda waited another moment and then with a catch in her voice asked another question:

"Is--is your knee very painful, Evie?"

"No!" Evie winced at that, and turning towards the other side of the bed, held out her hand appealingly towards the Nurse, who took it in her own, and frowned a warning to the visitor.

"You had better go now, Miss. She isn't equal to much yet. You have got your way and seen her, so just give her a kiss, and go quietly away."

Tears of disappointment rushed to Rhoda's eyes, and as she stooped to give that farewell kiss the salt drops fell upon Evie's cheeks, and roused her momentarily from her lethargy.

"Poor Rhoda!" she sighed softly. "Poor little Rhoda!" then her eyes closed, and Nurse took hold of the girl's arm and led her resolutely away.

"You look as if you were going to faint yourself, and I can't have two of you on my hands," she said as soon as the corridor was reached, and the door closed behind them. "You'll just come back to your own room, my dear, and lie down on the bed."

"Nurse--tell me! you have been with her the whole time, and know how she feels. Will she ever forgive me? I never, never thought it would be so bad as this. She would not speak to me, would not look at me even."

"She wasn't thinking of you at all, my dear, she was thinking of her knee. That is all she can find time to think of just now. The doctors kept it from her as long as they could, but she questioned them, and would not be put off, so they had to tell her the truth. She knows she will be lame, and it has pretty well broken her heart. It's the bread out of her mouth, poor lamb, and she knows it. It will be many a long day before she is herself again."