A Pair of Schoolgirls, Angela Brazil [unputdownable books TXT] 📗

come to this, and I've proved my words. It's an attack of her old complaint. It always comes back with overwork."

"Is she really very ill?" faltered Dorothy.

"I don't know. I've just sent Jones's boy with a message for Dr. Longton. No, you mustn't go disturbing her till he's been. Take your things off, and I'll bring you your tea."

Dorothy ate her solitary meal in sad distress. She could remember two former illnesses of Aunt Barbara's, and she was old enough now to realize how much cause there was for alarm. She waylaid the doctor on his arrival, and begged him to allow her to be of help.

"If Auntie is really going to be ill like she was before, let me be her nurse," she implored. "I learnt a great deal at the ambulance classes, and I'd carry out every single thing you told me."

"We'll see. I must examine my patient first," replied her old friend.

Dorothy sat on the stairs waiting with a beating heart while Dr. Longton was in Miss Sherbourne's room. She sprang up eagerly as he came out, and accompanied him to the porch. She hardly dared to ask for his verdict.

"Yes, it's a nasty return of the old trouble," said the doctor. "I'm afraid she's in for a sharp attack, but luckily I was sent for in good time, and may be able to stave things off a little. So you're anxious to try your hand at nursing, young woman? Well, I don't see why you shouldn't. You and Martha can manage quite well between you, if you'll only carry out my directions absolutely to the letter. When I suggested sending for a trained nurse, your aunt was very much against the idea—begged me not to, in fact. Martha has a head on her shoulders, and you're not a child now."

"I shall soon be fifteen," said Dorothy, drawing herself to her full height.

"Well, here's your chance to show what you're worth. If you can manage in this emergency, I shall have some opinion of you. I can telephone to the Nursing Institution if I find it's too much for you."

"I hope that won't be necessary," replied Dorothy.

In that one hour she seemed to have suddenly grown years older, and to have taken up a new burden of responsibility. Martha hardly knew her when she entered the sick room, she seemed so unwontedly calm and resourceful, yet withal so gentle, so tactful, and so deft and clever in doing all that was required for the invalid.

"I'd no idea the bairn could be so helpful," murmured Martha to herself. "If she goes on as well as she shapes, we'll do without a nurse, and that'll ease Miss Sherbourne's mind. She can't afford two guineas a week, let alone the woman's keep, and it would worry her to think of the expense. As far as I'm concerned I don't want a nurse in the house, making extra trouble and what waste goodness knows!"

The first thing Dorothy did when she could be spared from Aunt Barbara's room was to find her blotter and write a letter to Vera Norland. It ran thus:

"Dear Vera,—Can you take the part of 'Queen of the Daffodils' instead of me? My aunt is very ill, and I am afraid I shall not be able to come to school for a while, so I shall miss the rehearsals. I thought I had better let you know at once, so that you will have time to get your dress.

"Sincerely yours,

"Dorothy Greenfield."

She ran out herself and posted the letter, then came back and quietly sat down again by Aunt Barbara's bedside. It cost her a great pang thus to give up her part in the festival, but once the irrevocable step was taken, and the letter in the pillar box, she felt much better.

"You've just got to forget about that pageant, Dorothy Greenfield," she said to herself. "You've been behaving abominably lately, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of you. Now's your chance indeed, as the doctor says. I only hope it hasn't come too late. Oh, you nasty, ungrateful, selfish, thoughtless thing, how I despise you!"

As Dr. Longton had anticipated, Miss Sherbourne had a sharp attack of her former complaint. For a week she lay very ill, and her two devoted nurses hardly left her day or night. It was a new experience to Dorothy to have Aunt Barbara, who had been accustomed to do everything for her, lying helpless and dependent upon her care. It brought out the grit in the girl's character, and made her see many things to which she had before been blind. Hitherto Dorothy had not been at all zealous at helping in the house, but now she cheerfully washed plates and dishes, and did many other tasks that were distasteful to her.

"'As one that serveth'" she often said to herself as she went about the daily duties, trying to take her fair share of the trouble and help poor, faithful Martha, whose devotion never slackened. She wore the little badge of the Guild constantly, that its remembrance might be always with her. "'As one that serveth'; Miss Tempest said that the motto ought to mean so much in one's life," she thought. "I didn't understand before, but I do now. When Auntie gets better, I'm going to be very different."

It was a joyful day for Martha and Dorothy when the doctor pronounced Miss Sherbourne out of danger.

"She has made a wonderful recovery," he said, "and if she only takes proper care of herself she ought to get on nicely now. She has had a splendid pair of nurses. Honestly, Dorothy, I never thought you would be able to manage without professional help. You've done very well, child, very well indeed."

This was high praise from bluff old Dr. Longton, and Dorothy flushed with pleasure. She was glad if she had been able, in the least degree, to return to Aunt Barbara any of the love and tenderness that the latter had lavished upon her for more than fourteen years. The debt was still so great, it seemed impossible ever to pay it back.

Once the fever had left her, Miss Sherbourne made rapid progress, and by the twelfth of May she was able to come downstairs for the first time. Dorothy made the little dining-room so gay with flowers for her reception that it looked like a May Day festival.

"Why, sweetheart, this is the day of your school anniversary," said Aunt Barbara, as she and Dorothy sat at tea. "You ought to have been acting 'Queen of the Daffodils'."

"Don't talk of that, Auntie! I got Vera to take it instead."

Dorothy's eyes were full of tears.

"I'm sorry you were disappointed, darling."

"Auntie, it's not that; please don't misunderstand me. Ever since you were ill I've wanted to tell you that I know now what a nasty, ungrateful wretch I've been. You've been working and toiling for me all these years, and I took it just as a matter of course, and never thought how much you were giving up for me. I'm going to work for you now. I'm afraid I can't do much at first—with money, I mean—but I'll try my hardest at the Coll., and perhaps in a year or two I may be a help instead of a burden."

"A burden you have never been, child," said Miss Sherbourne. "If I had only got well a little sooner, we would have made you the costume. I sent the articles off the afternoon I was taken ill, and a cheque for them came a week ago."

"Then you must spend it on yourself, please. No, I'm glad the daffodil dress wasn't made. I should always have hated myself for having it."

"But you've missed the whole festival," regretted Aunt Barbara.

"Never mind, it's May Day here as well as at Avondale. Look at the lilac and the columbines, and this bowl of wallflowers! The air is so sweet and soft now, and there's a thrush's nest in the garden. All the harsh winds and the cold seem to be gone, and summer has come."

"Yes, summer has indeed come," said Aunt Barbara, gazing, not at the flowers, but at Dorothy's face, where a new, softened look had replaced the old frown of discontent.

CHAPTER XIV

Water Plantain

Dorothy returned to Avondale resolved to work doubly hard. There was certainly plenty to be done if she did not wish to fall behind in her Form. She had missed many of the lessons, and to recover the ground that she had lost meant studying the textbooks by herself, and trying to assimilate endless pages of arrears.

"Yet I must," she thought. "If I leave out the least scrap, that's sure to be the very piece I shall get in the exam. I'm going over every single line—though it's cruel translating Virgil and learning Racine in such big doses. Never mind, Dorothy Greenfield, you've got to do it. I shan't let you off, however much you hate it."

Faithful to her determination, Dorothy set the alarum in her bedroom for a quarter to six, and had nearly an hour and a half's study each morning before Martha called her at 7.15. It was very tempting sometimes to turn over and go to sleep again; but she soon began to grow quite used to her early rising, and it seemed almost a shame to stay in bed when the sun was up, and the thrush was singing cheerily in the elder bush outside.