The Girls of St. Wode's

Lettie sank into an easy chair, and invited Leslie to one by her side.

“The fever is not infectious to us, you know,” she continued, “and that in a kind of way is a comfort. Eileen began to be poorly and not herself a week ago. Now she is very ill and quite unconscious, and yet the very worst stage of the fever is yet to come. You cannot imagine the state poor Aunt Helen is in.”

“I earnestly wish I could help,” said Leslie.

“Well, you are helping when you come to see me, for I do want cheering up dreadfully. Belle Acheson was here for a moment or two this morning. What a terrible girl she is!”

“I like her,” replied Leslie. “I think she has a great deal in her. She at least is thoroughly out of the common.”

“I grant you that,” answered Lettie; “but preserve me from such uncommon people. Give me the everyday sort of character. Not,” she added, “that I feel unkindly towards her, and I really did try to take compassion on her unfortunate wardrobe; but that, perhaps, was because I did not like the respectability of our dear old hall to be damaged by her thoroughly disreputable appearance. Dear, dear!” added Lettie, sighing gently, “how far away all that time seems now. We looked forward so much to the long vacation; and see what has happened – Eileen so terribly ill.”

Just at that moment the room door was opened, and Mrs. Chetwynd entered. She had never seen Leslie before, and rather resented her intrusion on the scene.

“My dear Lettie,” she said, “I wish you would go up to Marjorie, for I cannot quiet her. She has left the sick-room for a wonder, and gone into her own, and there she has broken down in the most extraordinary manner. I tremble lest her cries and groans should reach Eileen’s ears. Perhaps this young lady – I did not catch her name – oh, Miss Gilroy – perhaps Miss Gilroy, under the circumstances, you will excuse us.”

“Yes, Aunt Helen, I will go up,” said Lettie; “but I don’t think I shall be of the least use. I seem to have lost all power of soothing or helping either of the girls. When I was with them at school they rather deferred to my opinion on certain matters, but now all things are changed.”

“Don’t stand talking there, dear; do go,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.

“I will go, of course, but I warn you I shan’t be the least scrap of use. Good-by, Leslie; it was kind of you to call. Miss Gilroy is one of our special chums at college, Aunt Helen, and a great friend both of Eileen’s and Marjorie’s.”

“In that case, sit down for a minute or two, Miss Gilroy. Now run, Lettie; please don’t wait another moment.”

Lettie left the room, and Mrs. Chetwynd stared at Leslie. Leslie returned her gaze with one frank and sympathetic.

“I am so truly sorry for you,” she said in her soft voice. Her brown eyes gazed full into Mrs. Chetwynd’s agitated face. “And I know what illness means,” continued Leslie very softly, “for Llewellyn – I beg your pardon, I mean my dear brother – he was terribly ill once, almost at death’s door. Oh, yes, I know what my mother suffered, and what we all felt; but he got quite well again, as strong as ever. We had a bad time, but it was over soon. It will be just the same with Eileen, I feel convinced.”

“Oh, my dear child, if I could but believe it. I never felt in such a terrible state in my life, and I know the doctors are most anxious. I must go back; I cannot add another word. Good-by; thank you for coming. Your name is – ”

“Gilroy,” said Leslie.

“Thank you, Miss Gilroy, for coming. Lettie will let you know how Eileen gets on.”

“I will call again to-morrow morning to inquire, if you will allow me,” said Leslie.

“Certainly, if you wish.”

The widow spoke in an indifferent tone. She opened the door, and Leslie was just going into the hall when Lettie rushed downstairs.

“Marjorie wants you, Leslie; you are to go straight up to her this minute.”

“Marjorie wishes to see Miss Gilroy?” interrupted Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Yes, Aunt Helen; and a very good thing too. I just happened to mention that Leslie had called, and Marjorie said at once she must see her, that no one in all the world could do her so much good. Go up to her, Leslie; don’t waste time talking.”

“May I?” said Leslie, looking anxiously at Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Oh, certainly, dear, if she wishes it; but I must own – ”

“Come, come, Leslie, there is not a minute to lose,” said Lettie.

They flew upstairs together, and a moment later had entered Marjorie’s room.

Marjorie had flung herself face downwards on the bed. She was wearing an untidy serge skirt, and a loose, ill-fitting washing blouse. Her tangled short hair was waved like a mop over her head. She did not look up when she heard the two girls enter the room; and when Leslie’s soft voice said, “I am very sorry for you, Marjorie.” her only reply was to clutch the pillow, round which she had clasped her arms, more convulsively than ever, and to say in a choking voice, “I wish Lettie would go away. I know she is in the room too. I want to be alone with you, Leslie.”

Lettie raised her brows, made a pantomimic sign to Leslie to show how badly she was appreciated, and stole on tiptoe out of the room.

“Has she gone?” asked Marjorie, still keeping her face hidden.

“Yes.”

“Well, shut the door, won’t you?”

Leslie did so.

“Turn the key in the lock, please.”

“Oh, Marjorie! is that right to your mother?”

“I won’t see mother, and I won’t see Lettie. Lock the door, will you, at once?”

Leslie instantly turned the well-oiled key in the lock. When she had done so, Marjorie sat up, pushed the hair from her forehead, and looked at Leslie from between her swollen eyelids.

“I feel so dazed,” she said.

Her face was red and inflamed in parts, and deadly white in other parts, her eyes had sunk into her head, and their color was almost washed away with violent weeping.

“Oh, come close, Leslie,” she said, suddenly stretching out her arms; “let me lean against you.”

Leslie went up to her; she clasped her own strong arms round her, laid the tired, flushed face against her breast, pushed back the hair with one of her hands, and began gently to stroke the hot cheek.

“There, darling, there,” said Leslie. She did not say anything more, not even “I am sorry for you,” but she kept on repeating the “there, darling, there,” until Marjorie, like a tired baby, closed her eyes, and actually dropped off to sleep.

Leslie sat motionless, bearing the weight of the tired girl’s head on her shoulder. Marjorie slept for about ten minutes, then with a violent start she looked up, saw Leslie, and clutched hold of her with a fierce strain.

“Oh, I have had such an awful dream,” she said. “I thought you were here, but that you would not stay, and that Eileen was lying on the bed dead, and that you would not let me touch her. Oh, I am glad it was a dream, and that you are here. You will stay now, won’t you? I can just bear to be away from Eileen when you are here, for you are not like others; you seem to understand. Will you go and find mother, and ask her to let you stay with me?”

“Could we not ring the bell and tell the servant, and perhaps your mother would come here?”

“But I won’t have her in the room; she does worry me so dreadfully.”

“She is in great trouble, too,” said Leslie. “You ought to be kind to her, Marjorie.”

“Oh, don’t begin to lecture me; I can’t stand it. You must let me have my own way now, whatever happens in the future. You have come here of your own will, and go you shan’t.”

“I will stay with you if it will really comfort you,” said Leslie. “What you want more than anything else is a long, quiet sleep, and you must have it. Lie down; I will go and find your mother.”

Marjorie flopped down again on the bed, seized the pillow, clasped it in her arms, and buried her head in it.

Leslie unlocked the door and went out. On the landing a faint smell of carbolic and eau-de-Cologne greeted her. She stood for a moment hesitating. As she did so, a nurse came out of the sick-room.

“I saw you standing there, and thought perhaps you wanted something,” she said.

“Yes, I want to find Mrs. Chetwynd,” replied Leslie, in a low voice.

“She is in her room, and, I hope, asleep. Perhaps I can do something for you?”

“I wished to see her. I have a message from Marjorie.”

“Poor child, I trust she is becoming more reasonable. What does she want, may I ask?”

“She wishes me very much indeed to stay with her. She thinks she can bear to be away from Eileen if I am here.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, do grant her request. It is quite unnecessary to awaken poor Mrs. Chetwynd to tell her this. In the interest of my patient, I take upon myself the responsibility of giving you permission to stay. Do you need any clothes? We can send a messenger presently.”

“I must write to my mother, who will send me what I require,” replied Leslie. “Very well, I will go back to Marjorie now. You are quite certain that Mrs. Chetwynd won’t mind?”

“Mind! She will bless you.”

“Please, please, nurse, tell me before I go, how Eileen really is?”

The nurse shook her head.

“She is very ill indeed,” she answered.

“Do you mean,” said Leslie, turning pale, “that there is danger?”

“Don’t ask me,” said the nurse. “We are doing what we can for her; but in God’s hand alone are the issues of life.”

She stole back to the sick-room, and Leslie returned to Marjorie.

Marjorie was now sitting up on the bed. Her chin rested on her hands; her eyes, with a startled, strained look in them, turned slowly to Leslie when she entered the room.

“I heard you talking to nurse,” she said. “Did she – did she – tell you – anything?”

“Nothing special, dear, except that she was sure I might stay here. I could not find your mother, and nurse took the responsibility of giving me leave.”

“Oh, of course you may stay. It is not that I mean; but did she tell you anything – anything about Eileen?”

“I asked her if Eileen were in danger,” said Leslie, “and she said, ‘We are doing all we can for her; but in God’s hands are the issues of life.’”

“Oh, then it is hopeless,” said Marjorie. “I – I always thought it was.” She got off the bed as she spoke. She was trembling so excessively that she nearly fell. Leslie went up and tried to put her arm round her waist.

“Don’t touch me,” said Marjorie. “I can’t bear anyone to touch me now. It is all too true. They have been trying to keep the truth from me. Did I not read it in their faces? Even the doctors have deceived me. Leslie, oh Leslie, if you saw her now you would not know her.”

Marjorie came up close to Leslie as she spoke.

“Her face is so sunken, and, oh, so white, and her eyes so very big. You know what lovely eyes Eileen always had – so soft in expression, so full of the soul which animated all she ever did, or thought, or said; but now, Leslie, now if you could see them – they have a sort of spirit-look. She was always unearthly, and now she is going away. She is going to the better and the spiritual world; and I, oh Leslie, I can’t bear it.”

Marjorie turned away, walked to the window, rested her elbow on the sill, and looked out.

“I cannot, cannot bear it,” she repeated at intervals.

Leslie remained motionless for a few minutes; she was thinking hard.

“Of course,” she said, after a long pause, “there is only one thing to be done.”

“Only one thing – yes, I know what you mean. I am to quiet myself, to crush back my misery, my despair. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll wash my face and hands, and make my hair tidy and go back to her again. She never loved anyone in all the world as she loved me. I am her twin, you know, and twins are so close to each other, fifty times closer than the ordinary brother and sister. I’ll go back to her, and I’ll stay so quiet that even the nurses won’t have anything to complain of. You need not remain in this house after all, Leslie, for I cannot be with you. I must return to my darling.”

“And by so doing be dreadfully selfish and injure her,” said Leslie.

“Selfish, and injure her!” repeated Marjorie.

“Yes, injure her, and take away the faint chance there may be of her life.”

“But you cannot mean that, Leslie. What possible harm can I do her? How perfectly ridiculous you are! I injure my own Eileen? Why do you speak in that way? It is impossible that I could injure her.”

“I know you will injure her if you go back. You don’t look natural, Marjorie. You must try to subdue your emotion. You are much too flushed, your eyes are too full of anxiety. The very tone of your voice is all strain. Now, Eileen ought to have no anxious person in her room. So much depends on all that sort of thing being kept out of the sickroom; and, dear,” – Leslie’s voice shook, – “I don’t know that I ought to say it, and yet I will – there is one thing to be done.”

“Speak. How mysterious you are!”

“Let us pray for her, Marjorie; let us ask God to save her. It is all in His hands. Let us ask Him to spare her life.”

Marjorie stared at Leslie, then she clutched hold of her hand, squeezed it, and said eagerly:

“Do you – do you think He will?”

“I cannot say; but we might try. He will, if it is right.”

“Then let us go straight off to a church and ask Him. I always feel as if I could pray better in a church.”

“Yes; we will go at once,” said Leslie.

CHAPTER XXV – THE PRAYER OF FAITH

In her shabby serge dress, the marks of tears still round her eyes, her cheeks flushed, her short hair tossed, Marjorie Chetwynd ran downstairs, accompanied by Leslie. Mrs. Chetwynd was still lying in her room trying to have a little rest; Lettie was writing letters to anxious friends. The girls had just opened the door when they saw Belle Acheson coming up the steps.

“How is she now?” said Belle. “Why, dear me, Leslie, how very quickly you got here, and you look as if you were quite at home. How is Eileen, Marjorie? By the way, you look rather bad yourself.”

“Please don’t speak about me; it doesn’t matter whether I am ill or well,” replied Marjorie. “Don’t keep me now, Belle. Eileen is as ill as she can be, and I am going to pray for her. Leslie says that is the only thing to do, and we are both going to church. Will you come with us? Surely the more who pray to God the better.”

“I will certainly come,” replied Belle quietly.

She turned at once, and the girls walked down the street side by side. There was a church at the farther end of the square, a church which was open all day to those who needed it.

The three girls entered. It was hot outside, but here it was still and cool. They walked up the aisle, and turned into one of the pews and knelt down. Marjorie knelt in the middle; her head was pressed upon her hands.

Leslie had always found prayer easy; in her short life she had prayed a good deal, finding prayer the greatest support in each hour of trial; but of late, since her own great trouble had come, she had almost forgotten to pray, and now it seemed difficult. It was not until she ceased to remember herself, and thought only of her friend, that her words went up to God, at first in broken utterances, then more earnestly and more full of faith. A low sob came from Marjorie’s lips. This sob was echoed by Leslie. Belle had taken up a prayer-book, had opened it, and was reading in a semi-whisper some of the prayers for the sick. After a very few moments Marjorie rose to her feet.

“I have prayed,” she said; “I have told God exactly what I want. He will hear. He must. It would be wrong, cruel, monstrous for Eileen, beautiful Eileen, to die. Come home now, Leslie,” she continued.

The three left the church as silently as they had entered. It was not until they reached Marjorie’s door that Belle spoke.

“Good-by, Marjorie,” she said, holding out her hand; “good-by. I will call again. But before I go, tell me – do tell me – if you seriously believe in all this?”

“I – ” said Marjorie – she hesitated; the look of peace which had dawned upon her worn and anxious face left it. Before she could reply, Leslie answered with flashing eyes:

“Marjorie believes, or she could not have prayed as she did; and of course I believe,” she continued. “I believe in a God, and that He answers prayer.”

“I wonder if he will,” said Belle, with a queer, new sort of expression on her face. “It will be very strange. I shall be most curious to know. Good-by, Marjorie – good-by, Leslie.”

She turned and walked down the street. When she had gone a couple of hundred yards she turned back, and called out to the other girls, who were still standing on the steps of the house:

“I will come to-morrow to find out. It will be very curious if it is true. It will make an immense difference to me.”

Then she walked on, swaying slightly from side to side.

Marjorie put her hand quickly to her forehead.

“I never felt less in sympathy with Belle than I do at this moment,” she said. “Now, you, Leslie, really soothe me; it was nice to feel you kneeling by my side. It seemed to me that some of your faith came to me. I do not feel nearly so unhappy now; not so restless, nor so uncertain.”

Leslie kissed her.

“I can understand that,” she said; “you have put the matter into God’s hands – you are resting on God; that is the reason why you do not feel so miserable.”

The girls entered the little boudoir which Mrs. Chetwynd had so carefully prepared for her darlings. Lettie was seated by the window.

“Where have you both been?” she cried. “I have been looking for you everywhere. Aunt Helen is in a painful state of excitement.”

“What about?”

“Well, nurse did not much like Eileen’s state, and Dr. Ericson came in a hurry, and he says he wishes another doctor to be called in, one of the very great specialists. The doctor is coming almost immediately. Aunt Helen says we are none of us to go upstairs. There is to be the most absolute quiet, and fresh straw has been ordered to be put down in the street. Leslie, are you really going to stay here?”

“She certainly is,” said Marjorie. “I wouldn’t part with her on any account.”

“I will write a line to mother if you will allow me,” said Leslie. “Of course, if I can be of the least use to Marjorie, I shall be glad to stay.”

“Here is paper, if you want it,” said Lettie. “I am very glad you are staying, for my part.”

Leslie wrote a short note. When it was finished, Lettie took it from the room.

“I cannot sympathize with Lettie either,” said Marjorie when Lettie had gone. Then she sat down by the window, and did not speak any more. Sometimes she closed her eyes, and sometimes Leslie, who had taken up a book, and was trying to read, fancied she saw her lips moving. Was she once again praying to God? Was faith, the first real faith she had ever known, truly visiting her heart, and helping her through this dark hour of tribulation?

Mrs. Chetwynd did not come downstairs again; and presently the footman appeared, and told the girls that dinner was ready.

“I cannot eat,” said Marjorie. “Eat, when all that makes life valuable hangs in the balance?”

“But you must eat, dear,” said Leslie; “you will feel much worse if you do not. Come with me.”

“Do, Marjorie, try not to be such a humbug,” said Lettie in an almost cross voice. “You don’t know how you add to the trouble of everybody when you go on in that silly way. First of all, Leslie, she absolutely immured herself in Eileen’s room, refused to leave it day or night, and distracted poor Aunt Helen and the nurse, and now that she has come out of the room, she is doing her utmost to make herself ill.”

“Don’t say any more!” cried Marjorie. “I will come downstairs.” Her face was white as death.

The three girls entered the dining room. Leslie’s persuasions, joined, perhaps, to some of Lettie’s tarter remarks, induced Marjorie to take a little food; but the oppression and solemnity of the scene seemed to have got into the air.

Presently the sound of wheels, muffled as they drove over the straw, was distinctly heard, and then two doctors’ broughams drew up at the door. Dr. Ericson got out of his and an elderly, benevolent-looking man out of the other. They both entered the house.

“What shall I do?” cried Marjorie. “I cannot stand this.”

“Oh, I feel somehow it will be all right; and remember we have prayed about it,” said Leslie.

She went up to Marjorie.

“Come back to the boudoir,” she said. “You are nearer to her there.”

“Well, I shall stay here,” said Lettie. “I don’t know what there is about you, Leslie, and about Marjorie; but the pair of you make me feel quite nervous. We are doing all we can – that is, Aunt Helen is; and really I do think that one ought to try to retain a little strength of mind. If the very worst of all had happened, you could not be going on more terribly than you are at present, Marjorie.”

“I cannot help feeling, if that is what you mean,” said Marjorie. She went upstairs, and Leslie followed her. The noise of people walking overhead was heard.

“They are in her room now,” said Marjorie. She clutched hold of Leslie still tighter.

“Oh, Leslie, what should I do if you were not with me? You know she is my twin; no one was ever quite so near to me. We think the same, we do everything the same. All our pursuits, all our desires, are the same. I cannot live without her. If she dies I shall die.”

“But she shall not die, dear!”

“Oh, I know, but she is in such terrible danger now. You said, Leslie, that if it were good for her, God would spare her.”

“And He will, Marjorie; cannot you try to understand? If it is best for her to go to God, He will not leave her in the world just because you selfishly wish it. But it may be best for her to stay here; she may have much to do yet in her life on earth.”

“If she is spared I shall become religious at once,” said Marjorie.

Leslie could not help smiling.

“Were you not religious before?” she asked.

“Oh, after a fashion, but never the real thing. Eileen and I both professed a little, and Eileen, the darling, was, I believe, in earnest; but I don’t think I ever was. I wanted, of course, to lead a useful life, and I thought myself very much better than mother or Mrs. Acheson. I believe now that I was selfish about mother; perhaps we both were, even darling Eileen; but, you know, she always did what I did. I was the first to suggest a thing, and then Eileen followed suit. If we were selfish she was not to blame. Leslie, Leslie, the doctors are coming downstairs. I wonder if they will tell us anything? I know mother won’t for a long, long time.”

“I’ll go and ask, then,” said Leslie, jumping up. She went to the door, opened it, and stepped on to the landing.

The two doctors came downstairs.

“And what young lady is this?” said Dr. Howard, pausing for a moment and looking at her. He was a tall and very benevolent-looking man, with white hair and dark eyes.

“I want to know,” said Leslie – she paused. Marjorie had not dared to come out of the boudoir. “I want to know the truth – if there is – any hope?”

“Are you the sister of the young lady?” asked the medical man.

“No, only a great friend; but her sister, her twin sister, is in the other room, and she wants to know, and cannot find out.”

“I understand; too upset to ask, poor girl,” said the doctor. “Ericson, if you will permit me, I’ll go in and see that young lady.”

“Oh, how kind of you!” said Leslie. She opened the door, and both doctors went in.

Marjorie had flung herself down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

“Now, my dear girl, what is this?” said Dr. Howard. “We shall be having two patients instead of one if this sort of thing goes on. Give me your hand. I assure you, Ericson, this young lady’s pulse is bounding at such a rate that we shall have her in a fever if we don’t look out. This will never do. As to your sister, Miss Chetwynd – ”

“Oh, what about her?” cried Marjorie. She flung down her hands, and looked up at the doctor with eyes full of agony.

“Good gracious! what a likeness between the two,” said Dr. Howard. “Well, my dear, I will tell you the simple truth. I know you will be a brave girl. Your sister is in danger – a bad case of typhoid fever always means that, you understand; but I have hope, and so has my friend Ericson, that we shall pull her through. There is no cause for immediate anxiety; but much depends on the next twenty-four hours. Ericson is going to stay up to-night with your sister; and as for you, Miss Marjorie, you must go to bed and have a rest.”