Little Eyebright

AND HER PUND O' CARE

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE," "IDA'S SECRET," "LIFE TANGLES," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," ETC.

New Edition

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.

Publishers 3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. EUPHRASIA'S HOME

II. EUPHRASIA'S PLANS

III. SOME CAUSE FOR CARE

IV. FOR ONE'S GOOD

V. THE JOHNSTON FAMILY

VI. EUPHRASIA'S FRIEND

VII. FRIENDS AND FRIENDS

VIII. A STEP IN THE DARK

IX. A PRISONER

X. HOW MUCH LONGER?

XI. NEVER SENT!

XII. GENUINE!

XIII. NOT CAST DOWN

XIV. SOMETHING WRONG

XV. "WILL YOU—?"

XVI. HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED

LITTLE EYEBRIGHT

AND HER PUND O' CARE ———————

CHAPTER I

EUPHRASIA'S HOME

"I DON'T know, I'm sure, Mrs. Landor. I suppose you're right, of course. People never ought to fret, of course. Mr. Landor would say just the same if he were preaching. I suppose everybody ought always to feel sure that everything is always exactly right."

An odd expression crossed the other's face.

"Oh, I know it is quite wrong ever to let one's self get worried. But then, you see, it always was my way to be easily upset. Some people are made like that; don't you think so? And other people are made quite different. I don't see, for my part, how one is to help how one was made. When things go wrong, I always do get low-spirited. It is very foolish, perhaps, but then it is my way. I have been harassed half out of my senses the last week. As fast as ever one trouble clears off, another comes in its place. That is what I find," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "There's no sort of peace or rest in life,—nothing but worry!"

"Isn't it a comfort that one trouble does clear away before another comes?" asked her caller.

"Oh well, when it does. But sometimes everything seems to come together, all in a heap. I am sure, last winter I didn't know where to turn or what to do, with the influenza and all! And most likely it will be just as bad next winter. The influenza is certain to come again."

"Nay! Why certain?"

"Oh, they say it will; people all say so. And if my husband gets it a fourth time, I don't believe he will pull through. I don't, indeed! He has never been the same man since those three attacks, one on the top of another. He isn't fit for his work, and everybody says so, but if he stops, how in the world are we to pay our way?"

"He might take a holiday if needful. Still, I would not in your place give much for the opinion of 'everybody.' What does your doctor say?"

"Colin has not been to the doctor lately. He doesn't want to run up bills, but he looks so ill, I quite dread to see him come in! And Ken's cough frightens me. He has kept it on the whole summer, and now we are half-way through September. I suppose he won't lose it before the winter; and a boy is so exposed to risks . . . And in the middle of all my worries, my cook has given me warning, just because she wants to get married. It is hard, when she suited me so nicely, and when I have so many things weighing on me! And my housemaid has a bad finger, and can't do half her work . . . And then there is Euphrasia."

"What of Euphrasia? Nothing wrong there surely! Euphrasia looks the picture of health."

"Oh, as to health—yes, she is well enough. It isn't that, but I do get so disappointed. I suppose one must expect to be disappointed. I did think it would be such a comfort to have a daughter at home with her education done and no lessons, and plenty of time to help me: and really Euphrasia is as busy as Flo, and not half so pleasant. It is a sort of way with her—answering so shortly, I mean—but I always do feel hurt. And then she likes her own way so much! Girls do, I suppose, pretty nearly always. Flo is different, but then Flo always 'was' a little angel. It quite frightens me sometimes, she is so good."

"Euphrasia does not frighten you, apparently, in that respect. However, girls ought not to be too busy to help their mothers."

"Oh, I don't say she is. She means to do right, I dare say. Of course, she doesn't want to neglect her duties. Only I suppose I'm too sensitive: and then there is a grudging sort of manner; not that she means it so, I dare say. It is only awkwardness, only I can't help noticing. And to have her going away already, just when I was beginning to find her useful—"

"Going where?"

"It's an invitation from a school friend, Letitia Johnston. Euphrasia is so odd; she makes hardly any friends. She only has this one, and really I don't know anything about the girl's family. There's been a sort of promise that Euphrasia should pay them a visit when she had done with school, and now Colin says we can't well refuse. We had Letitia here once for a week; and she seemed nice, rather. But still—"

Mrs. Landor made no immediate answer. She was a graceful woman, over middle height, and perhaps beyond middle age, with hair already silvered, and a certain innate queenliness of bearing, not lessened by the severe plainness of her black merino dress and close gray bonnet. Serene eyes beneath a broad brow studied the pretty woman opposite—for Mrs. Mackenzie, wife of the Manager of West Norton Bank, was a decidedly pretty woman still, despite her forty years. She might have been a very attractive one, had her lips fallen habitually into less fretted curves; had her blue eyes been habitually less full of trouble and self-condolence.

"Still if you do not feel that you can spare her—"

"I don't suppose it will make much difference. She has to go some day, and the visit may as well be got over. Euphrasia would not like to give it up, and any time, almost, would be as bad. Women's lives are just made up of harass and bother."

"Are they?" queried Mrs. Landor soberly. "Mrs. Mackenzie, if I didn't know you quite so well, I should venture to say something . . . One can speak more freely, I think, on some subjects as a stranger than as a friend."

"I hope she isn't going to begin preaching," darted through Mrs. Mackenzie's mind. And then came a swift recollection of innumerable kindnesses, followed by the resolve, "I mustn't seem to be vexed." Aloud she said cautiously, "I should think you might say anything you liked to me!"

"Then may I ask a question? You have a good deal to say about harass and worry, and, of course, life does mean a fair amount of them for most people. Yet there is another side of the question. I wonder whether that side ever presents itself to you . . . When our Lord said, 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest'—what do you think He really intended to do? Is absolute rest a thing compatible with perpetual mental harass? For surely harass means unrest! If the two are not compatible—then, what did He mean?"

Mrs. Mackenzie was silent.

"If I were you, I would find an answer to that question," continued Mrs. Landor softly. She was not at all a demonstrative person, but for once she stooped and kissed the plaintive downcast face. "We may be sure of one thing, that what Christ said, He meant, and that what He meant was something very real and practical . . . Perhaps the question resolves itself into not so much what HE means by rest, as what 'we' mean when we ask for rest; and whether we ever do actually take Him at His word! . . . It seems such a pity, if He is willing and waiting to give us rest, that we don't trouble ourselves to receive it . . . Forgive me for saying so much. Good-bye."

"It's all very well, but Mrs. Landor doesn't know what life means with such an income as ours," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "If she did, she might have a right to speak. If her husband died to-morrow, it wouldn't make a farthing's difference to her comforts. And if Colin were to break down, we should just be at the end of everything. It's bad enough now, trying to make both ends meet and never able to get a quarter of the things we need. Of course, it is quite right to have a proper amount of trust, but all the same one must be anxious. Mrs. Landor would in my place, whatever she may say now. And there's nobody to understand, nor to be the least help to me. Colin never will talk over things till he has made up his mind what to do, and Euphrasia is wrapped up in her own concerns. I did think Mrs. Landor would give me a little sympathy, but she is no better than anybody else. I might just as well have kept it all to myself . . . Why, there's Colin coming home now! What can be the matter? O dear!"

Mrs. Mackenzie ran to the front door and flung it open in a tremor of alarm. A tall man of somewhat solid build, not amounting to stoutness, came slowly up the little garden. His face, albeit by no means handsome, had good strong outlines, but the complexion at this moment showed an unnatural pallor.

"Colin! What has brought you back? Do tell me—quick! Is anything the matter? I am so frightened! Oh, make haste and speak! I know something is dreadfully wrong."

"Nothing for you to be frightened about, my dear. I am merely—a little out of sorts to-day." He spoke with a touch of breathlessness, as if the walk home had been too fatiguing. "I'll be all right presently."

Making his way past her into the small drawing-room, he sat down in his favourite arm-chair.

CHAPTER II

EUPHRASIA'S PLANS

"BUT what is the matter? What is wrong?" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie. "Why have you come home at this hour?"

"Dr. North was there: and he said I should be better for an afternoon's rest. Where is Euphrasia?"

"How should I know, Colin? Girls are so restless. She is out somewhere walking with Flo. But I'm so unhappy about you! I know you are going to be ill. I am quite sure of it."

"My dear, I hope not. Pray do not talk so before the children. I am not quite up to the mark just now, perhaps." Then a smile dawned, as two girls came quickly in—the elder eighteen in age, the younger a mere child of thirteen, and an exceedingly pretty child.

Nobody ever called Euphrasia pretty. She had blunt manners, and irregular features, and no particular complexion. But, in Mr. Mackenzie's opinion, all defects were compensated for by the peculiar stedfast gleam of her gray eyes; a gleam which, in childhood, had made suitable the pet name of "Little Eyebright." The name clung to her still, though she was "little" no longer, but of good medium height and rounded proportions.

Perhaps Mrs. Mackenzie had never become entirely reconciled to the fact that Euphrasia had failed to take after herself. Kenred, the only boy, was good-looking enough to satisfy her desires: and Flo she was wont to describe as "a perfect picture" of her earlier self. Some people demurred privately, counting the "picture" far more attractive than the original. But, "poor dear Euphrasia had nothing to boast of in the way of looks," and this constituted one of Mrs. Mackenzie's many trials in life.

The elder girl was commonly said to be more her father's than her mother's child. She had inherited much of his Scotch reserve, of his Scotch slowness in giving expression to the deeper feelings, but she had not inherited his placid temper. At times, under pressure, she could be stirred into vehement speech. When not so stirred, she was apt to veil her true self under a crustiness of demeanour, which repelled some people and perplexed others. It certainly stood in marked contrast with Flo's sweet and winning ways.

Almost everybody liked Flo best, and wondered how it was that the elder girl should be so different. Perhaps Mr. Mackenzie alone in the house, and Mrs. Landor alone out of the house, guessed the real worth of character which lay undeveloped beneath this outer crustiness.

"Is father ill?" exclaimed Flo. She came to his side and put her little hand on him caressingly. "We met Mr. Everett, and he said he had been bringing father home."

"A little out of sorts, my dear. Just a headache," interrupted Mr. Mackenzie.

"Colin, you never told me that! Why, I saw you come in alone!"

"My dear, there was no cause for a fuss. Everett gave me his arm part of the way."

Mr. Mackenzie did not find it needful to state how large a part of the way. He was rather annoyed at this unexpected rencontre of the young clerk with his two girls, and vexed with himself for not having warned Everett to keep silence. But somehow he had felt so confused as to be unable to think steadily.

"It was just nothing," he reiterated,—"just a headache. I'll be all right to-morrow."

"But, daddy, he said—"

"Flo, do hold your tongue. You are bothering father," Euphrasia said sharply.

And Flo's sweet face flushed up, the blue eyes filling, like veronica blossoms full of dew.

"Really, Euphrasia!—You do scold that poor darling!" remonstrated Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Nay, nay; nobody is going to scold anybody," interposed her husband, always the family peacemaker. "My dear, I don't think we will have a discussion just now. I am not just up to the mark. I wonder if you could get me a nice cup of strong coffee. Somehow I think it would do me good; and nobody makes it like you, Mary."

"Why, nobody's likely to. I learnt it from a Frenchwoman," said Mrs. Mackenzie, much flattered.

She went off, and Colin Mackenzie used the opportunity for a strict injunction. Nobody was to say anything that would make the little mother anxious.

"But, daddy dear, 'was' it true? Mr. Everett did tell us you fell right down, and couldn't tell where you were at first. And he said you looked 'awfully bad.' Was it true?"

Flo's lips were quivering still with the rebuke she had received.

"James Everett is a silly boy to go and chatter. I was a trifle dizzy, I'll admit, but nothing to make a fuss about, nothing at all, you understand. I'll write a line to Everett, and bid him hold his tongue, and Ken shall take it round presently. And the less you both say to your mother the better."

"I told you so, Flo! I said father wouldn't like you to repeat it."

"Never mind! It's all right,—no harm done! Nobody is going to say anything more. I think I'll lie down for an hour, and then I'll be myself again." Mackenzie kissed Flo and patted Euphrasia's arm as he rose to move away. The slight fluster of talk had brought again confused sensations.

"Flo, you'd better tell mother where to take the coffee. Father will be upstairs." Then, as she vanished, Euphrasia came nearer and asked, "Is nothing the matter really? Not like what Mr. Everett said?"

Mackenzie stood still, leaning on the back of a tall chair. "I was—not just the thing, my dear; Everett was not so far wrong. Just a passing little attack, but I'm not to be counted ill; and Dr. North hopes it will not recur. I would not have your mother know, on any account. She would give herself no peace."

"Did anything happen to worry you, father?"

"Things do happen once in a way!" Mackenzie spoke evasively.

And Euphrasia, looking straight up into his face, read there an unwonted shadow, as of something impending.

"It isn't only that you are poorly," she said decisively. "Not only just a headache, father. Something or other has gone wrong at the Bank."

"Hush! My dear! I wouldn't have you overheard for anything. That is not your business. Something of worry comes, of course, now and again; and very often it means nothing—just nothing at all. Why should it? I am not quite what I was since the influenza, and a trifle too easily knocked down, perhaps. But you must not talk to people as if I had any special weight upon my mind. Be sure you do not! I would not have it said for anything. And I'll be all right in the morning."

"I will not tell, of course, but of course I can't help seeing," Euphrasia answered sturdily. Then an impulse came, and she acted upon it, without pausing to consider. "Father—would you like—would you rather—if you like, I'll put off going to the Johnstons! Shall I? If you are bothered, and would like to have me at home!"

As she made the offer, her heart gave a resisting bound, and then sank low at his look of instant relief. But quickly as she saw what his wish would be, so quickly he saw what the giving up would mean to her.

"No, no—nonsense—not the least need. Have your pleasure, Little Eyebright! I wouldn't for the world stand in the way. Not for a moment! No, no; you'll be off in two days, and back again in a month. And what is a month? Why, it's just nothing!"

CHAPTER III

SOME CAUSE FOR CARE

EUPHRASIA stood close to the bay-window, deep in thought. Her brows were knitted, her eyes fixed upon the dull street, seeing nought.

Most of the West Norton streets were dull; and this particular row of houses, built all upon the same fashion, fronted by a long blank wall which enclosed Dr. North's kitchen-garden, could not be called an exception. A girl who had lived there all her life might be expected to grow used to the dulness, but Euphrasia had not always lived there. Three years at a Brighton school, by way of educational finish, had made a marked break.

West Norton, after Brighton, wore a slumbrous aspect. For the sleepiness Euphrasia cared little. She had within her young self, life and vigour enough to counteract it. What she did mind was separation from her one friend, Letitia Johnston. Girl-like, she had flung herself, heart and soul, into this friendship; and Letitia had grown to be the centre of her world. An occasional letter by post was found to be a poor substitute for daily and hourly intercourse.

Moreover, Euphrasia was suffering from the abrupt ending of school-work. She had not yet found her niche in life, and her unused energies craved for more scope than seemed at present to be within their reach. A certain restlessness was upon her; and this added to the zest with which she looked forward to the promised visit. A whole month in a new place with Letitia's unknown relatives, above all with Letitia herself—all this contained a promise of delight, without a shadow. Euphrasia had not by nature her mother's unquiet spirit, always expecting ills. Her spirit was unquiet only in the desire for more change; and she was unsophisticated. Life thus far had been easy, on the whole.

And now as the day drew near, only two nights remaining between, the question arose sharply, Ought she to give it up?

Euphrasia was a girl of right principle, and to some extent, of subjection to duty. Religion in her was as yet a thing rather desired than possessed; and the personal love for an unseen Lord and Master, which cannot but result in obedience to His Word, had not yet dawned—although she wished for it. She had a very distinct aim in her mind, to do what was right, not to be selfish, not to be lazy. But the self-pleasing will was strong, as in most young natures—not to speak of older ones, unless transformed under a nobler force of love. She wanted very much to do her duty, but she wanted still more to get her own way. In this particular natter of the projected visit to Letitia, the craving to have her way was overmastering.

"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?" as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up.

Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice.

After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help.