A Girl in Ten Thousand

by L. T. Meade

"I want to catch the six-o'clock train to town. This is good-by, Effie; I shan't see you before I go. Remember, there are six weeks before anything can happen. If anyone can save me, you can. It is worth a sacrifice to keep our mother from dying."

"Yes, it would kill her," said Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannot think nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you have given me has come so unexpectedly, and it—it is so awful. But I'll get up to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me during the night."

"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and, entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for a long time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standing in the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps had trodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about a sick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverish pitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl of troubled thoughts passed through her brain. It had been her one comfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that her father was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took that father's place.

George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly the same age—Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago George had been good to the little sister—they had never quarreled, they had grown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had been true—as true as anything in all the world.

George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent had visited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. It was so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed so narrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy told her what some women did with their lives.

Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps; then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes, and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear, brave, manly George! The brother who had passed out of childhood, and entered man's estate.

Her father's last message had been to George—he had given her precious mother into George's care.

It seemed to Effie to-night, standing out under the stars, as if George, too, were dead. The old George was really dead, and a stranger had taken his place. This stranger wore the outward guise of her brother—he had his eyes, his figure; his voice had the same tone, he could look at you just in George's way, but he could utter terrible words which George had never known anything about. He could talk of sin and prison. He could propose that Effie should rescue him at the risk of her mother's livelihood. Oh, what did it mean? How was she to bear it?—how could she bear it? She clasped her hands, tears filled her eyes, but she was too oppressed, too pained, too stunned to weep long. Presently she went into the house, and lay down on her bed without undressing.

During the whole of that terrible night Effie scarcely slept. It was the worst night in all her life. Toward morning she dozed a little, but sprang up with a start, fearing that George had gone to London without seeing her. For her mother's sake she must see him. Whatever happened, her mother must never know of this calamity. Effie got up, washed her hands and face, smoothed out her hair, and went downstairs. George was already up, he was standing in the little parlor. He turned round when he heard his sister's footsteps, and looked anxiously at her.

"What a brute I am!" he said, when he saw the expression on her face; "but I swear before God, Effie, if you will help me, I'll turn over a new leaf; I'll never do a wrong thing again as long as I live—I swear it."