Chapter 23 A Girl in Ten Thousand by L. T. Meade
There come moments in the lives of all of us when we feel as if are straining and powerful hand were pulling us up short. We have come toa full stop; we cannot go back, and we do not know how to proceed. Thesefull stops in life's journey are generally awful places. We meet there,as a rule, the devil and his angels--they tear us and rend us, they shake us to our very depths with awful and over powering temptation; ifwe yield, it is all over with us, we rush at headlong speed downhill.
But, on the other hand, if in this pause we turn our back upon the devil, good angels come in his place--they whisper of hope and a new chance in life even for us.
When Effie left George on that miserable evening, and when Lawson retired presently to his room, the young man found that he had come tosuch a fearful place of trial as I have just described. He was pulledup short, and the devil was tempting him. At one side was the devil, atthe other he saw the face of his mother. It was impossible for him tolie down and sleep. He fought with the devil all night. In the morningthere was neither victory nor defeat, but the young, smooth face lookedhaggard and gray, and the upright, well-knit figure was bowed.
Lawson came into the sitting room for a moment.
"I am sorry I can't stay with you, George," he said. "I am due at St.Joseph's at nine o'clock. Have you made any plans for yourself?"
"No--at least, yes. I've had an awful night, Lawson, and there seems tobe but one end to it."
"What is that?"
"I must give myself up. I'm not the sort of fellow to play the hidinggame successfully. I'm safe to be caught sooner or later. I deservepunishment, too--I've been doing badly for months. What I deserve, itseems likely I'll have. In short, I think I'd better make a clean breastof everything, and take my--my punishment like a man."
"Do sit down for a minute," said Lawson. "There's a good deal in whatyou say, and if you had only yourself to consider, I'd counsel you to doit--I would, truly; but there's your mother to be thought of."
"My mother! Don't you suppose I've been thinking of my mother all night?It is the thought of my mother that maddens me--maddens me, I say. Lookhere, Lawson, there's only one thing before me: I'll go first to motherand tell her everything straight out, and then I'll give myself up."
"You will?" said Lawson, with a start of sudden admiration. "Upon myword, George, old chap, I didn't think you had the grit in you--Ididn't, truly."
"Then you approve?"
"It is the only thing to be done; she must hear it, sooner or later, andno one can tell it to her as you can."
"All right; I'll go to her before my courage fails me."
George left the room without even saying good-by to his friend.
When he left the house, he turned round and saw the man whom he hadnoticed watching him the day before at Waterloo Station.
"I'll be ready for you soon, my friend, but not quite yet," muttered theyoung man.
He walked quickly--the man followed him at a respectful distance.
George let himself into his mother's house with a latch-key. He ran upto the little sitting room. Agnes was bending with red eyes over akettle which was boiling on the fire. She was making a cup of tea forher mother, who had just awakened. Katie was cutting bread and butter,and Phil and Marjory were standing by the window. Marjory was saying toPhil, "I 'spect George will be turning the corner and coming home in aminute."
"Hush!" whispered Phil: "hush, Marjory! George isn't coming back anymore."
At this moment the door was opened, and George came in. Marjory gavePhil a scornful glance, and flew to her big brother. Katie flung downthe piece of bread she was buttering and Agnes turned from the fire.George put out his hand to ward them all off.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"She's awake, but she has been very ill," began Agnes. "Oh, George,George, do be careful; where are you going?"
"To my mother," answered the young man. "Don't let anyone come withme--I want to be alone with her."
He went straight into the bedroom as he spoke, and shut the door behindhim.
Mrs. Staunton was lying propped up high by pillows. The powerful opiatehad soothed her, but the image of George still filled all her horizon.When she saw him come into the room, she smiled, and stretched out herweak arms to clasp him. He came over, knelt by her, and, taking her hothands, covered his face with them.
"You've come back, my boy!" she said. "I'm not very well to-day, butI'll soon be better. Why, what is it, George? What are you doing? Youare wetting my hands. You--you are crying? What is it, George?"
"I have come back to tell you something, mother. I'm not what you thinkme--I'm a scoundrel, a rascal. I'm bad, I'm not good. I--I've beendeceiving you--I'm a thief."
"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Staunton. "Come a little closer to me. You'renot well, my dear boy--let me put my arm round your neck. You're notwell, my own lad; but if you think----"
"I'm as bad as I can be, mother," said George, "but it isn't bodilyillness that ails me. I said I'd make a clean breast of it. It's theonly thing left for me to do."
A frightened look came into Mrs. Staunton's eyes for a moment, but thenthey filled with satisfaction as they rested on the dark head close toher own.
"Whatever you've done, you are my boy," she said.
"No, no; a thief isn't your boy," said George. "I tell you I'm a thief,"he added fiercely, looking up at her with two bloodshot eyes. "You'vegot to believe it. I'm a thief. I stole fifty pounds from Geringyesterday--and I was bad before that. I won money at play--I've won andlost, and I've lost and won. Once Lawson gave me two hundred and fiftypounds to invest, and I stole it to pay a gambling debt, and Effie gotit back for me--she borrowed it for me. My father wouldn't have givenyou to me if he had known that. I had it on my conscience when I waskneeling by his deathbed, but I couldn't tell him then; and when he gaveyou to me, I felt that I never could tell. Then we came to London, and Ibegan to deceive you. I told you a false story about that rise ofsalary--I never had any rise; and I took your fifty pounds two days agoout of the bank, and I stole money to pay it back again. That's your sonGeorge, mother--your _true_ son in his _real_ colors. Now you knoweverything."
George stepped a pace or two away from the bed as he spoke. He foldedhis arms.
Mrs. Staunton was looking at him with a piteous, frightened expressionon her face. Suddenly she broke into a feeble and yet terrible laugh.
"My son George," she said. "That explains everything. My sonstill--still my son!" She laughed again.
There came a knock at the outer door.
"Don't go, George!" said his mother.
"George, you're wanted," said Agnes. "Effie is here, and Mr.Gering--they want to see you. Come at once."
"Mr. Gering!" exclaimed the mother. "He was the man you took the moneyfrom. He's coming to--punish you, to--George, you're not to go. Stayhere with me. I'll hide you. You're not to go, George--I won't let you,I won't let you!"
"Dear mother! dear, dearest mother! you must let me--I must take thepunishment. I've deserved it and I'm determined to go through with it.Just say a wonderful thing to me before I go, and I'll be strong enough to bear it--and to--to come back to you when it's over. Say you love mestill, mother."
"_Love_ you!" exclaimed Mrs. Staunton.
"Yes, mother, although I'm a thief."
"Bless the boy! that has nothing to do with it. You're my boy, whateveryou are."
"Then you do still love me?"
"Yes, yes, yes! Of course I love the lad!"
George went straight to the door and opened it. He walked straight intothe other room.
"I'm ready to take the punishment, sir," he said, going straight up to Mr. Gering.
His manner and the look on his face amazed his late employer.
"Eh--eh--well, young sir," he said, backing a step or two. "And so you confess that you robbed me?"
"I do."
"And you know what lies before you?"
"Yes."
"Have you been deceiving that mother of yours
again?"
"No; I've been telling her the truth at last."
"Effie, Effie!" called Mrs. Staunton from the bedroom.
Effie ran to her mother.
"Do you know, young man," said Mr. Gering, "that you have got a veryremarkable sister?"
"Do you mean Effie? Oh, I always knew she was a girl in a thousand."
"A girl in _ten_ thousand, more like. Do you know, young rascal, thatshe has been pleading with me for you, and--'pon my word, it'strue--melting my old heart till I don't know what I'm doing? In short,I've made her a promise."
"A promise! Oh, sir, what?"
"A promise that I'll let you off--all but the moral punishment. That, ofcourse, you'll have to bear."
"Mr. Gering, is this true?"
"Yes, it's true. I'm doing it all on account of your sister. You may come back to the office to-morrow, and consider that you've got a freshstart. Now, for goodness' sake, don't keep me any longer. Open the door,one of you children, can't you? I must hurry back to my work."
* * * * *
That is the story, for George really did learn his lesson, and in hiscase the new leaf was turned. He will carry the scars, however, of thattime of sin and suffering to his grave.
Effie kept her promise, and went as governess to little Freda Harvey fora time, but only for a time. When money affairs were straight again, shegladly returned to the life which she really loved, and is nowsuperintendent of one of the wards at St. Joseph's.
It is true that there are whispers afloat with regard to her and Lawson--whispers which always give a feeling of consternation in the ward which she manages so skillfully--but only Effie herself can tell if there is truth in them or not.
THE END.