"G.o.d," she was crying deep down in her soul, "do You really mean it?

I've been very wicked often, I've forgotten You and taken my own way, but I'm so young--only twenty-one--don't make me lame! I'll be good, I'll think of other people, I'll be grateful all my life. Don't make me lame! Think what it means to a girl like me to lose her foot! I have no mother, nor brothers, nor sisters, and father is far-away. It would be so dreadful to be shut up here and never, never run about any more.

Have pity on me. _Don't make me lame_!"

It was a cry from the depths of her heart, very different from the formal prayers which she was accustomed to offer morning and evening--a plea for help such as she would have addressed to her dear earthly father in any of the minor difficulties of life, but in this great crisis of her fate she must needs go straight to the fountain of comfort--the Great Physician who was able to save the soul as well as the body.

All the rest of the day, as she lay so quietly on her pillows, she was talking to Him, pleading for deliverance, setting forth pathetic girlish arguments why she should be spared the coming trial. When the thought arose of many others younger than herself who were leading maimed lives, she thrust the memory aside as something which could not be faced, and her lips refused to utter the words which she had been taught to affix to her pet.i.tions. "'Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.' I can't say it, Lord. I can't mean it!" she cried tremblingly. "Not yet!

Forgive me, and be patient with me. I'm so frightened!" and even as the prayer went up, the a.s.surance came into her soul that the Heavenly Father would understand, and show towards her the divinest of sympathy and patience.

For some reason which she would have found difficult to explain to herself Sylvia felt an intense disinclination to let her attendants know what she had overheard. She perceived that they were more than usually tender towards herself, and they on their part were puzzled by the quiet of the once restless patient. She grumbled no more about small unpleasantnesses--oh, how small they seemed! She was content to lie still and think her own thoughts, and seemed to have lost all interest in the ordinary events of the day.

Only once in the twenty-four hours did a smile light up the set face, and that was when Bridgie O'Shaughnessy appeared for her afternoon visit, and seated herself by the bedside. On one of these occasions, a week after the surgeon's first visit, Whitey went out for, her daily walk, and Sylvia watched her go and peered anxiously round the screen to make sure that the door was really shut. Then she stretched out her hand, and gripped Bridgie by the wrist. It was a very thin, feeble- looking hand, but the grip had nothing feeble about it--it was almost painful in its strength, and the brown eyes had a glazed misery of expression which made Bridgie tremble at the thought of what was to come.

"Bridget O'Shaughnessy, you call yourself my friend. Will you tell me the truth?"

"I'll not promise that, me dear. I'll not deceive you about anything if I can help it, but you are an invalid, and there are some questions which you should not ask me. Only the doctor should answer them."

But Sylvia went on with her story as if she had not heard the protest.

"The other morning Sir Alfred Heap came to see my foot. He said very little about it to me, and after examining it, went out of the room to consult with Dr Horton. Aunt Margaret was waiting for them on the landing, and they were not quick enough in shutting the door. I heard what she said. To-morrow morning Sir Alfred is coming again.

Bridgie,--_is he going to cut off my foot_?"

"He is not, darling. He is going to give you chloroform and do something to the bone to try to make it sound and healthy again."

"And if that fails, will he cut it off then?"

"He will operate again, and go on trying as long as he dare."

"And if everything else fails, then--"

"Yes, Sylvia," said Bridgie gently.

Downstairs in the dining-room Miss Munns had been consulting with Whitey as to how the patient was to be prepared for the ordeal of to-morrow, and by whom the news should be broken. Whitey had taken the task upon herself with the unselfish heroism of her profession, but her pretty face was worn with the strain of this long anxious case, and Bridgie's heart had ached for her in her painful task. Now, in the midst of her own agitation, she felt a thrill of unselfish joy that she had been able to take one burden at least from those heavily-laden shoulders.

Sylvia knew not only of the ordeal of the morrow, but also of that nightmare dread of what might have to follow. She had known it for a week past, and had lain quietly on her bed with all the horror and misery of it locked up in her own heart. Such restraint seemed almost incredible to the outspoken Irish nature, but Bridgie's words of admiration brought an added shade over the invalid's face.

"No, it was not bravery, it was cowardice! I was like an ostrich hiding my head in the ground for fear of what I might see. I literally dare not ask until it came to the last moment. Oh, Bridgie, what a week it has been! Going to sleep with the weight on my heart; waking up and thinking, 'What is it? What is it?' and the shock of remembering afresh! I lay and thought it all out; never to be able to run, nor bicycle, nor skate, nor dance, nor even walk without crutches, to dread going upstairs, to be cut off from girls of my own age because I could not take part in their amus.e.m.e.nts, to hear people say 'Poor thing!' and look pitifully at me as I hobbled by. I've tried to be resigned and take it like invalids in books, but--I can't! I feel desperate.

Bridgie, suppose it was you! How would you feel?"

"I should cry myself ill for two or three days, and then brisk up and be thankful that if it was one foot, it wasn't two!" said Bridgie quaintly.

"That is, if I were quite certain about it, but I never believe in disagreeable things until they have really happened. Hope for the best as long as you can. You have clever doctors and nurses, and you will have a better chance if you keep up your spirits."

Sylvia shook her head hopelessly.

"It's easy to be philosophic for someone else. I could preach beautifully to you, Bridgie, if you were lying here instead of me, but the suspense is so hard to bear! I feel as if I could not live through another week like the last. Have you ever known what it was to drag through the days with a nightmare of dread growing bigger and bigger, nearer and nearer, to look ahead and see your life robbed of the things you care for most, to hope against hope, while all the time your heart is sinking down--down--"

"Down--until it is just one great big ache clouding out the whole world?

Yes, I know!" said Bridgie quietly. "I have never had a bad illness, but my trouble came to me in a different way, Sylvia, and my time of suspense was not days, but weeks and months, I might almost say years, except that even my hopes died out before that time arrived!"

The two girls looked at each other intently, and the blank depression on the invalid's face gave place to one of anxious sympathy.

"You mean, of course, that it was a mental trouble. Could you tell me about it, Bridgie, do you think? I don't want to force your confidence, but I am so interested in you, and it would do me good to be sorry for someone beside myself. Was it a--love affair?"

"I cared for him, but I am afraid he could not have liked me very much,"

said Bridgie sadly. "I have never spoken of him except to Esmeralda and one other person, but I don't mind telling you, dear, if it will be the least bit of help to you now. We seem to know each other so well that it seems absurd to think we had not met, two months ago.

"It was just someone I met one time when I was visiting, and when he was ordered abroad he asked if he might write while he was away. I was very happy about it, for I had never seen anyone I liked so much, and we wrote to each other regularly for over a year. They were not love- letters; just quite ordinary, sensible, telling-the-news, but there was always one little sentence in his which seemed to say more than the words, and to tell me that he cared a great deal. If a stranger had read it, he would not have understood, but I knew what he meant, and I used to skim over the pages until I came to those few words, and they were the whole letter to me.

"Looking back now I can see how I lived in expectation of mail day, but suddenly his letters stopped. When father was p.r.o.nounced hopelessly ill, I sent him a hurried note, saying that we should have to leave the Castle, for all the money was gone, and from that day to this I have heard no more. It was very hard coming just then, Sylvia!

"For the first few months I was not really uneasy, though very disappointed. I knew that a soldier's life is not always his own, and that he might have been ordered to a part of the country where it was impossible to send off letters, but then I read his name as taking part in some function in Bombay, and I knew that could be the case no longer.

I would not tell Esmeralda to depress her in the midst of her happiness, so I just sat tight and waited, and the time was very long.

"When it came near mail day my hopes would go up, for it's my nature to be cheerful. The postman would knock at the door, and my heart would go head over heels with excitement, and it would be a circular, or a bill wanting payment. Another time he would not come at all, and that was worse, for one went on drearily hoping and hoping, and pretending that the clock was fast. Now I forget mail days on purpose, for it is nearly eighteen months since he wrote last, and I have given up all hope of hearing."

Sylvia drew a deep sigh, and knitted her forehead.

"I can't believe that anyone could forget you when he had once cared.

You are so different from other girls. It is most strange and mysterious. Do you think that perhaps--you won't mind my suggesting it--the money had some influence with him? Perhaps he thought you were an heiress--at any rate, that your people were rich and influential, and when he heard that you were poor he may have changed."

"No!" said Bridgie decisively. "No, I won't think it! I won't let myself think so badly of anyone for whom I have cared so much. I don't know what his reasons were, and perhaps I never shall, but I would rather believe the best. Some people don't find it easy to remember when they are far-away, and he might have a delicacy in writing to say that he had forgotten!

"If I had still been Miss O'Shaughnessy of Knock, I should have sent just one more letter to ask if anything was wrong, but I had too much pride to obtrude myself as Bridgie of nowhere. I have no reason to believe that my letter went astray, and even if it had, he would have written again if he had wished to hear. He is alive and well, I know so much, and I'm well too, and very happy with my boys. I had a bad time of it, and the suspense had more to do with making me ill than the hard work of that summer; but now I have faced the worst, and have far too much to do to be able to mope. Boys are such cheering creatures! They give you so much work. The very darning of their socks is a distraction!"

"It would distract me in a very different way!" said Sylvia, with a smile.

CHAPTER FIVE.

AN INVITATION.

The operation was successful and unsuccessful--that is to say, the fear of amputation was removed; but it became abundantly evident that it would be a very long time before Sylvia recovered the power of walking about with ease.

A few weeks earlier she would have been heartbroken at the prospect of a spell of crippledom, but the greater troubles eclipse the less, and compared with that other paralysing dread, it was a pa.s.sing inconvenience at which she could afford to smile.

Poor child! her first impulse on recovering from the chloroform had been to dive to the bottom of the bed to feel if the foot were still there, and her elastic spirits went up with a bound as she listened to the surgeon's rea.s.suring report. She was perfectly willing to lie on the sofa and give up all idea of Christmas festivities, willing, in fact, in the relief and joy of the moment, to promise anything and everything if only she might look forward to unimpaired strength in the future.

As for Miss Munns, she rejoiced with grumbling, as her custom was, mingling thankful speeches with plaints for her own deprivations, to the mingled distress and amus.e.m.e.nt of her hearers. Christmas was drawing near, and there had been no time to prepare for the proper keeping of the festival, for cook had been too much occupied with jellies and beef- teas to have any time to spare. There were no mince-pies in the larder, no plum-puddings in their fat cloth wrappings, no jars of lemon cheese, no cakes, no shortbread, not so much as a common bun-loaf, and Aunt Margaret hung her head, and felt that a blot had fallen upon her escutcheon.

"I can't fancy Christmas with bought mince-pies!" she said sadly. "I've kept house for forty years and never failed to make four plum-puddings-- one for Christmas Day, one for New Year, one for company, and one for Easter. Some people make them without eggs nowadays, but I keep to the old recipe. My mother's plum-puddings were quite famous among her friends. Of course, my dear, we have great cause for thankfulness, and I should have had no appet.i.te if you had lost your foot; but it really upsets me to look at that larder! How many pounds of mincemeat have _you_ made, Miss O'Shaughnessy, may I ask?"

Sylvia was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, to which she had been carried in time for tea, and Bridgie was sitting beside her, looking with wondering eyes at the m.u.f.fled splendours which she now beheld for the first time. She blushed as she heard the question, and adroitly evaded an answer, for, to tell the truth, she bought her pies from the pastry-cook, and congratulated herself on the saving of trouble.

"Oh, indeed, we get through a great deal, for the boys think nothing of three pies at a sitting. I'd be obliged to you, Miss Munns, if you would lend me your recipe for the pudding, for my cook is not the cleverest in the world, and, as Jack says, there is no monotony about her results. If she does a thing well three times, there's all the more chance that it will be wrong the fourth, when you are encouraged to ask a friend to dinner."

Aunt Margaret sawed the air with her mittened hands, and shook her cap in solemn denunciation.

"Method, my dear--method! They won't take the trouble to measure the ingredients, but just trust to chance, so what can you expect? You shall have the recipe with pleasure, but if you take my advice you will look after the weighing yourself. Are you expecting any friends for the day, or perhaps one of your sisters?"