JULIE
"My daughter Julie, Miss Frobisher."
A young lady entered, dressed as a hospital nurse. She had an
oval face, abundant glossy dark hair, that swelled out from under
her bonnet, her mother's clear brown eyes, like drops of crystal
water over agates, and rather thick dark eyebrows. There was
strength in her build, decision in her tread. A look was
sufficient. Joan knew that she would like her—indeed, she liked
her instinctively already.
"Another of my audacities," said Mrs. Beaudessart. "I made
Julie come with me in the hopes of getting you to meet."
"Miss Frobisher, I see, was just about to leave you, mamma," said Julie; "if she does not object, I will stroll with her for a few minutes wherever she is going."
"I am going home—I mean," with a slight flush, "to
Pendabury."
"I will accompany you part of the way—if you will allow me," said the nurse.
Joan bowed. She was not desirous of company. She had no wish
to extend acquaintance with more of the Beaudessart family—but
she could not refuse, and she was drawn towards this girl. Moreover, the thought traversed her brain that, other schemes failing, she herself might seek means of self-support in nursing, although her sister might be unfitted for such a career.
She said, "It will be a real pleasure to me."
As the two girls passed through the gates into the park—for
park the grounds might well be designated, though containing no
deer—Joan glanced with a transient, and, as she felt, unworthy
suspicion at her companion, to see if she were observant of the
dignity of the approach to the mansion. But Julie was not looking
about her—she kept her eyes on the ground.
"Have you long been engaged in nursing?" asked Joan.
"For three years—that is the time since I entered on
probation in a hospital."
"Now, I presume, you will give it up?"
"Oh no! I could not do so."
"Why not? There can now be no necessity for it."
"There has been no pecuniary necessity hitherto. Our means
were sufficient without my doing any work. But—there are other
necessities that make the work one I cannot abandon."
"I do not comprehend."
"May I tell you a little story of my childhood?"
The clear brown eyes were turned on Joan and met hers, eyes
that were limpid wells, at the bottom of which truth must
lie.
"It is not much of a story. It would be better to describe it
as an incident. Yet it was one that determined the whole course
of my life."
"Then it was a first chapter in a story that is slowly
unfolding."