Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and
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Al Haines.
ESTHER:
A BOOK FOR GIRLS.
BY
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. The Last Day at Redmayne House.
CHAPTER II. The Arrival at Combe Manor.
CHAPTER III. Dot.
CHAPTER IV. Uncle Geoffrey.
CHAPTER V. The Old House at Milnthorpe.
CHAPTER VI. The Flitting.
CHAPTER VII. Over the Way.
CHAPTER VIII. Flurry and Flossy.
CHAPTER IX. The Cedars.
CHAPTER X. "I Wish I Had a Dot of My Own."
CHAPTER XI. Miss Ruth's Nurse.
CHAPTER XII. I Was Not Like Other Girls.
CHAPTER XIII. "We Have Missed Dame Bustle."
CHAPTER XIV. Playing in Tom Tidler's Ground.
CHAPTER XV. Life at the Brambles.
CHAPTER XVI. The Smugglers' Cave.
CHAPTER XVII. A Long Night.
CHAPTER XVIII. "You Brave Girl!"
CHAPTER XIX. A Letter from Home.
CHAPTER XX. "You Were Right, Esther."
CHAPTER XXI. Santa Claus.
CHAPTER XXII. Allan and I Walk to Eltham Green.
CHAPTER XXIII. Told in the Sunset.
CHAPTER XXIV. Ringing the Changes.
ESTHER
CHAPTER I.
THE LAST DAY AT REDMAYNE HOUSE.
What trifles vex one!
I was always sorry that my name was Esther; not that I found fault with
the name itself, but it was too grave, too full of meaning for such an
insignificant person. Some one who was learned in such matters--I think
it was Allan--told me once that it meant a star, or good fortune.
It may be so, but the real meaning lay for me in the marginal note of
my Bible: Esther, fair of form and good in countenance, that Hadassah,
who was brought to the palace of Shushan, the beautiful Jewish queen
who loved and succored her suffering people; truly a bright particular
star among them.
Girls, even the best of them, have their whims and fancies, and I never
looked at myself in the glass on high days and holidays, when a festive
garb was desirable, without a scornful protest, dumbly uttered, against
so shining a name. There was such a choice, and I would rather have
been Deborah or Leah, or even plain Susan, or Molly; anything homely,
that would have suited my dark, low-browed face. Tall and angular, and
hard-featured--what business had I with such a name?
"My dear, beauty is only skin-deep, and common sense is worth its
weight in gold; and you are my good sensible Esther," my mother said
once, when I had hinted rather too strongly at my plainness. Dear soul,
she was anxious to appease the pangs of injured vanity, and was full of
such sweet, balmy speeches; but girls in the ugly duckling stage are
not alive to moral compliments; and, well--perhaps I hoped my mother
might find contradiction possible.
Well, I am older and wiser now, less troublesomely introspective, and
by no means so addicted to taking my internal structure to pieces, to
find out how the motives and feelings work; but all the same, I hold
strongly to diversity of gifts. I believe beauty is a gift, one of the
good things of God; a very special talent, for which the owner must
give account. But enough of this moralizing, for I want to speak of a
certain fine afternoon in the year of our Lord, 18--well, never mind
the date.
It was one of our red-letter days at Redmayne House--in other words, a
whole holiday; we always had a whole holiday on Miss Majoribanks'
birthday. The French governess had made a grand toilette, and had gone
out for the day. Fraulein had retired to her own room, and was writing
a long sentimental effusion to a certain "liebe Anna," who lived at
Heidelberg. As Fraulein had taken several of us into confidence, we had
heard a great deal of this Anna von Hummel, a little round-faced
German, with flaxen plaits and china-blue eyes, like a doll; and Jessie
and I had often wondered at this strong Teutonic attachment. Most of
the girls were playing croquet--they played croquet then--on the square
lawn before the drawing-room windows; the younger ones were swinging in
the lime-walk. Jessie and I had betaken ourselves with our books to a
corner we much affected, where there was a bench under a may-tree.
Jessie was my school friend--chum, I think we called it; she was a
fair, pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, a neat compact
figure, and manners which every one pronounced charming and lady-like;
her mind was lady-like too, which was the best of all.
Jessie read industriously--her book seemed to rivet her attention; but
I was restless and distrait. The sun was shining on the limes, and the
fresh green leaves seemed to thrill and shiver with life: a lazy breeze
kept up a faint soughing, a white butterfly was hovering over the pink
may, the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere; a thousand
undeveloped thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the sunshine above us,
seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices.
"Jessie, do put down your book--I want to talk." Jessie raised her
eyebrows a little quizzically but she was always amiable; she had that
rare unselfishness of giving up her own will ungrudgingly; I think this
was why I loved her so. Her story was interesting, but she put down her
book without a sigh.
"You are always talking, Esther," she said, with a provoking little
smile; "but then," she added, quickly, as though she were afraid that I
should think her unkind, "I never heard other girls talk so well."
"Nonsense," was my hasty response: "don't put me out of temper with
myself. I was indulging in a little bit of philosophy while you were
deep in the 'Daisy Chain.' I was thinking what constituted a great
mind."
Jessie opened her eyes widely, but she did not at once reply; she was
not, strictly speaking, a clever girl, and did not at once grasp any
new idea; our conversations were generally rather one-sided. Emma
Hardy, who was our school wag, once observed that I used Jessie's
brains as an airing-place for my ideas. Certainly Jessie listened more
than she talked, but then, she listened so sweetly.
"Of course, Alfred the Great, and Sir Philip Sidney, and Princess
Elizabeth of France, and all the heroes and heroines of old time--all
the people who did such great things and lived such wonderful
lives--may be said to have had great minds; but I am not thinking about
them. I want to know what makes a great mind, and how one is to get it.
There is Carrie, now, you know how good she is; I think she may be said
to have one."
"Carrie--your sister?"
"Why, yes," I returned, a little impatiently; for certainly Jessie
could not think I meant that stupid, peevish little Carrie Steadman,
the dullest girl in the school; and whom else should I mean, but
Carrie, my own dear sister, who was two years older than I, and who was
as good as she was pretty, and who set us all such an example of
unworldliness and self-denial; and Jessie had spent the Christmas
holidays at our house, and had grown to know and love her too; and yet
she could doubt of whom I was speaking; it could not be denied that
Jessie was a little slow.
"Carrie is so good," I went on, when I had cooled a little, "I am sure
she has a great mind. When I read of Mrs. Judson and Elizabeth Fry, or
of any of those grand creatures, I always think of Carrie. How few
girls of nineteen would deprive themselves of half their dress
allowance, that they might devote it to the poor; she has given up
parties because she thinks them frivolous and a waste of time; and
though she plays so beautifully, mother can hardly get her to practice,
because she says it is a pity to devote so much time to a mere
accomplishment, when she might be at school, or reading to poor old
Betty Martin."
"She might do both," put in Jessie, rather timidly; for she never liked
contradicting any of my notions, however far-fetched and ill-assorted
they might be. "Do you know, Esther, I fancy your mother is a little
sorry that Carrie is so unlike other girls; she told me once that she
thought it such a pity that she had let her talents rust after all the
money that had been spent on her education."
"You must have misunderstood my mother," I returned, somewhat loftily;
"I heard her once say to Uncle Geoffrey that she thought Carrie was
almost perfection. You have no idea how much Mr. Arnold thinks of her;
he is always holding her up as his pattern young lady in the parish,
and declares that he should not know what to do without her. She plays
the organ at all the week-day services, and teaches at the Sunday
school, and she has a district now, and a Bible-class for the younger
girls. No wonder she cannot find time to practice, or to keep up her
drawing." And I looked triumphantly at Jessie; but her manner did not
quite please me. She might not be clever, but she had a good solid set
of opinions to which she could hold stoutly enough.
"Don't think me disagreeable, Esther," she pleaded. "I think a great
deal of Carrie; she is very sweet, and pretty, and good, and we should
all be better if we were more like her; but no one is quite faultless,
and I think even Carrie makes mistakes at times."
"Oh, of course!" I answered a little crossly, for I could not bear her
finding fault with Carrie, who was such a paragon in my eyes. But
Jessie took no notice of my manner, she was such a wise little
creature; and I cannot help thinking that the less importance we attach
to people's manner the better. Under a little roughness there is often
good stuff, and some good people are singularly unfortunate in manner.
So Jessie went on in her gentle way, "Do you remember Miss Majoribanks'
favorite copy: 'Moderation in all things'? I think this ought to apply
to everything we do. We had an old nurse once, who used to say such
droll things to us children. I remember I had been very good, and done
something very wonderful, as I thought, and nursie said to me in her
dry way, 'Well, Miss Jessie, my dear, duty is not a hedgehog, that you
should be bristling all over in that way. There is no getting at you
to-day, you are too fully armed at all points for praise.' And she
would not say another word; and another time, when I thought I ought to
have been commended; she said, 'Least done is soonest mended; and well
done is not ill done, and that is all about it.' Poor old nurse! she
would never praise any one."
"But, Jessie--how does this apply to Carrie?"
"Well, not very much, I dare say; only I think Carrie overdoes her duty
sometimes. I remember one evening your mother look so disappointed when
Carrie said she was too tired to sing."
"You mean the evening when the Scobells were there, and Carrie had been
doing parish work all the day, and she came in looking so pale and
fagged? I thought mother was hard on her that night. Carrie cried about
it afterward in my room."
"Oh, Esther, I thought she spoke so gently! She only said, 'Would it
not have been better to have done a little less to-day, and reserved
yourself for our friends? We ought never to disappoint people if we can
help it.'"
"Yes; only mother looked as if she were really displeased; and Carrie
could not bear that; she said in her last letter that mother did not
sympathize entirely in her work, and that she missed me dreadfully, for
the whole atmosphere was rather chilling sometimes."
Jessie looked a little sorry at this. "No one could think that of your
home, Esther." And she sighed, for her home was very different from
ours. Her parents were dead, and as she was an only child, she had
never known the love of brother or sister; and the aunt who brought her
up was a strict narrow-minded sort of person, with manners that must
have been singularly uncongenial to my affectionate, simple-minded
Jessie. Poor Jessie! I could not help giving her one of my bear-like
hugs at this, so well did I know the meaning of that sigh; and there is
no telling into what channel our talk would have drifted, only just at
that moment Belle Martin, the pupil-teacher, appeared in sight, walking
very straight and fast, and carrying her chin in an elevated fashion, a
sort of practical exposition of Madame's "Heads up, young ladies!" But
this was only her way, and Belle was a good creature.
"You are to go in at once, Miss Cameron," she called out, almost before
she reached us. "Miss Majoribanks has sent me to look for you; your
uncle is with her in the drawing-room."
"Uncle Geoffrey? Oh, my dear Uncle Geoff!" I exclaimed, joyfully. "Do
you really mean it, Belle?"
"Yes, Dr. Cameron is in the drawing-room," repeated Belle. But I never
noticed how grave her voice was. She commenced whispering to Jessie
almost before I was a yard away, and I thought I heard an exclamation
in Jessie's voice; but I only said to myself, "Oh, my dear Uncle
Geoff!" in a tone of suppressed ecstasy, and I looked round on the
croquet players as I threaded the lawn with a sense of pity that not
one of them possessed an uncle like mine.
Miss Majoribanks was seated in state, in her well-preserved black satin
gown, with her black gloves reposing in her lap, looking rather like a
feminine mute; but on this occasion I took no notice of her. I actually
forgot my courtesy, and I am afraid I made one of my awkward rushes,
for Miss Majoribanks groaned slightly, though afterward she turned it
into a cough.
"Why, Esther, you are almost a woman now," said my uncle, putting me in
front of him, and laying his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Bless me, how
the child has grown, and how unlike she is to Carrie!"
"I was seventeen yesterday," I answered, pouting a little, for I
understood the reference to Carrie; and was I not the ugly
duckling?--but I would not keep up the sore feeling a minute, I was so
pleased to see him.
No one would call Uncle Geoffrey handsome--oh, dear, no! his features
were too rugged for that; but he had a droll, clever face, and a pair
of honest eyes, and his gray hair was so closely cropped that it looked
like a silver cap. He was a little restless and fidgety in his
movements, too, and had ways that appeared singular to strangers, but I
always regarded his habits respectfully. Clever men, I thought, were
often eccentric; and I was quite angry with my mother when she used to
say, "Geoff was an old bachelor, and he wanted a wife to polish him; I
should like to see any woman dare to marry Uncle Geoff."
"Seventeen, sweet seventeen! Eh, Esther?" but he still held my hand and
looked at me thoughtfully. It was then I first noticed how grave he
looked.
"Have you come from Combe Manor, Uncle Geoff, and are they all quite
well at home?" I asked, rather anxiously, for he seemed decidedly
nervous.
"Well, no," he returned, rather slowly; "I am sorry to spoil your
holiday, child, but I have come by your mother's express desire to
fetch you home. Frank--your father, I mean--is not well, and they will
be glad of your help and--bless me"--Uncle Geoff's favorite
exclamation--"how pale the girl looks!"
"You are keeping something from me--he is very ill--I know he is very
ill!" I exclaimed, passionately. "Oh, uncle, do speak out! he is--" but
I could not finish my sentence, only Uncle Geoffrey understood.
"No, no, it is not so bad as that," putting his arm round me, for I was
trembling and shaking all over; "he is very ill--I dare not deny that
there is much ground for fear; but Esther, we ought to lose no time in
getting away from here. Will you swallow this glass of wine, like a
good, brave child, and then pack up your things as soon as possible?"
There was no resisting Uncle Geoffrey's coaxing voice; all his patients
did what he told them, so I drank the wine, and tried to hurry from the
room, only my knees felt so weak.
"Miss Martin will assist you," whispered Miss Majoribanks, as I passed
her; and, sure enough, as I entered the dormitory, there was Belle
emptying my drawers, with Jessie helping her. Even in my bewildered
state of wretchedness I wondered why Miss Majoribanks thought it
necessary for me to take all my things. Was I bidding good-by to
Redmayne House?
Belle looked very kindly at me as she folded my dresses, but Jessie
came up to me with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Esther!" she whispered, "how
strange to think we were talking as we were, and now the opportunity
has come?" and though her speech was a little vague, I understood it;
she meant the time for me to display my greatness of mind--ah, me! my
greatness of mind--where was it? I was of no use at all; the girls did
it all between them, while I sat on the edge of my little bed and
watched them. They were as quick as possible, and yet it seemed hours
before the box was locked, and Belle had handed me the key; by-and-by,
Miss Majoribanks came and fetched me down, for she said the fly was at
the door, and Dr. Cameron was waiting.
We girls had never cared much for Miss Majoribanks, but nothing could
exceed her kindness then. I think the reason why schoolmistresses are
not often beloved by their pupils--though there certainly are
exceptions to that rule--is that they do not often show their good
hearts.
When Miss Majoribanks buttoned my gloves for me, and smoothed my hair,
and gave me that motherly kiss, I felt I loved her. "God bless you my
dear child! we shall all miss you; you have worked well and been a
credit to the establishment. I am sorry indeed to part with you."
Actually these were Miss Majoribanks' words, and spoken, too, in a
husky voice!
And when I got downstairs, there were all the girls, many of them with
their croquet mallets in their hands, gathered in the front garden, and
little Susie Pierrepoint, the baby of the school, carrying a large
bunch of lavender and sweet-william from her own little garden, which
she thrust into my hands.
"They are for you," cried Susie; and then they all crowded round and
kissed me.
"Good-by, Esther; we are so sorry to lose you; write to us and let us
know how you are."
Jessie's pale little face came last. "Oh, my darling! how I shall be
thinking of you!" cried the affectionate creature; and then I broke
down, and Uncle Geoffrey led me away.
"I am glad to see your school-fellows love you," he said, as we drove
off, and Redmayne House became lost to sight. "Human affection is a
great boon, Esther."
Dear Uncle Geoffrey! he wanted to comfort me; but for some time I would
not speak or listen.