THE ARRIVAL AT COMBE MANOR.
The great secret of Uncle Geoffrey's influence with people was a
certain quiet undemonstrative sympathy. He did not talk much; he was
rather given to letting people alone, but his kindliness of look made
his few spoken words more precious than the voluble condolences of
others.
He made no effort to check the torrent of tears that followed my first
stunned feelings; indeed, his "Poor child!" so tenderly uttered, only
made them flow more quickly. It was not until we were seated in the
railway compartment, and I had dried them of my own accord, that he
attempted to rouse me by entering into conversation, and yet there was
much that he knew must be said, only "great haste, small speed," was
always Uncle Geoffrey's favorite motto. "There is time for all things,
and much more," as he used to tell us.
"Are you better now?" he asked, kindly. "That is right; put your
handkerchief away, and we can have a little talk together. You are a
sensible girl, Esther, and have a wise little head on your shoulders.
Tell me, my child, had you any idea of any special anxiety or trouble
that was preying on your father's mind?"
"No, indeed," I returned, astonished. "I knew the farm was doing badly,
and father used to complain now and then of Fred's extravagance, and
mother looked once or twice very worried, but we did not think much
about it."
"Then I am afraid what I am going to tell you will be a great shock,"
he returned, gravely. "Your father and mother must have had heavy
anxieties lately, though they have kept it from you children. The cause
of your father's illness is mental trouble. I must not hide from you,
Esther, that he is ruined."
"Ruined!" I tried to repeat the word aloud, but it died on my lips.
"A man with a family ought not to speculate," went on my uncle,
speaking more to himself than me. "What did Frank know about the
business? About as much as Fred does about art. He has spent thousands
on the farm, and it has been a dead loss from the beginning. He knew as
much about farming as Carrie does. Stuff and nonsense! And then he must
needs dabble in shares for Spanish mines; and that new-fangled Wheal
Catherine affair that has gone to smash lately. Every penny gone; and a
wife, and--how many of you are there, Esther?"
But I was too much overwhelmed to help him in his calculation, so he
commenced striking off on his fingers, one by one.
"Let me see; there's Fred, brought up, young coxcomb! to think himself
a fine gentleman and an artist, with almost as much notion of work as I
have of piano playing; and Allan, who has more brains than the rest of
you put together; and Carrie, who is half a saint and slightly
hysterical; and your poor little self; and then comes that nondescript
article Jack. Why in the world do you call a feminine creature Jack?
And poor little Dot, who will never earn a penny for himself--humph,
six of you to clothe and feed--"
"Oh, Uncle Geoff!" I burst out, taking no notice of this long tirade;
and what did it matter if Dot never earned anything when I would work
my fingers to the bone for him, the darling! "oh, Uncle Geoff, are
things really so bad as that? Will Fred be obliged to give up his
painting, when he has been to Rome, too; and shall we have to leave
Combe Manor, and the farm? Oh, what will they all do? and Carrie, too?"
"Work," was the somewhat grim reply, and then he went on in a milder
tone. "Things are very bad, Esther; about as bad as they can be--for we
must look matters in the face--and your father is very ill, and there
is no knowing where the mischief may end; but you must all put your
shoulders to the domestic wheel, and push it up the Hill Difficulty. It
is a crisis, and a very painful one, but it will prove which of you has
the right mettle.
"I am not afraid of Allan," he went on; "the lad has plenty of good
stuff in him; and I am not much afraid of you, Esther, at least I think
not; but--" He hesitated, and then stopped, and I knew he was thinking
of Fred and Carrie; but he need not. Of course Carrie would work as
heartily as any of us; idling was never her forte; and Fred--well,
perhaps Fred was not always industrious.
I seemed to have lost myself in a perfect tangle of doubt and dread.
Uncle Geoffrey went on with his talk, half sad and half moralizing, but
I could not follow all he said. Two thoughts were buzzing about me like
hornets. Father was ill, very ill, and we should have to leave Combe
Manor. The sting of these thoughts was dreadful.
I seemed to rouse out of a nightmare when Uncle Geoffrey suddenly
announced that we were at Crowbridge. No one was waiting for us at the
station, which somewhat surprised me; but Combe Manor was not a quarter
of a mile off, so the luggage was wheeled away on a truck, and Uncle
Geoffrey and I walked after it, up the sandy lane, and round by the
hazel copse. And there were the fields, where Dapple, the gray mare,
was feeding; and there were Cherry and Spot, and Brindle, and all the
rest of the dear creatures, rubbing their horned heads against the
hedge as usual; and two or three of them standing knee-deep in the
great shallow pool, where Fred and Allan used to sail their boats, and
make believe it was the Atlantic. We always called the little bit of
sedgy ground under the willow America, and used to send freights of
paper and cardboard across the mimic ocean, which did not always arrive
safely.
How lovely and peaceful it all looked on this June evening! The sun
shone on the red brick house and old-fashioned casements; roses were
climbing everywhere, on the walls, round the porch, over the very
gateway. Fred was leaning against the gate, in his brown velveteen coat
and slouched hat, looking so handsome and picturesque, poor fellow! He
had a Gloire de Dijon in his button-hole. I remember I wondered vaguely
how he had had the heart to pick it.
"How is he?" called out Uncle Geoffrey. And Fred started, for though he
was watching for us he had not seen us turn the corner of the lane.
"No better," was the disconsolate answer, as he unlatched the gate, and
stooped over it to kiss me. "We are expecting Allan down by the next
train, and Carrie asked me to look out for you; how do you do, Esther?
What have you done to yourself?" eyeing me with a mixture of chagrin
and astonishment. I suppose crying had not improved my appearance;
still, Fred need not have noticed my red eyes; but he was one who
always "looked on the outward appearance."
"She is tired and unhappy, poor little thing," repeated Uncle Geoffrey,
answering for me, as he drew my arm through his. "I hope Carrie has got
some tea for her;" and as he spoke Carrie came out in the porch to meet
us. How sweet she looked, the "little nun," as Fred always called her,
in her gray dress; with her smooth fair hair and pale pretty face.
"Poor Esther, how tired you look!" she said, kissing me affectionately,
but quietly--Carrie was always a little undemonstrative--"but I have
got tea for you in the brown room" (we always called it the brown room,
because it was wainscoted in oak); "will you have it now, or would you
like to see mother?"
"You had better have tea first and see your mother afterward," observed
Uncle Geoffrey; but I would not take this prudent counsel. On the
stairs I came upon Jack, curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our
old black cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with much
effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and arms, with a droll,
freckled face and round blue eyes, with all the awkwardness of
fourteen, and none of its precocity. Her real name was Jacqueline, but
we had always called her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her
cropped head and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl; her
hair was growing now, and hung about her neck in short ungainly
lengths, but I doubt whether in its present stage it was any
improvement. I am not at all sure strangers considered Jack a
prepossessing child, she was so awkward and overgrown, but I liked her
droll face immensely. Fred was always finding fault with her and
snubbing her, which brought him nothing but pert replies; then he would
entreat mother to send her to school, but somehow she never went. Dot
could not spare her, and mother thought there was plenty of time, so
Jack still roamed about at her own sweet will; riding Dapple barebacked
round the paddock, milking Cherry, and feeding the chickens; carrying
on some pretense at lessons with Carrie, who was not a very strict
mistress, and plaguing Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of
untidiness.
"Oh, you dear thing!" cried Jack, leaping from the window-seat and
nearly strangling me, while Smudge rubbed himself lovingly against my
dress; "oh, you dear, darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I am
to see you!" (Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) "Oh, it has been
so horrid the last few days--father ill, and mother always with him,
and Fred as cross as two sticks, and Carrie always too busy or too
tired for any one to speak to her; and Dot complaining of pain in his
back and not caring to play, oh!" finished Jack, with a long-drawn
sigh, "it has been almost too horrid."
"Hush, Jack," was my sole reply; for there was dear mother coming down
the passage toward us. I had only been away from her two months, and
yet it struck me that her hair was grayer and her face was thinner than
it used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I never
remember to have seen before; but she greeted me in her old
affectionate way, putting back my hair from my face to look at me, and
calling me her dear child. "But I must not stop a moment, Esther," she
said hurriedly, "or father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest
and refresh yourself, and then you shall come up and see him."
"But, mother, where is Dot?"
"In there," motioning toward the sick room; "he is always there, we
cannot keep him out," and her lip trembled. When Jack and I returned to
the brown room, we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie,
who was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her.
It was the first dreary meal I had ever remembered in the brown room;
my first evening at home had always been so happy. The shallow blue
teacups and tiny plates always seemed prettier than other people's
china, and nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown
bread and butter.
But this evening the flavor seemed spoiled. Carrie sat in mother's
place looking sad and abstracted, and fingering her little silver cross
nervously. Fred was downcast and out of spirits, returning only brief
replies to Uncle Geoffrey's questions, and only waking up to snub Jack
if she spoke a word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his appearance
and put us all right! It was quite a relief when I heard mother's voice
calling me, and she took me into the great cool room where father lay.
Dot was curled up in mother's great arm-chair, with his favorite book
of natural history; he slipped a hot little hand in mine as I passed
him.
Dot was our name for him because he was so little, but he had been
called Frank, after our father; he was eight years old, but he hardly
looked bigger than a child of six. His poor back was crooked, and he
was lame from hip-disease; sometimes for weeks together the cruel
abscesses wasted his strength, at other times he was tolerably free
from pain; even at his worst times Dot was a cheery invalid, for he was
a bright, patient little fellow. He had a beautiful little face, too,
though perhaps the eyes were a trifle too large for the thin features;
but Dot was my pet, and I could see no fault in him; nothing angered me
more than when people pitied him or lamented over his infirmity. When I
first came home the sound of his crutch on the floor was the sweetest
music in my ear. But I had no eyes even for Dot after my first look at
father. Oh, how changed, how terribly changed he was! The great wave of
brown hair over his forehead was gray, his features were pinched and
haggard, and when he spoke to me his voice was different, and he seemed
hardly able to articulate.
"Poor children--poor children!" he groaned; and as I kissed his cheek
he said, "Be a good girl, Esther, and try to be a comfort to your
mother."
"When I am a man I shall try and be a comfort too," cried Dot, in his
sharp chirpy voice; it quite startled father.
"That's my brave boy," said father, faintly, and I think there were
tears in his eyes. "Dora"--my mother's name was Dora--"I am too tired
to talk; let the children go now, and come and sit by me while I go to
sleep;" and mother gently dismissed us.
I had rather a difficulty with Dot when I got outside, for he suddenly
lowered his crutch and sat down on the floor.
"I don't want to go to bed," he announced, decidedly. "I shall sit here
all night, in case mother wants me; when it gets dark she may feel
lonely."
"But, Dot, mother will be grieved if she comes out and finds you here;
she has anxiety enough as it is; and if you make yourself ill, too, you
will only add to her trouble. Come, be a good boy, and let me help you
to undress." But I might as well have talked to Smudge. Dot had these
obstinate fits at times; he was tired, and his nerves were shaken by
being so many hours in the sick room, and nothing would have induced
him to move. I was so tired at last that I sat down on the floor, too,
and rested my head against the door, and Dot sat bolt upright like a
watchful little dog, and in this ridiculous position we were discovered
by Allan. I had not heard of his arrival; and when he came toward us,
springing lightly up two stairs at a time, I could not help uttering a
suppressed exclamation of delight.
He stopped at once and looked at us in astonishment. "Dot and Esther!
in the name of all that is mysterious; huddled up like two Chinese gods
on the matting. Why, I took Esther for a heap of clothes in the
twilight." Of course I told him how it happened. Dot was naughty and
would not move, and I was keeping him company. Allan hardly heard me
out before he had shouldered Dot, crutch and all, and was walking off
with him down the passage. "Wait for me a few minutes, Esther," he
whispered; and I betook myself to the window-seat and looked over the
dusky garden, where the tall white lilies looked like ghostly flowers
in the gloom.
It was a long time before Allan rejoined me. "That is a curious little
body," he said, half laughing, as he sat down beside me. "I had quite a
piece of work with him for carrying him off in that fashion; he said 'I
was a savage, a great uncivilized man, to take such a mean advantage of
him; If I were big I would fight you,' he said, doubling his fists; he
looked such a miserable little atom of a chap as he said it."
"Was he really angry?" I asked, for Dot was so seldom out of temper.
"Angry, I believe you. He was in a towering rage; but he is all right
now, so you need not go to him. I stroked him down, and praised him for
his good intentions, and then I told him I was a doctor now, and no one
contradicted my orders, and that he must be a good boy and let me help
him to bed. Poor little fellow; he sobbed all the time he was
undressing, he is so fond of father. I am afraid it will go badly with
him if things turn out as I fear they will," and Allan's voice was very
grave.
We had a long talk after that, until Uncle Geoffrey came upstairs and
dislodged us, by carrying Allan off. It was such a comfort to have him
all to myself; we had been so much separated of late years.
Allan was five years older than I; he was only a year younger than
Fred, but the difference between them was very great. Allan looked the
elder of the two; he was not so tall as Fred, but he was strongly built
and sturdy; he was dark-complexioned, and his features were almost as
irregular as mine; but in a man that did not so much matter, and very
few people called Allan plain.
Allan had always been my special brother--most sisters know what I mean
by that term. Allan was undemonstrative; he seldom petted or made much
of me, but a word from him was worth a hundred from Fred; and there was
a quiet unspoken sympathy between us that was sufficiently palpable. If
Allan wanted his gloves mended he always came to me, and not to Carrie.
I was his chief correspondent, and he made me the confidante of his
professional hopes and fears. In return, he good-humoredly interested
himself in my studies, directed my reading, and considered himself at
liberty to find fault with everything that did not please him. He was a
little peremptory sometimes, but I did not mind that half so much as
Fred's sarcasms; and he never distressed me as Fred did, by laughing at
my large hands, or wondering why I was not so natty in my dress as
Carrie.