DOT.
I went to my room to unpack my things, and by-and-by Carrie joined me.
I half hoped that she meant to help me, but she sat down by the window
and said, with a sigh, how tired she was; and certainly her eyes had a
weary look.
She watched me for some time in silence, but once or twice she sighed
very heavily.
"I wish you could leave those things, Esther," she said, at last, not
pettishly--Carrie was never pettish--but a little too plaintively. "I
have not had a creature to whom I could talk since you left home in
April."
The implied compliment was very nice, but I did not half like leaving
my things--I was rather old-maidish in my ways, and never liked half
measures; but I remembered reading once about "the lust of finishing,"
and what a test of unselfishness it was to put by a half-completed task
cheerfully at the call of another duty. Perhaps it was my duty to leave
my unpacking and listen to Carrie, but there was one little point in
her speech that did not please me.
"You could talk to mother," I objected; for mother always listened to
one so nicely.
"I tried it once, but mother did not understand," sighed Carrie. I used
to wish she did not sigh so much. "We had quite an argument, but I saw
it was no use--that I should never bring her to my way of thinking. She
was brought up so differently; girls were allowed so little liberty
then. My notions seemed to distress her. She said that I was peculiar,
and that I carried things too far, and that she wished I were more like
other girls; and then she kissed me, and said I was very good, and she
did not mean to hurt me; but she thought home had the first claim; and
so on. You know mother's way."
"I think mother was right there--you think so yourself, do you not
Carrie?" I asked anxiously, for this seemed to me the A B C of common
sense.
"Oh, of course," rather hastily. "Charity begins at home, but it ought
not to stop there. If I chose to waste my time practicing for Fred's
violin, and attending to all his thousand and one fads and fancies,
what would become of all my parish work? You should have heard Mr.
Arnold's sermon last Sunday, Esther; he spoke of the misery and poverty
and ignorance that lay around us outside our homes, and of the
loiterers and idlers within those homes." And Carrie's eyes looked sad
and serious.
"That is true," I returned, and then I stopped, and Jessie's words came
to my mind, "Even Carrie makes mistakes at times." For the first time
in my life the thought crossed me; in my absence would it not have been
better for Carrie to have been a little more at home? It was Jessie's
words and mother's careworn face that put the thought into my head; but
the next moment I had dismissed it as heresy. My good, unselfish
Carrie, it was impossible that she could make mistakes! Carrie's next
speech chimed in well with my unspoken thoughts.
"Home duties come first, of course, Esther--no one in their senses
could deny such a thing; but we must be on our guard against
make-believe duties. It is my duty to help mother by teaching Jack, and
I give her two hours every morning; but when Fred comes into the
schoolroom with some nonsensical request that would rob me of an hour
or so, I am quite right not to give way to him. Do you think," warming
into enthusiasm over her subject, "that Fred's violin playing ought to
stand in the way of any real work that will benefit souls as well as
bodies--that will help to reclaim ignorance and teach virtue?" And
Carrie's beautiful eyes grew dark and dewy with feeling. I wish mother
could have seen her; something in her expression reminded me of a
picture of Faith I had once seen.
"Oh, Esther," she continued, for I was too moved to answer her, "every
day I live I long to give myself more entirely to benefiting my fellow
creatures. Girl as I am, I mean to join the grand army of workers--that
is what Mr. Arnold called them. Oh, how I wish I could remember all he
said! He told us not to be disheartened by petty difficulties, or to
feel lonely because, perhaps, those who were our nearest and dearest
discouraged our efforts or put obstacles in our way. 'You think you are
alone,' he said, 'when you are one of the rank and file in that
glorious battalion. There are thousands working with you and around
you, although you cannot see them.' And then he exhorted us who were
young to enter this crusade."
"But, Carrie," I interrupted, somewhat mournfully, for I was tired and
a little depressed, "I am afraid our work is already cut out for us,
and we shall have to do it however little pleased we may be with the
pattern. From what Uncle Geoffrey tells me, we shall be very poor."
"I am not afraid of poverty, Esther."
"But still you will be grieved to leave Combe Manor," I persisted.
"Perhaps we shall have to live in a little pokey house somewhere, and
to go out as governesses."
"Perhaps so," she answered, serenely; "but I shall still find time for
higher duties. I shall be a miser, and treasure all my minutes. But I
have wasted nearly half-an-hour now; but it is such a luxury to talk to
somebody who can understand." And then she kissed me affectionately and
bade me hasten to bed, for it was getting late, and I looked sadly
tired; but it never entered into her head to help me put away the
clothes that strewed my room, though I was aching in every limb from
grief and fatigue. If one looks up too much at the clouds one stumbles
against rough stones sometimes. Star gazing is very sweet and
elevating, but it is as well sometimes to pick up the homely flowers
that grow round our feet. "What does Carrie mean by higher duties?" I
grumbled, as I sought wearily to evoke order out of chaos. "To work for
one's family is as much a duty as visiting the poor." I could not solve
the problem; Carrie was too vague for me there; but I went to bed at
last, and dreamed that we two were building houses on the seashore.
Carrie's was the prettier, for it was all of sea-weed and
bright-colored shells that looked as though the sun were shining on
them, while mine was made of clay, tempered by mortar.
"Oh, Carrie, I like yours best" I cried, disconsolately; yet as I spoke
a long tidal wave came up and washed the frail building away. But
though mine filled with foamy water, the rough walls remained entire,
and then I looked at it again the receding wave had strewn its floors
with small shining pearls.
I must pass over the record of the next few days, for they were so
sad--so sad, even now, I cannot think of them without tears. On the
second day after my return, dear father had another attack, and before
many hours were over we knew we were orphans.
Two things stood out most prominently during that terrible week; dear
mother's exceeding patience and Dot's despair. Mother gave us little
trouble. She lay on her couch weeping silently, but no word of
complaint or rebellion crossed her lips; she liked us to sit beside her
and read her soothing passages of Scripture, and she was very
thoughtful and full of pity for us all. Her health was never very good,
and just now her strength had given way utterly. Uncle Geoffrey would
not hear of her exerting herself, and, indeed, she looked so frail and
broken that even Fred got alarmed about her.
Carrie was her principal companion, for Dot took all my attention; and,
indeed, it nearly broke our hearts to see him.
Uncle Geoffrey had carried him from the room when father's last attack
had come on. Jack was left in charge of him, and the rest of us were
gathered in the sick room. I was the first to leave when all was over,
for I thought of Dot and trembled; but as I opened the door there he
was, crouched down in a little heap at the entrance, with Jack sobbing
beside him.
"I took away his crutch, but he crawled all the way on his hands and
knees," whispered Jack; and then Allan came out and stood beside me.
"Poor little fellow!" he muttered; and Dot lifted his miserable little
white face, and held out his arms.
"Take me in," he implored. "Father's dead, for I heard you all crying;
but I must kiss him once more."
"I don't think it will hurt him," observed Allan, in a low voice. "He
will only imagine all sorts of horrors--and he looks so peaceful,"
motioning toward the closed door.
"I will be so good," implored the poor child, "if you only take me in."
And Allan, unable to resist any longer, lifted him in his arms.
I did not go in, for I could not have borne it. Carrie told me
afterward that Allan cried like a child when Dot nestled up to the dead
face and began kissing and stroking it.
"You are my own father, though you look so different," he whispered. "I
wish you were not so cold. I wish you could look and speak to me--I am
your little boy Dot--you were always so fond of Dot, father. Let me go
with you; I don't want to live any longer without you," and so on,
until Uncle Geoffrey made Allan take him away.
Oh, how good Allan was to him! He lay down by his side all night,
soothing him and talking to him, for Dot never slept. The next day we
took turns to be with him, and so on day after day; but I think Dot
liked Allan best.
"He is most like father," he said once, which, perhaps, explained the
preference; but then Allan had so much tact and gentleness. Fred did
not understand him at all; he called him odd and uncanny, which
displeased us both.
One evening I had been reading to mother, and afterward I went up to
Dot. He had been very feverish and had suffered much all day, and Allan
had scarcely left him; but toward evening he had grown quieter. I found
Jack beside him; they were making up garlands for the grave; it was
Dot's only occupation just now.
"Look here, Essie," he cried, eagerly. "Is not this a splendid wreath?
We are making it all of pansies--they were father's favorite flowers.
He always called them floral butterflies. Fancy a wreath of
butterflies!" and Dot gave a weak little laugh. It was a very ghost of
a laugh, but it was his first, and I hailed it joyfully. I praised the
quaint stiff wreath. In its way it was picturesque. The rich hues of
the pansies blended well--violet and gold; it was a pretty idea, laying
heartsease on the breast that would never know anxiety again.
"When I get better," continued Dot, "I am going to make such a
beautiful little garden by dear father. Jack and I have been planning
it. We are going to have rose-trees and lilies of the valley and sweet
peas--father was so fond of sweet peas; and in the spring snowdrops and
crocuses and violets. Allan says I may do it."
"Yes, surely, Dot."
"I wonder what father is doing now?" he exclaimed, suddenly, putting by
the unfinished wreath a little wearily. "I think the worst of people
dying is that we cannot find out what they are doing," and his eyes
grew large and wistful. Alas! Dot, herein lies the sting of
death--silence so insupportable and unbroken!
"Shall I read you your favorite chapter?" I asked, softly; for every
day Dot made us read to him the description of that City with its
golden streets and gem-built walls; but he shook his head,
"It glitters too much for my head to-night," he said, quaintly; "it is
too bright and shining. I would rather think of dear father walking in
those green pastures, with all the good people who have died. It must
be very beautiful there, Esther. But I think father would be happier if
I were with him."
"Oh, Dot, no!" for the bare idea pained me; and I felt I must argue
this notion away. "Allan and I could not spare you, or mother either;
and there's Jack--what would poor Jack do without her playfellow?"
"I don't feel I shall ever play again," said Dot, leaning his chin on
his mites of hands and peering at us in his shrewd way. "Jack is a
girl, and she cannot understand; but when one is only a Dot, and has an
ugly crutch and a back that never leaves off aching, and a father that
has gone to heaven, one does not care to be left behind."
"But you are not thinking of us, Dot, and how unhappy it would make us
to lose you too," I returned. And now the tears would come one by one;
Dot saw them, and wiped them off with his sleeve.
"Don't be silly, Esther," he said, in a coaxing little voice. "I am not
going yet. Allan says I may live to be a man. He said so last night;
and then he told me he was afraid we should be very poor; and that made
me sorry, for I knew I should never be able to work, with my poor back."
"But Allan and I will work for you, my darling," I exclaimed, throwing
my arms round him; "only you must not leave us, Dot, even for father;"
and as I said this I began to sob bitterly. I was terribly ashamed of
myself when Allan came in and discovered me in the act; and there was
Jack keeping me company, and frowning away her tears dreadfully.
I thought Allan would have scolded us all round; but no, he did nothing
of the kind. He patted Jack's wet cheeks and laughed at the hole in her
handkerchief; and he then seated himself on the bed, and asked me very
gently what was the matter with us all. Dot was spokesman: he stated
the facts of the case rather lugubriously and in a slightly injured
voice.
"Esther is crying because she is selfish, and I am afraid I am selfish
too."
"Most likely," returned Allan, dryly; "it is a human failing. What is
the case in point, Frankie?"
Allan was the only one of us who ever called Dot by his proper name.
"I should not mind growing up to be a man," replied Dot, fencing a
little, "if I were big and strong like you," taking hold of the huge
sinewy hand. "I could work then for mother and the girls; but now you
will be always obliged to take care of me, and so--and so--" and here
Dot's lips quivered a little, "I would rather go with dear father, if
Esther would not cry about it so."
"No, no, you must stay with us, Sonny," returned Allan, cheerily.
"Esther and I are not going to give you up so easily. Why, look here,
Frankie; I will tell you a secret. One of these days I mean to have a
nice little house of my own, and Esther and you shall come and live
with me, and I will go among my patients all the morning, and in the
evening I shall come home very lazy and tired, and Esther shall fetch
me my slippers and light the lamp, and I shall get my books, and you
will have your drawing, and Esther will mend our clothes, and we shall
be as cozy as possible."
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Dot, clapping his hands. The snug picture had
fascinated his childish fancy; Allan's fireside had obscured the lights
of paradise. From this time this imaginary home of Allan's became his
favorite castle in the air. When we were together he would often talk
of it as though it were reality. We had planted the garden and
furnished the parlor a dozen times over before the year was out; and so
strong is a settled imagination that I am almost sure Dot believed that
somewhere there existed the little white cottage with the porch covered
with honeysuckle, and the low bay-window with the great pots of
flowering plants, beside which Dot's couch was to stand.
I don't think Jack enjoyed these talks so much as Dot and I did, as we
made no room for her in our castle-building.
"You must not live with us, Jack," Dot would say, very gravely; "you
are only a girl, and we don't want girls"--what was I, I wonder?--"but
you shall come and see us once a week, and Esther will give you brown
bread and honey out of our beehives; for we had arranged there must be
a row of beehives under a southern wall where peaches were to grow; and
as for white lilies, we were to have dozens of them. Dear, dear, how
harmless all these fancies were, and yet they kept us cheerful and
warded off many an hour of depression from pain when Dot's back was
bad. I remember one more thing that Allan said that night, when we were
all better and more cheerful, for it was rather a grave speech for a
young man; but then Allan had these fits of gravity.
"Never mind thinking if you will grow up to be a man, Dot. Wishing
won't help us to die an hour sooner, and the longest life must have an
end some day. What we have to do is to take up our life, and do the
best we can with it while it lasts, and to be kind and patient, and
help one another. Most likely Esther and I will have to work hard
enough all our lives--we shall work, and you may have to suffer; but we
cannot do without you any more than you can do without us. There,
Frankie!"