UNCLE GEOFFREY.
The day after the funeral Uncle Geoffrey held a family council, at
which we were all present, except mother and Dot; he preferred talking
to her alone afterward.
Oh, what changes! what incredible changes! We must leave Combe Manor at
once. With the exception of a few hundred pounds that had been mother's
portion, the only dowry that her good old father, a naval captain, had
been able to give her, we were literally penniless. The boys were not
able to help us much. Allan was only a house-surgeon in one of the
London hospitals; and Fred, who called himself an artist, had never
earned a penny. He was a fair copyist, and talked the ordinary art
jargon, and went about all day in his brown velveteen coat, and wore
his hair rather long; but we never saw much result from his Roman
studies; latterly he had somewhat neglected his painting, and had taken
to violin playing and musical composition. Uncle Geoffrey used to shake
his head and say he was "Jack of all trades and master of none," which
was not far from the mark. There was a great deal of talk between the
three, before anything was settled.
Fred was terribly aggravating to Uncle Geoffrey, I could see; but then
he was so miserable, poor fellow; he would not look at things in their
proper light, and he had a way with him as though he thought Uncle
Geoffrey was putting upon him. The discussion grew very warm at last,
for Allan sided with Uncle Geoffrey, and then Fred said every one was
against him. It struck me Uncle Geoffrey pooh-poohed Fred's whim of
being an artist; he wanted him to go into an office; there was a vacant
berth he could secure by speaking to an old friend of his, who was in a
China tea-house, a most respectable money-making firm, and Fred would
have a salary at once, with good prospects of rising; but Fred
passionately scouted the notion. He would rather enlist; he would
drown, or hang himself sooner. There were no end of naughty things he
said; only Carrie cried and begged him not to be so wicked, and that
checked him.
Uncle Geoffrey lost his patience at last, and very nearly told him he
was an idiot, to his face; but Fred looked so handsome and miserable,
that he relented; and at last it was arranged that Fred was to take a
hundred pounds of mother's money--she would have given him the whole if
she could, poor dear--and take cheap rooms in London, and try how he
could get on by teaching drawing and taking copying orders.
"Remember, Fred," continued Uncle Geoffrey, rather sternly, "you are
taking a sixth part of your mother's entire income; all that she has
for herself and these girls; if you squander it rashly, you will be
robbing the widow and the fatherless. You have scouted my well-meant
advice, and Allan's"--he went on--"and are marking out your own path in
life very foolishly, as we think; remember, you have only yourself to
blame, if you make that life a failure. Artists are of the same stuff
as other men, and ought to be sober, steady, and persevering; without
patience and effort you cannot succeed."
"When my picture is accepted by the hanging committee, you and Allan
will repent your sneers," answered Fred, bitterly.
"We do not sneer, my boy," returned Uncle Geoffrey, more mildly--for he
remembered Fred's father had only been dead a week--"we are only
doubtful of the wisdom of your choice; but there, work hard at your
daubs, and keep out of debt and bad company, and you may yet triumph
over your cranky old uncle." And so the matter was amicably settled.
Allan's arrangements were far more simple. He was to leave the hospital
in another year, and become Uncle Geoffrey's assistant, with a view to
partnership. It was not quite Allan's taste, a practice in a sleepy
country town; but, as he remarked rather curtly, "beggars must not be
choosers," and he would as soon work under Uncle Geoffrey as any other
man. I think Allan was rather ambitious in his secret views. He wanted
to remain longer at the hospital and get into a London practice; he
would have liked to have been higher up the tree than Uncle Geoffrey,
who was quite content with his quiet position at Milnthorpe. But the
most astonishing part of the domestic programme was, that we were all
going to live with Uncle Geoffrey. I could scarcely believe my ears
when I heard it, and Carrie was just as surprised. Could any of us
credit such unselfish generosity? He had not prepared us for it in the
least.
"Now, girls, you must just pack up your things, you, and the mother,
and Dot; of course we must take Dot, and you must manage to shake
yourselves down in the old house at Milnthorpe"--that is how he put it;
"it is not so big as Combe Manor, and I daresay we shall be rather a
tight fit when Allan comes; but the more the merrier, eh, Jack?"
"Oh, Uncle Geoff, do you mean it?" gasped Jack, growing scarlet; but
Carrie and I could not speak for surprise.
"Mean it! Of course. What is the good of being a bachelor uncle, if one
is not to be tyrannized over by an army of nephews and nieces? Do you
think the plan will answer, Esther?" he said, rather more seriously.
"If you and Deborah do not mind it, Uncle Geoffrey, I am sure it ought
to answer; but we shall crowd you, and put you and Deborah to sad
inconvenience, I am afraid;" for I was half afraid of Deborah, who had
lived with Uncle Geoffrey for five-and-twenty years, and was used to
her own ways, and not over fond of young people.
"I shall not ask Deb's opinion," he answered, rather roguishly; "we
must smooth her down afterward, eh, girls? Seriously, Allan, I think it
is the best plan under the circumstances. I am not fond of being
alone," and here Uncle Geoffrey gave a quick sigh. Poor Uncle Geoff! he
had never meant to be an old bachelor, only She died while he was
furnishing the old house at Milnthorpe, and he never could fix his mind
on any one else.
"I like young folks about me," he continued, cheerfully. "When I get
old and rheumatic, I can keep Dot company, and Jack can wait on us
both. Of course I am not a rich man, children, and we must all help to
keep the kettle boiling; but the house is my own, and you can all
shelter in it if you like; it will save house-rent and taxes, at any
rate for the present."
"Carrie and I will work," I replied, eagerly; for, though Uncle
Geoffrey was not a poor man, he was very far from being rich, and he
could not possibly afford to keep us all. A third of his income went to
poor Aunt Prue, who had married foolishly, and was now a widow with a
large family.
Aunt Prue would have been penniless, only father and Uncle Geoff agreed
to allow her a fixed maintenance. As Uncle Geoff explained to us
afterward, she would now lose half her income.
"There are eight children, and two or three of them are very delicate,
and take after their father. I have been thinking about it all,
Esther," he said, when Allan and I were alone with him, "and I have
made up my mind that I must allow her another hundred a year. Poor
soul, she works hard at that school-keeping of hers, and none of the
children are old enough to help her except Lawrence, and he is going
into a decline, the doctors say. I am afraid we shall have to pinch a
bit, unless you and Carrie get some teaching."
"Oh, Uncle Geoff, of course we shall work; and Jack, too, when she is
old enough." Could he think we should be a burden on him, when we were
all young and strong?
I had forgotten poor Aunt Prue, who lived a long way off, and whom we
saw but seldom. She was a pretty, subdued little woman, who always wore
shabby black gowns; I never saw her in a good dress in my life. Well,
we were as poor as Aunt Prue now, and I wondered if we should make such
a gallant fight against misfortune as she did.
We arranged matters after that--Allan and Uncle Geoff and I; for Carrie
had gone to sit with mother, and Fred had strolled off somewhere. They
wanted me to try my hand at housekeeping; at least, until mother was
stronger and more able to bear things.
"Carrie hates it, and you have a good head for accounts," Allan
observed, quietly. It seemed rather strange that they should make me
take the head, when Carrie was two years older, and a week ago I was
only a schoolgirl; but I felt they were right, for I liked planning and
contriving, and Carrie detested anything she called domestic drudgery.
We considered ways and means after that. Uncle Geoffrey told us the
exact amount of his income, He had always lived very comfortably, but
when he had deducted the extra allowance for poor Aunt Prue, we saw
clearly that there was not enough for so large a party; but at the
first hint of this from Allan Uncle Geoffrey got quite warm and eager.
Dear, generous Uncle Geoff! he was determined to share his last crust
with his dead brother's widow and children.
"Nonsense, fiddlesticks!" he kept on saying; "what do I want with
luxuries? Ask Deborah if I care what I eat and drink; we shall do very
well, if you and Esther are not so faint-hearted." And when we found
out how our protests seemed to hurt him, we let him have his own way;
only Allan and I exchanged looks, which said as plainly as looks could,
"Is he not the best uncle that ever lived, and will we not work our
hardest to help him?"
I had a long talk with Carrie that night; she was very submissive and
very sad, and seemed rather downhearted over things. She was quite as
grateful for Uncle Geoff's generosity as we were, but I could see the
notion of being a governess distressed her greatly. "I am very glad you
will undertake the housekeeping, Esther," she said, rather plaintively;
"it will leave me free for other things," and then she sighed very
bitterly, and got up and left me. I was a little sorry that she did not
tell me all that was in her mind, for, if we are "to bear each other's
burdens," it is necessary to break down the reserve that keeps us out
of even a sister's heart sometimes.
But though Carrie left me to my own thoughts, I was not able to quiet
myself for hours. If I had only Jessie to whom I could talk! and then
it seemed to me as though it were months since we sat together in the
garden of Redmayne House talking out our girlish philosophy.
Only a fortnight ago, and yet how much had happened since then! What a
revolution in our home-world! Dear father lying in his quiet grave;
ourselves penniless orphans, obliged to leave Combe Manor, and indebted
to our generous benefactor for the very roof that was to cover us and
the food that we were to eat.
Ah, well! I was only a schoolgirl, barely seventeen. No wonder I shrank
back a little appalled from the responsibilities that awaited me. I was
to be Uncle Geoff's housekeeper, his trusted right-hand and referee. I
was to manage that formidable Deborah, and the stolid, broad-faced
Martha; and there was mother so broken in health and spirits, and Dot,
and Jack, with her hoidenish ways and torn frocks, and Allan miles away
from me, and Carrie--well, I felt half afraid of Carrie to-night; she
seemed meditating great things when I wanted her to compass daily
duties. I hoped she would volunteer to go on with Jack's lessons and
help with the mending, and I wondered with more forebodings what things
she was planning for which I was to leave her free.
All these things tired me, and I sat rather dismally in the moonlight
looking out at the closed white lilies and the swaying branches of the
limes, until a text suddenly flashed into my mind, "As thy day, so
shall thy strength be." I lit my candle and opened my Bible, that I
might read over the words for myself. Yes, there they were shining
before my eyes, like "apples of gold in pictures of silver," refreshing
and comforting my worn-out spirits. Strength promised for the day, but
not beforehand, supplies of heavenly manna, not to be hoarded or put
by; the daily measure, daily gathered.
An old verse of Bishop Ken's came to my mind. Very quaint and rich in
wisdom it was:
"Does each day upon its wing
Its appointed burden bring?
Load it not besides with sorrow
That belongeth to the morrow.
When by God the heart is riven,
Strength is promised, strength is given:
But fore-date the day of woe,
And alone thou bear'st the blow."
When I had said this over to myself, I laid my head on the pillow and
slept soundly.
Mother and I had a nice little talk the next day. It was arranged that
I was to go over to Milnthorpe with Uncle Geoffrey, who was obliged to
return home somewhat hastily, in order to talk to Deborah and see what
furniture would be required for the rooms that were placed at our
disposal. As I was somewhat aghast at the amount of business entrusted
to my inexperienced hands, Allan volunteered to help me, as Carrie
could not be spared.
We were to stay two or three days, make all the arrangements that were
necessary, and then come back and prepare for the flitting. If Allan
were beside me, I felt that I could accomplish wonders; nevertheless, I
carried rather a harassed face into dear mother's dressing-room that
morning.
"Oh, Esther, how pale and tired you look!" were her first words as I
came toward her couch. "Poor child, we are making you a woman before
your time!" and her eyes filled with tears.
"I am seventeen," I returned, with an odd little choke in my voice, for
I could have cried with her readily at that moment. "That is quite a
great age, mother; I feel terribly old, I assure you."
"You are our dear, unselfish Esther," she returned, lovingly. Dear
soul, she always thought the best of us all, and my heart swelled how
proudly, and oh! how gratefully, when she told me in her sweet gentle
way what a comfort I was to her.
"You are so reliable, Esther," she went on, "that we all look to you as
though you were older. You must be Uncle Geoffrey's favorite, I think,
from the way he talks about you. Carrie is very sweet and good too, but
she is not so practical."
"Oh, mother, she is ever so much better than I!" I cried, for I could
not bear the least disparagement of my darling Carrie. "Think how
pretty she is, and how little she cares for dress and admiration. If I
were like that," I added, flushing a little over my words, "I'm afraid
I should be terribly vain."
Mother smiled a little at that.
"Be thankful then that you are saved that temptation." And then she
stroked my hot cheek and went on softly: "Don't think so much about
your looks, child; plain women are just as vain as pretty ones. Not
that you are plain, Esther, in my eyes, or in the eyes of any one who
loves you." But even that did not quite comfort me, for in my secret
heart my want of beauty troubled me sadly. There, I have owned the
worst of myself--it is out now.
We talked for a long time after that about the new life that lay before
us, and again I marveled at mother's patience and submission; but when
I told her so she only hid her face and wept.
"What does it matter?" she said, at last, when she had recovered
herself a little. "No home can be quite a home to me now without him.
If I could live within sight of his grave, I should be thankful; but
Combe Manor and Milnthrope are the same to me now." And though these
words struck me as strange at first, I understood afterward; for in the
void and waste of her widowed life no outer change of circumstances
seemed to disturb her, except for our sakes and for us.
She seemed to feel Uncle Geoffrey's kindness as a sort of stay and
source of endless comfort. "Such goodness--such unselfishness!" she
kept murmuring to herself; and then she wanted to hear all that Allan
and I proposed.
"How I wish I could get strong and help you," she said, wistfully, when
I had finished. "With all that teaching and housekeeping, I am afraid
you will overtax your strength."
"Oh, no, Carrie will help me," I returned, confidently. "Uncle Geoffrey
is going to speak to some of his patients about us. He rather thinks
those Thornes who live opposite to him want a governess."
"That will be nice and handy, and save you a walk," she returned,
brightening up at the notion that one of us would be so near her; but
though I would not have hinted at such a thing, I should rather have
enjoyed the daily walk. I was fond of fresh air, and exercise, and
rushing about, after the manner of girls, and it seemed rather tame and
monotonous just to cross the street to one's work; but I remembered
Allan's favorite speech, "Beggars must not be choosers," and held my
peace.
On the whole, I felt somewhat comforted by my talk with mother. If she
and Uncle Geoffrey thought so well of me, I must try and live up to
their good opinion. There is nothing so good as to fix a high standard
for one's self. True, we may never reach it, never satisfy ourselves,
but the continued effort strengthens and elevates us.
I went into Carrie's room to tell her about the Thornes, and lay our
plans together, but she was reading Thomas a Kempis, and did not seem
inclined to be disturbed, so I retreated somewhat discomforted.
But I forgot my disappointment a moment afterward, when I went into the
schoolroom and found Dot fractious and weary, and Jack vainly trying to
amuse him. Allan was busy, and the two children had passed a solitary
morning.
"Dot wanted Carrie to read to him, but she said she was too tired, and
I could do it," grumbled Jack, disconsolately.
"I don't like Jack's reading; it is too jerky, and her voice is too
loud," returned Dot; but his countenance smoothed when I got the book
and read to him, and soon he fell into a sound sleep.