THE OLD HOUSE AT MILNTHORPE.
The following afternoon Uncle Geoffrey, Allan, and I, started for
Milnthorpe. Youthful grief is addicted to restlessness--it is only the
old who can sit so silently and weep; it was perfectly natural, then,
that I should hail a few days' change with feelings of relief.
It was rather late in the evening when we arrived. As we drove through
the market place there was the usual group of idlers loitering on the
steps of the Red Lion, who stared at us lazily as we passed. Milnthorpe
was an odd, primitive little place--the sunniest and sleepiest of
country towns. It had a steep, straggling Highstreet, which ended in a
wide, deserted-looking square, which rather reminded one of the Place
in some Continental town. The weekly markets were held here, on which
occasion the large white portico of the Red Lion was never empty.
Milnthorpe woke with brief spasms of life on Monday morning;
broad-shouldered men jostled each other on the grass-grown pavements;
large country wagons, sweet-smelling in haymaking seasons, blocked up
the central spaces; country women, with gay-colored handkerchiefs, sold
eggs, and butter, and poultry In the square; and two or three farmers,
with their dogs at their heels, lingered under the windows of the Red
Lion, fingering the samples in their pockets, and exchanging dismal
prognostications concerning the crops and the weather. One side of the
square was occupied by St. Barnabas, with its pretty shaded churchyard
and old gray vicarage. On the opposite side was the handsome red brick
house occupied by Mr. Lucas, the banker, and two or three other houses,
more or less pretentious, inhabited by the gentry of Milnthorpe.
Uncle Geoffrey lived at the lower end of the High street. It was a
tall, narrow house, with old-fashioned windows and wire blinds. These
blinds, which were my detestation, were absolutely necessary, as the
street door opened directly on the street. There was one smooth, long
step, and that was all. It had rather a dull outside look, but the
moment one entered the narrow wainscoted hall, there was a cheery vista
of green lawn and neatly graveled paths through the glass door.
The garden was the delight of Uncle Geoffrey's heart. It was somewhat
narrow, to match the house; but in the center of the lawn, there was a
glorious mulberry tree, the joy of us children. Behind was a wonderful
intricacy of slim, oddly-shaped flower-beds, intersected by miniature
walks, where two people could with difficulty walk abreast; and beyond
this lay a tolerable kitchen garden, where Deborah grew cabbages and
all sorts of homely herbs, and where tiny pink roses and sturdy
sweet-williams blossomed among the gooseberry bushes.
On one side of the house were two roomy parlors, divided by folding
doors. We never called them anything but parlors, for the shabby
wainscoted walls and old-fashioned furniture forbade any similitude to
the modern drawing-room.
On the other side of the hall was Uncle Geoffrey's study--a somewhat
grim, dingy apartment, with brown shelves full of ponderous tomes, a
pipe-rack filled with fantastic pipes, deep old cupboards full of
hetereogeneous rubbish, and wide easy-chairs that one could hardly
lift, one of which was always occupied by Jumbles, Uncle Geoffrey's dog.
Jumbles was a great favorite with us all. He was a solemn, wise-looking
dog of the terrier breed, indeed, I believe Uncle Geoff called him a
Dandy Dinmont--blue-gray in color, with a great head, and deep-set
intelligent eyes. It was Uncle Geoffrey's opinion that Jumbles
understood all one said to him. He would sit with his head slightly on
one side, thumping his tail against the floor, with a sort of glimmer
of fun in his eyes, as though he comprehended our conversation, and
interposed a "Hear, hear!" and when he had had enough of it, and we
were growing prosy, he would turn over on his back with an expression
of abject weariness, as though canine reticence objected to human
garrulity.
Jumbles was a rare old philosopher--a sort of four-footed Diogenes. He
was discerning in his friendships, somewhat aggressive and splenetic to
his equals; intolerant of cats, whom he hunted like vermin, and rather
disdainfully condescending to the small dogs of Milnthorpe. Jumbles
always accompanied Uncle Geoffrey in his rounds. He used to take his
place in the gig with undeviating punctuality; nothing induced him to
desert his post when the night-bell rang. He would rouse up from his
sleep, and go out in the coldest weather. We used to hear his deep bark
under the window as they sallied out in the midnight gloom.
The morning after we arrived, Allan and I made a tour of inspection
through the house. There were only three rooms on the first
floor--Uncle Geoffrey's, with its huge four-post bed; a large front
room, that we both decided would just do for mother; and a smaller one
at the back, that, after a few minutes' deliberation, I allotted to
Carrie.
It caused me an envious pang or two before I yielded it, for I knew I
must share a large upper room with Jack; the little room behind it must
be for Dot, and the larger one would by-and-by be Allan's. I confess my
heart sank a little when I thought of Jack's noisiness and thriftless
ways; but when I remembered how fond she was of good books, and the
great red-leaved diary that lay on her little table, I thought it
better that Carrie should have a quiet corner to herself, and then she
would be near mother.
If only Jack could be taught to hold her tongue sometimes, and keep her
drawers in order, instead of strewing her room with muddy boots and odd
items of attire! Well, perhaps it might be my mission to train Jack to
more orderly habits. I would set her a good example, and coax her to
follow it. She was good-tempered and affectionate, and perhaps I should
find her sufficiently pliable. I was so lost in these anxious thoughts
that Allan had left me unperceived. I found him in the back parlor,
seated on the table, and looking about him rather gloomily.
"I say, Esther!" he called out, as soon as he caught sight of me, "I am
afraid mother and Carrie will find this rather shabby after the dear
old rooms at Combe Manor. Could we not furbish it up a little?" And
Allan looked discontentedly at the ugly curtains and little, straight
horse-hair sofa. Everything had grown rather shabby, only Uncle
Geoffrey had not found it out.
"Oh, of course!" I exclaimed, joyfully, for all sorts of brilliant
thoughts had come to me while I tossed rather wakefully in the early
morning hours. "Don't you know, Allan, that Uncle Geoffrey has decided
to send mother and Carrie and Dot down to the sea for a week, while you
and I and Jack make things comfortable for them? Now, why should we not
help ourselves to the best of the furniture at Combe Manor, and make
Uncle Geoff turn out all these ugly things? We might have our pretty
carpet from the drawing-room, and the curtains, and mother's couch, and
some of the easy-chairs, and the dear little carved cabinet with our
purple china; it need not all be sold when we want it so badly for
mother."
Allan was so delighted at the idea that we propounded our views to
Uncle Geoffrey at dinner-time; but he did not see the thing quite in
our light.
"Of course you will need furniture for the bedrooms," he returned,
rather dubiously; "but I wanted to sell the rest of the things that
were not absolutely needed, and invest the money."
But this sensible view of the matter did not please me or Allan. We had
a long argument, which ended in a compromise--the question of carpets
might rest. Uncle Geoffrey's was a good Brussels, although it was
dingy; but I might retain, if I liked, the pretty striped curtains from
our drawing-room at Combe Manor, and mother's couch, and a few of the
easy-chairs, and the little cabinet with the purple china; and then
there was mother's inlaid work-table, and Carrie's davenport, and books
belonging to both of us, and a little gilt clock that father had given
mother on her last wedding-day--all these things would make an entire
renovation in the shabby parlors.
I was quite excited by all these arrangements; but an interview with
Deborah soon cooled my ardor.
Allan and Jumbles had gone out with Uncle Geoffrey, and I was sitting
at the window looking over the lawn and the mulberry tree, when a
sudden tap at the door startled me from my reverie. Of course it was
Deborah; no one else's knuckles sounded as though they were iron.
Deborah was a tall, angular woman, very spare and erect of figure, with
a severe cast of countenance, and heavy black curls pinned up under her
net cap; her print dresses were always starched until they crackled,
and on Sunday her black silk dress rustled as I never heard any silk
dress rustle before.
"Yes, Deborah, what is it?" I asked, half-frightened; for surely my
hour had come. Deborah was standing so very erect, with the basket of
keys in her hands, and her mouth drawn down at the corners.
"Master said this morning," began Deborah, grimly, "as how there was a
new family coming to live here, and that I was to go to Miss Esther for
orders. Five-and-twenty years have I cooked master's dinners for him,
and received his orders, and never had a word of complaint from his
lips, and now he is putting a mistress over me and Martha."
"Oh, Deborah," I faltered, and then I came to a full stop; for was it
not trying to a woman of her age and disposition, used to Uncle
Geoffrey's bachelor ways, to have a houseful of young people turned on
her hands? She and Martha would have to work harder, and they were both
getting old. I felt so much for her that the tears came into my eyes,
and my voice trembled.
"It is hard!" I burst out; "it is very hard for you and Martha to have
your quiet life disturbed. But how could we help coming here, when we
had no home and no money, and Uncle Geoffrey was so generous? And then
there was Dot and mother so ailing." And at the thought of all our
helplessness, and Uncle Geoffrey's goodness a great tear rolled down my
cheek. It was very babyish and undignified; but, after all, no
assumption of womanliness would have helped me so much. Deborah's grim
mouth relaxed; under her severe exterior, and with her sharp tongue,
there beat a very kind heart, and Dot was her weak point.
"Well, well, crying won't help the pot to boil, Miss Esther!" she said,
brusquely enough; but I could see she was coming round. "Master was
always that kind-hearted that he would have sheltered the whole parish
if he could. I am not blaming him, though it goes hard with Martha and
me, who have led peaceable, orderly lives, and never had a mistress or
thought of one since Miss Blake died, and the master took up thoughts
of single blessedness in earnest."
"What sort of woman was Miss Blake?" I asked, eagerly, forgetting my
few troubled tears at the thought of Uncle Geoffrey's one romance. The
romance of middle-aged people always came with a faint, far-away odor
to us young ones, like some old garment laid up in rose-leaves or
lavender, which must needs be of quaint fashion and material, but
doubtless precious in the eyes of the wearer.
"Woman!" returned Deborah, with an angry snort; "she was a lady, if
there ever was one. We don't see her sort every day, I can tell you
that, Miss Esther; a pretty-spoken, dainty creature, with long fair
curls, that one longed to twine round one's fingers."
"She was pretty, then?" I hazarded more timidly.
"Pretty! she was downright beautiful. Miss Carrie reminds me of her
sometimes, but she is not near so handsome as poor Miss Rose. She used
to come here sometimes with her mother, and she and master would sit
under that mulberry tree. I can see her now walking over the grass in
her white gown, with some apple blossoms in her hand, talking and
laughing with him. It was a sad day when she lay in the fever, and did
not know him, for all his calling to her 'Rose! Rose!' I was with her
when she died, and I thought he would never hold up his head again."
"Poor Uncle Geoffrey! But he is cheerful and contented now."
"But there, I must not stand gossiping," continued Deborah,
interrupting herself. "I have only brought you the keys, and wish to
know what preserve you and Mr. Allan might favor for tea."
But here I caught hold, not of the key-basket, but of the hard,
work-worn hand that held it.
"Oh, Deborah! do be good to us!" I broke out: "we will trouble you and
Martha as little as possible, and we are all going to put our shoulders
to the wheel and help ourselves; and we have no home but this, and no
one to take care of us but Uncle Geoffrey."
"I don't know but I will make some girdle cakes for tea," returned
Deborah, in the most imperturbable voice; and she turned herself round
abruptly, and walked out of the room without another word. But I was
quite well satisfied and triumphant. When Deborah baked girdle cakes,
she meant the warmest of welcomes, and no end of honor to Uncle
Geoffrey's guests.
"Humph! girdle cakes!" observed Uncle Geoffrey, with a smile, as he
regarded them. "Deb is in a first-rate humor, then. You have played
your cards well, old lady," and his eyes twinkled merrily.
I went into the kitchen after tea, and had another long talk with
Deborah. Dear old kitchen! How many happy hours we children had spent
in it! It was very low and dark, and its two windows looked out on the
stable-yard; but in the evening, when the fire burned clear and the
blinds were drawn, it was a pleasant place. Deborah and Martha used to
sit in the brown Windsor chairs knitting, with Puff, the great tabby
cat, beside them, and the firelight would play on the red brick floor
and snug crimson curtains.
Deborah and I had a grand talk that night. She was a trifle obstinate
and dogmatical, but we got on fairly well. To do her justice, her chief
care seemed to be that her master should not be interfered with in any
of his ways. "He will work harder than ever," she groaned, "now there
are all these mouths to feed. He and Jumbles will be fairly worn out."
But our talk contented me. I had enlisted Deborah's sympathies on our
side. I felt the battle was over. I was only a "bit thing" as Deborah
herself called me, and I was tolerably tired when I went up to my room
that night.
Not that I felt inclined for sleep. Oh dear no! I just dragged the big
easy-chair to the window, and sat there listening to the patter of
summer rain on the leaves.
It was very dark, for the moon had hidden her face; but through the
cool dampness there crept a delicious fragrance of wet jasmine and
lilies. I wanted to have a good "think;" not to sit down and take
myself to pieces. Oh no, that was Carrie's way. Such introspection
bored me and did me little good, for it only made me think more of
myself and less of the Master; but I wanted to review the past
fortnight, and look the future in the face. Foolish Esther! As though
we can look at a veiled face. Only the past and the present is ours;
the future is hidden with God.
Yes, a fortnight ago I was a merry, heedless schoolgirl, with no
responsibilities and few duties, except that laborious one of
self-improvement, which must go on, under some form or other, until we
die. And now, on my shrinking shoulders lay the weight of a woman's
work. I was to teach others, when I knew so little myself; it was I who
was to have the largest share of home administration--I, who was so
faulty, so imperfect.
Then I remembered a sentence Carrie had once read to me out of one of
her innumerable books, and which had struck me very greatly at the time.
"Happy should I think myself," said St. Francis de Sales, "if I could
rid myself of my imperfections but one quarter of an hour previous to
my death."
Well, if a saint could say that, why should I lose heart thinking about
my faults? What was the good of stirring up muddy water to try and see
one's own miserable reflection, when one could look up into the serene
blue of Divine Providence? If I had faults--and, alas! how many they
were--I must try to remedy them; if I slipped, I must pray for strength
to rise again.
Courage, Esther! "Little by little," as Uncle Geoffrey says; "small
beginnings make great endings." And when I had cheered myself with
these words I went tranquilly to bed.