OVER THE WAY.
I cannot say that I was prepossessed with the Thorne family, neither
was Carrie.
Mrs. Thorne was what I call a loud woman; her voice was loud, and she
was full of words, and rather inquisitive on the subject of her
neighbors.
She was somewhat good-looking, but decidedly over-dressed. Early as it
was, she was in a heavily-flounced silk dress, a little the worse for
wear. I guessed that first day, with a sort of feminine intuition, that
Mrs. Thorne wore out all her second-best clothes in the morning.
Perhaps it was my country bringing up, but I thought how pure and fresh
Carrie's modest dress looked beside it; and as for the quiet face under
the neatly-trimmed bonnet, I could see Mrs. Thorne fell in love with it
at once. She scarcely looked at or spoke to me, except when civility
demanded it; and perhaps she was right, for who would care to look at
me when Carrie was by? Then Carrie played, and I knew her exquisite
touch would demand instant admiration. I was a mere bungler, a beginner
beside her; she even sang a charming little _chanson_. No wonder Mrs.
Thorne was delighted to secure such an accomplished person for her
children's governess. The three little girls came in by-and-by--shy,
awkward children, with their mother's black eyes, but without her fine
complexion; plain, uninteresting little girls, with a sort of solemn
non-intelligence in their blank countenances, and a perceptible
shrinking from their mother's sharp voice.
"Shake hands with Miss Cameron, Lucy; she is going to teach you all
manner of nice things. Hold yourself straight, Annie. What will these
young ladies think of you, Belle, if they look at your dirty pinafore?
Mine are such troublesome children," she continued, in a complaining
voice; "they are never nice and tidy and obedient, like other children.
Mr. Thorne spoils them, and then finds fault with me."
"What is your name, dear?" I whispered to the youngest, when Mrs.
Thorne had withdrawn with Carrie for a few minutes. They were certainly
very unattractive children; nevertheless, my heart warmed to them, as
it did to all children. I was child-lover all my life.
"Annie," returned the little one, shyly rolling her fat arms in her
pinafore. She was less plain than the others, and had not outgrown her
plumpness.
"Do you know I have a little brother at home, who is a sad invalid;"
and then I told them about Dot, about his patience and his sweet ways,
and how he amused himself when he could not get off his couch for
weeks; and as I warmed and grew eloquent with my subject, their eyes
became round and fixed, and a sort of dawning interest woke up on their
solemn faces; they forgot I was a stranger, and came closer, and Belle
laid a podgy and a very dirty hand on my lap.
"How old is your little boy?" asked Lucy, in a shrill whisper. And as I
answered her Mrs. Thorne and Carrie re-entered the room. They both
looked surprised when they saw the children grouped round me; Carrie's
eyebrows elevated themselves a little quizzically, and Mrs. Thorne
called them away rather sharply.
"Don't take liberties with strangers, children. What will Miss Cameron
think of such manners?" And then she dismissed them rather summarily. I
saw Annie steal a little wistful look at me as she followed her sisters.
We took our leave after that. Mrs. Thorne shook hands with us very
graciously, but her parting words were addressed to Carrie. "On Monday,
then. Please give my kind regards to Dr. Cameron, and tell him how
thoroughly satisfied I am with the proposed arrangement." And Carrie
answered very prettily, but as the door closed she sighed heavily.
"Oh, what children! and what a mother!" she gasped, as she took my arm,
and turned my foot-steps away from the house. "Never mind Jack, I am
going to the service at St. Barnabas; I want some refreshment after
what I have been through." And she sighed again.
"But, Carrie," I remonstrated, "I have no time to spare. You know how
Jack has been neglected, and how I have promised Allan to do my best
for her until we can afford to send her to school."
"You can walk with me to the church door," she returned, decidedly. I
was beginning to find out that Carrie could be self-willed sometimes.
"I must talk to you, Esther; I must tell you how I hate it. Fancy
trying to hammer French and music into those children's heads, when I
might--I might--" But here she stopped, actually on the verge of crying.
"Oh, my darling, Carrie!" I burst out, for I never could bear to see
her sweet face clouded for a moment, and she so seldom cried or gave
way to any emotion. "Why would you not let me speak? I might have saved
you this. I might have offered myself in your stead, and set you free
for pleasanter work." But she shook her head, and struggled for
composure.
"You would not have done for Mrs. Thorne, Esther. Don't think me vain
if I say that I play and sing far better than you."
"A thousand times better," I interposed. "And then you can draw."
"Well, Mrs. Thorne is a woman who values accomplishments. You are
clever at some things; you speak French fairly, and then you are a good
Latin scholar" (for Allan and I studied that together); "you can lay a
solid foundation, as Uncle Geoffrey says; but Mrs. Thorne does not care
about that," continued Carrie a little bitterly; "she wants a flimsy
superstructure of accomplishments--music, and French, and drawing, as
much as I can teach a useful life-work, Esther."
"Well, why not?" I returned, with a little spirit, for here was one of
Carrie's old arguments. "If it be the work given us to do, it must be a
useful life-work. It might be our duty to make artificial flowers for
our livelihood--hundreds of poor creatures do that--and you would not
scold them for waste of time, I suppose?"
"Anyhow, it is not work enough for me," replied Carrie firmly, and
passing over my clever argument with a dignified silence; "it is the
drudgery of mere ornamentation that I hate. I will do my best for those
dreadful children, Esther. Are they not pitiful little overdressed
creatures? And I will try and please their mother though I have not a
thought in common with her. And when I have finished my ornamental
brick-making--told my tales of the bricks----" here she paused, and
looked at me with a heightened color.
"And what then?" I asked, rather crossly, for there was a flaw in her
speech somewhere, and I could not find it out.
"We shall see, my wise little sister," she said, letting go my arm with
a kind pressure. "See, here is St. Barnabas; is it not a dear old
building? Must you go back to Jack?"
"Yes, I must," I answered, shortly. "_Laborare est orare_--to labor is
to pray, in my case, Carrie;" and with that I left her.
But Carrie's arguments had seriously discomposed me. I longed to talk
it all out with Allan, and I do not think I ever missed him so much as
I did that day. I am afraid I was rather impatient with Jack that
morning; to be sure she was terribly awkward and inattentive; she would
put her elbows on the table, and ink her fingers, and then she had a
way of jerking her hair out of her eyes, which drove me nearly frantic.
I began to think we really must send her to school. We had done away
with the folding doors, they always creaked so, and had hung up some
curtains in their stead; through the folds I could catch glimpses of
dear mother leaning back in her chair, with Dot beside her. He was
spelling over his lesson to her, in a queer, little sing-song voice,
and they looked so cool and quiet that the contrast was quite
provoking; and there was Carrie kneeling in some dim corner, and
soothing her perturbed spirits with softly-uttered psalms and prayers.
"Jack," I returned, for the sixth time, "I cannot have you kick the
table in that schoolboy fashion."
Jack looked at me with roguish malice in her eyes. "You are not quite
well, Esther; you have got a pain in your temper, haven't you, now?"
I don't know what I might have answered, for Jack was right, and I was
as cross as possible, only just at that moment Uncle Geoffrey put his
head in at the door, and stood beaming on us like an angel of
deliverance.
"Fee-fo-fum," for he sometimes called Jack by that charming
_sobriquet_, indeed, he was always inventing names for her, "it is too
hot for work, isn't it? I think I must give you a holiday, for I want
Esther to go out with me." Uncle Geoffrey's wishes were law, and I rose
at once; but not all my secret feelings of relief could prevent me from
indulging in a parting thrust.
"I don't think Jack deserves the holiday," I remarked, with a severe
look at the culprit; and Jack jerked her hair over her eyes this time
in some confusion.
"Hullo, Fee-fo-fum, what have you been up to? Giving Esther trouble?
Oh, fie! fie!"
"I only kicked the table," returned Jack, sullenly, "because I hate
lessons--that I do, Uncle Geoffrey--and I inked my fingers because I
liked it; and I put my elbows on the copy-book because Esther said I
wasn't to do it; and my hair got in my eyes; and William the Conqueror
had six wives, I know he had; and I told Esther she had a pain in her
temper, because she was as cross as two sticks; and I don't remember
any more, and I don't care," finished Jack, who could be like a mule on
occasions.
Uncle Geoffrey laughed--he could not help it--and then he patted Jack
kindly on her rough locks. "Clever little Fee-fo-fum; so William the
Conqueror had six wives, had he? Come, this is capital; we must send
you to school, Jack, that is what we must do. Esther cannot be in two
places at once." What did he mean by that, I wonder! And then he bid me
run off and put on my hat, and not keep him waiting.
Jack's brief sullenness soon vanished, and she followed me out of the
room to give me a penitent hug--that was so like Jack; the inky caress
was a doubtful consolation, but I liked it, somehow.
"Where are you going, Uncle Geoff?" I asked, as we walked up the High
street, followed by Jumbles, while Jack and Smudge watched us from the
door.
"Miss Lucas wants to see you," he returned, briefly. "Bless me, there
is Carrie, deep in conversation with Mr. Smedley. Where on earth has
the girl picked him up?" And there, true enough, was Carrie, standing
in the porch, talking eagerly to a fresh-colored, benevolent-looking
man, whom I knew by sight as the vicar of St. Barnabas.
She must have waylaid him after service, for the other worshipers had
dropped off; we had met two or three of them in the High street. I do
not know why the sight displeased me, for of course she had a right to
speak to her clergyman. Uncle Geoffrey whistled under his breath, and
then laughed and wondered "what the little saint had to say to her
pastor;" but I did not let him go on, for I was too excited with our
errand.
"Why does Miss Lucas want to see me?" I asked, with a little beating of
the heart. The Lucas family were the richest people in Milnthorpe.
Mr. Lucas was the banker, and kept his carriage, and had a pretty
cottage somewhere by the seaside; they were Uncle Geoffrey's patients,
I knew, but what had that to do with poor little me?
"Miss Lucas wants to find some one to teach her little niece," returned
Uncle Geoffrey; and then I remembered all at once that Mr. Lucas was a
widower with one little girl. He had lost his wife about a year ago,
and his sister had come to live with him and take care of his
motherless child. What a chance this would have been for Carrie! but
now it was too late. I was half afraid as we came up to the great red
brick house, it was so grand and imposing, and so was the
solemn-looking butler who opened the door and ushered us into the
drawing-room.
As we crossed the hall some one came suddenly out on us from a dark
lobby, and paused when he saw us. "Dr. Cameron! This is your niece, I
suppose, whom my sister Ruth is expecting?" and as he shook hands with
us he looked at me a little keenly, I thought. He was younger than I
expected; it flashed across me suddenly that I had once seen his poor
wife. I was standing looking out of the window one cold winter's day,
when a carriage drove up to the door with a lady wrapped in furs. I
remember Uncle Geoffrey went out to speak to her, and what a smile came
over her face when she saw him. She was very pale, but very beautiful;
every one said so in Milnthorpe, for she had been much beloved.
"My sister is in the drawing-room; you must excuse me if I say I am in
a great hurry," and then he passed on with a bow. I thought him very
formidable, the sort of man who would be feared as well as respected by
his dependants. He had the character of being a very reserved man, with
a great many acquaintances and few intimate friends. I had no idea at
that time that no one understood him so well as Uncle Geoffrey.
I was decidedly nervous when I followed Uncle Geoffrey meekly into the
drawing-room. Its size and splendor did not diminish my fears, and I
little imagined then how I should get to love that room.
It was a little low, in spite of its spaciousness, and its three long
windows opened in French fashion on to the garden. I had a glimpse of
the lawn, with a grand old cedar in the middle, before my eyes were
attracted to a lady in deep mourning, writing in a little alcove, half
curtained off from the rest of the room, and looking decidedly cozy.
The moment she turned her face toward us at the mention of our names,
my unpleasant feelings of nervousness vanished. She was such a little
woman--slightly deformed, too--with a pale, sickly-looking face, and
large, clear eyes, that seemed to attract sympathy at once, for they
seemed to say to one, "I am only a timid, simple little creature. You
need not be afraid of me."
I was not very tall, but I almost looked down on her as she gave me her
hand.
"I was expecting you, Miss Cameron," she said, in such a sweet tone
that it quite won my heart. "Your uncle kindly promised to introduce us
to each other."
And then she looked at me, not keenly and scrutinizingly, as her
brother had done, but with a kindly inquisitiveness, as though she
wanted to know all about me, and to put me at my ease as soon as
possible. I flushed a little at that, and my unfortunate sensitiveness
took alarm. If it were only Carrie, I thought, with her pretty face and
soft voice; but I was so sadly unattractive, no one would be taken with
me at first sight. Fred had once said so in my hearing, and how I had
cried over that speech!
"Esther looks older than she is; but she is only seventeen," interposed
Uncle Geoffrey, as he saw that unlucky blush. "She is a good girl, and
very industrious, and her mother's right hand," went on the simple man.
If I only could have plucked up spirit and contradicted him, but I felt
tongue-tied.
"She looks very reliable," returned Miss Lucas, in the kindest way. To
this day I believe she could not find any compliment compatible with
truth. I once told her so months afterward, when we were very good
friends, and she laughed and could not deny it.
"You were frowning so, Esther," she replied, "from excess of
nervousness, I believe, that your forehead was quite lost in your hair,
and your great eyes were looking at me in such a funny, frightened way,
and the corners of your mouth all coming down, I thought you were
five-and-twenty at least, and wondered what I was to do with such a
proud, repellant-looking young woman; but when you smiled I began to
see then."
I had not reached the smiling stage just then, and was revolving her
speech in rather a dispirited way. Reliable! I knew I was that; when
all at once she left off looking at me, and began talking to Uncle
Geoffrey.
"And so you have finished all your Good Samaritan arrangements, Dr.
Cameron; and your poor sister-in-law and her family are really settled
in your house? You must let me know when I may call, or if I can be of
any use. Giles told me all about it, and I was so interested."
"Is it not good of Uncle Geoffrey?" I broke in. And then it must have
been that I smiled; but I never could have passed that over in silence,
to hear strangers praise him, and not join in.
"I think it is noble of Dr. Cameron--we both think so," she answered,
warmly; and then she turned to me again. "I can understand how anxious
you must all feel to help and lighten his burdens. When Dr. Cameron
proposed your services for my little niece--for he knows what an
invalid I am, and that systematic teaching would be impossible to me--I
was quite charmed with the notion. But now, before we talk any more
about it, supposing you and I go up to see Flurry."