A LETTER FROM HOME.
I was so young and healthy that I soon recovered from the shock, and in
a few days I had regained strength and color. Mr. Lucas had gone to see
mother, and the day after his visit she wrote a fond incoherent letter,
full of praises of my supposed heroism. Allan, to whom I had narrated
everything fully, wrote more quietly, but the underlying tenderness
breathed in every word for Dot and me touched me greatly. Dot had not
suffered much; he was a little more lame, and his back ached more
constantly. But it was Flurry who came off worst; her cold was on her
chest, and when she threw it off she had a bad cough, and began to grow
pale and thin; she was nervous, too, and woke every night calling out
to me or Dot, and before many days were over Miss Ruth wrote to her
brother and told him that Flurry would be better at home.
We were waiting for his answer, when Miss Ruth brought a letter to my
bedside from mother, and sat down, as usual, to hear the contents, for
I used to read her little bits from my home correspondence, and she
wanted to know what Uncle Geoffrey thought about Flurry. My sudden
exclamation frightened her.
"What is wrong, Esther? It is nothing about Giles?"
"Oh, no!" I returned, the tears starting to my eyes, "but I must go
home at once; Carrie is very ill, they are afraid it is an attack of
rheumatic fever. Mother writes in such distress, and there is a message
from Uncle Geoffrey, asking me to pack up and come to them without
delay. There is something about Flurry, too; perhaps you had better
read it."
"I will take the letter away with me. Don't hurry too much, Esther; we
will talk it over at breakfast, and there is no train now before
eleven, and nurse will help you to pack."
That was just like Miss Ruth--no fuss, no unnecessary words, no adding
to my trouble by selfish regrets at my absence. She was like a man in
that, she never troubled herself about petty details, as most women do,
but just looked straight at the point in question.
Her calmness reassured me, and by breakfast-time I was able to discuss
matters quietly.
"I have sent nurse to your room, Esther," she said, as she poured out
the coffee; "the children have had their bread and milk, and have gone
out to play; it is so warm and sunny, it will not hurt Flurry. The pony
carriage will be round here at half-past ten, so you will have plenty
of time, and I mean to drive you to the station myself."
"You think of everything," I returned, gratefully. "Have you read the
letter? Does it strike you that Carrie is so very ill?"
"I am afraid so," she admitted, reluctantly; "your mother says she has
been ailing some time, only she would not take care of herself, and
then she got wet, and took her class in her damp things. I am afraid
you have a long spell of nursing before you; rheumatic fever sometimes
lasts a long time. Your uncle says something about a touch of pleurisy
as well."
I pushed away my plate, for I could not eat. I am ashamed to say a
strong feeling of indignation took possession of me.
"She would not give up," I burst out, angrily: "she would not come here
to recruit herself, although she owned she felt ill; she has just gone
on until her strength was exhausted and she was not in a state for
anything, and now all this trouble and anxiety must come on mother, and
she is not fit for it."
"Hush, Esther; you must not feel like this," she returned, gently.
"Poor Carrie will purchase wisdom dearly; depend upon it, the knowledge
that she has brought on this illness through her own self-will will be
the sharpest pang of all. You must go home and be a comfort to them
all, as you have been our comfort," she added, sweetly; "and, Esther, I
have been thinking over things, and you must trust Dot to me. We shall
all return to the Cedars, most likely to-morrow, and I will promise not
to let him out of my sight."
And as I regarded her dubiously, she went on still more eagerly:
"You must let me keep him, Esther. Flurry is so poorly, and she will
fret over the loss of her little companion; and with such a serious
illness in the house, he would only be an additional care to you." And
as she seemed so much in earnest, I consented reluctantly to wait for
mother's decision; for, after all, the child would be dull and
neglected, with Jack at school, and mother and me shut up in Carrie's
sick room. So in that, as in all else, Miss Ruth was right.
Dot cried a little when I said good-by to him; he did not like seeing
me go away, and the notion of Carrie's illness distressed him, and
Flurry cried, too, because he did, and then Miss Ruth laughed at them
both.
"You silly children," she said, "when we are all going home to-morrow,
and you can walk over and see Esther every day, and take her flowers
and nice things for Carrie." Which view of the case cheered them
immensely, and we left them with their heads very close together,
evidently planning all sorts of surprises for Carrie and me.
Miss Ruth talked very cheerfully up to the last moment, and then she
grew a little silent and tearful.
"I shall miss you so, Esther, both here and at the Cedars," she said
tenderly. "I feel it may be a long time before you come to us again;
but there, I mean to see plenty of you," she went on, recovering
herself. "I shall bring Dot every day, if it be only for a few
minutes!" And so she sent me away half comforted.
It was a dreary journey, and I was thankful when it was over; there was
no one to meet me at the station, so I took one of the huge lumbering
flies, and a sleepy old horse dragged me reluctantly up the steep
Milnthorpe streets.
It was an odd coincidence, but as we passed the bank and I looked out
of the window half absently, Mr. Lucas came down the steps and saw me,
and motioned to the driver to stop.
"I am very sorry to see you here," he said, gravely. "I met Dr. Cameron
just now, and he told me your mother had written to recall you."
"Did he say how Carrie was?" I interrupted anxiously.
"She is no better, and in a state of great suffering; it seems she has
been imprudent, and taken a severe chill; but don't let me keep you, if
you are anxious to go on." But I detained him a moment.
"Flurry seems better this morning," I observed; "her cough is less
hard."
He looked relieved at that.
"I have written for them to come home to-morrow, and to bring Dot, too;
we will take care of him for you, and make him happy among us, and you
will have enough on your hands."
And then he drew back, and went slowly down High street, but the
encounter had cheered me; I was beginning to look on Mr. Lucas as an
old friend.
Uncle Geoffrey was on the door-step as I drove up, and we entered the
house together.
"This is a bad business, I am afraid," he said, in a subdued voice, as
he closed the parlor door; "it goes to one's heart to see that pretty
creature suffer. I am glad, for all our sakes, that Allan will be here
next week." And then I remembered all at once that the year was out,
and that Allan was coming home to live; but he had said so little about
it in his last letters that I was afraid of some postponement.
"He is really coming, then?" I exclaimed, in joyful surprise; this was
good news.
"Yes, next Thursday; and I shall be glad of the boy's help," he
replied, gruffly; and then he sat down and told me about Carrie.
Foolish girl, her zeal had indeed bordered upon madness. It seems Uncle
Geoffrey had taxed her with illness a fortnight ago, and she had not
denied it; she had even consented to take the remedies prescribed her
in the way of medicine, but nothing would induce her to rest. The
illness had culminated last Sunday; she had been caught in a heavy
rain, and her thin summer walking dress had been drenched, and yet she
had spent the afternoon as usual at the schools. A shivering fit that
evening had been the result.
"She has gradually got worse and worse," continued Uncle Geoffrey; "it
is not ordinary rheumatic fever; there is certainly sciatica, and a
touch of pleurisy; the chill on her enfeebled, worn-out frame has been
deadly, and there is no knowing the mischief that may follow. I would
not have you told before this, for after a nasty accident like yours, a
person is not fit for much. Let me look at you, child. I must own you
don't stem much amiss. Now listen to me, Esther. I have elected Deborah
head-nurse, and you must work under her orders. Bless me," catching a
glimpse of a crimson disappointed face, for I certainly felt
crestfallen at this, "a chit like you cannot be expected to know
everything. Deb is a splendid nurse; she has a head on her shoulders,
that woman," with a little chuckle; "she has just put your mother out
of the room, because she says that she is no more use than a baby, so
you will have to wheedle yourself into her good graces if you expect to
nurse Carrie."
"Why did you send for me, if you expect me to be of no use?" I
returned, with decided temper, for this remark chafed me; but he only
chuckled again.
"Deborah sent for you, not I," he said, in an amused voice. "'Couldn't
we have Miss Esther home?' she asked; 'she has her wits about her,'
which I am afraid was a hit at somebody."
This soothed me down a little, for my dignity was sadly affronted that
Deborah should be mistress of the sick room. I am afraid after all that
I was not different from other girls, and had not yet outgrown what
mother called the "porcupine stage" of girlhood, when one bristles all
over at every supposed slight, armed at every point with minor
prejudices, like "quills upon the fretful porcupine."
Uncle Geoffrey bade me run along, for he was busy, so I went upstairs
swallowing discontent with every step, until I looked up and saw
mother's pale sad face watching me from a doorway, and then every
unworthy feeling vanished.
"Oh, my darling, thank Heaven I have you again!" she murmured, folding
me in her loving arms; "my dear child, who has never given me a
moment's anxiety." And then I knew how heavily Carrie's willfulness had
weighed on that patient heart.
She drew me half weeping into Carrie's little room, and we sat down
together hand in hand. The invalid had been moved into mother's room,
as it was large and sunny, and I could hear Deborah moving quietly as I
passed the door.
Mother would not speak about Carrie at first; she asked after Dot, and
was full of gratitude to Miss Ruth for taking care of him; and then the
dear soul cried over me, and said she had nearly lost us both, and that
but for me her darling boy would have been drowned. Mr. Lucas had told
her so.
"He was full of your praises, Esther," she went on, drying her eyes;
"he says he and Miss Ruth will be your fast friends through life; that
there is nothing he would not do to show his gratitude; it made me so
proud to hear it."
"It makes me proud, too, mother; but I cannot have you talking about
me, when I am longing to hear about Carrie."
Mother sighed and shook her head, and then it was I noticed a tremulous
movement about her head, and, oh! how gray her hair was, almost white
under her widow's cap.
"There is not much to say," she said, despondently; "your uncle will
not tell me if she be in actual danger, but he looks graver every day.
Her sufferings are terrible; just now Deborah would not let me remain,
because I fretted so, as though a mother can help grieving over her
child's agony. It is all her own fault, Esther, and that makes it all
the harder to bear."
I acquiesced silently, and then I told mother that I had come home to
spare her, and do all I could for Carrie--as much as Deborah would
allow.
"You must be very prudent, then," she replied, "for Deborah is very
jealous, and yet so devoted, that one cannot find fault with her.
Perhaps she is right, and I am too weak to be of much use, but I should
like you to be with your sister as much as possible."
I promised to be cautious, and after a little more talk with mother I
laid aside my traveling things and stole gently into the sick room.
Deborah met me on the threshold with uplifted finger and a resolute
"Hush!" on her lips. She looked more erect and angular than ever, and
there was a stern forbidding expression on her face; but I would not be
daunted.
I caught her by both her hands, and drew her, against her will, to the
door.
"I want to speak to you," I whispered; and when I had her outside, I
looked straight into her eyes. "Oh, Deb," I cried, "is it not dreadful
for all of us? and I have been in such peril, too. What should we do
without you, when you know all about nursing, and understand a sick
room so well? You are everything to us, Deborah, and we are so
grateful, and now you must let me help you a little, and spare you
fatigue. I daresay there are many little things you could find for me
to do."
I do not know about the innocence of the dove, but certainly the wisdom
of the serpent was in my speech; my humility made Deborah throw down
her arms at once. "Any little thing that I can do," I pleaded, and her
face relaxed and her hard gray eyes softened.
"You are always ready to help a body, Miss Esther, I will say that, and
I don't deny that I am nearly ready to drop with fatigue through not
having my clothes off these three nights. The mistress is no more help
than a baby, not being able to lift, or to leave off crying."
"And you will let me help you?" I returned, eagerly, a little too
eagerly, for she drew herself up.
"I won't make any promises, Miss Esther," she said, rather stiffly;
"the master said I must have help, and I am willing to try what you can
do, though you are young and not used to the ways of a sick room,"
finished the provoking creature; but I restrained my impatience.
"Any little thing that I can do," I repeated, humbly; and my
forbearance had its reward, for Deborah drew aside to let me pass into
the room, only telling me, rather sharply, to say as little possible
and keep my thoughts to myself. Deborah's robust treatment was
certainly bracing, and it gave me a sort of desperate courage; but the
first shock of seeing Carrie was dreadful.
The poor girl lay swathed in bandages, and as I entered the room her
piteous moanings almost broke my heart. Burning with fever, and racked
by pain, she could find no ease or rest.
As I kissed her she shuddered, and her eyes looked at me with a
terrible sadness in them.
"Oh, my poor dear, how sorry I am!" I whispered. I dared not say more
with Deborah hovering jealously in the back-ground.
"Don't be sorry," she groaned; "I deserved it. I deserve it all." And
then she turned away her face, and her fair hair shaded it from me. Did
I hear it aright; and was it a whispered prayer for patience that
caught my ear as she turned away.
Deborah would not let me stay long. She sent me down to have tea and
talk to mother, but she promised that I should come up again by-and-by.
I was surprised as I opened the parlor door to find Mr. Lucas talking
to Uncle Geoffrey and mother with Jack looking up at him with
awe-struck eyes. He came forward with an amused smile, as he noticed my
astonished pause.
"You did not expect to see me here," he said, in his most friendly
manner; "but I wanted to inquire after your sister. Mrs. Cameron has
been so good as to promise me a cup of tea, so you must make it."
That Mr. Lucas should be drinking tea at mother's table! somehow, I
could not get over my surprise. I had never seen him in our house
before, and yet in the old times both he and his wife had been frequent
visitors. Certainly he seemed quite at home.
Mother had lighted her pretty china lamp, and Uncle Geoffrey had thrown
a log of wood on the fire, and the parlors looked bright and cozy, and
even Jack's hair was brushed and her collar for once not awry. I
suppose Mr. Lucas found it pleasant, for he stayed quite late, and I
wondered how he could keep his dinner waiting so long; but then Uncle
Geoffrey was such a clever man, and could talk so well. I thought I
should have to leave them at last, for it was nearly the time that
Deborah wanted me; but just then Mr. Lucas looked across at me and
noticed something in my face.
"You want to be with your sister," he said, suddenly interpreting my
thoughts, "and I am reducing my cook to despair. Good-by, Mrs. Cameron.
Many thanks for a pleasant hour." And then he shook hands with us all,
and left the room with Uncle Geoffrey.
"What an agreeable, well-bred man," observed mother. "I like him
exceedingly, and yet people call him proud and reserved."
"He is not a bit," I returned, indignantly; and then I kissed mother,
and ran upstairs.