ALLAN AND I WALK TO ELTHAM GREEN.
The next great event in our family annals was Carrie's first appearance
downstairs.
Uncle Geoffrey had long wished her to make the effort, but she had made
some excuse and put it off from day to day; but at last Allan took it
into his head to manage things after his usual arbitrary fashion, and
one afternoon he marched into the room, and, quietly lifting Carrie in
his arms, as though she were a baby, desired me to follow with, her
crutches, while he carried her downstairs.
Carrie trembled a good deal, and turned very white, but she offered no
remonstrance; and when Allan put her down outside the parlor door, she
took her crutches from me in a patient uncomplaining way that touched
us both.
I always said we ought to have prepared Dot, but Allan would not hear
of my telling him; but when the door opened and Carrie entered, walking
slowly and painfully, being still unused to her crutches, we were all
startled by a loud cry from Dot.
"She is like me! Oh, poor, poor Carrie!" cried the little fellow, with
a sob; and he broke into such a fit of crying that mother was quite
upset. It was in vain we tried to soothe him; that Carrie drew him
toward her with trembling arms and kissed him, and whispered that it
was God's will, and she did not mind so very much now; he only kept
repeating, "She is like me--oh, dear--oh dear! she is like me," in a
woe-begone little voice.
Dot was so sensitive that I feared the shock would make him ill, but
Allan came at last to the rescue. He had been called out of the room
for a moment, and came back to find a scene of dire confusion--it took
so little to upset mother, and really it was heartbreaking to all of us
to see the child's grief.
"Hallo, sonny, what's up now?" asked Allan, in a comical voice, lifting
up Dot's tear-stained face for a nearer inspection.
"Oh, she is like me," gasped Dot; "she has those horrid things, you
know; and it's too bad, it's too bad!" he finished, with another
choking sob.
"Nonsense," returned Allan, with sturdy cheerfulness; "she won't use
them always, you silly boy."
"Not always!" returned Dot, with a woe-begone, puckered-up face.
"Of course not, you little goose--or gander, I mean; she may have to
hobble about on them for a year or two, perhaps longer; but Uncle Geoff
and I mean to set her all right again--don't we, Carrie?" Carrie's
answer was a dubious smile. She did not believe in her own recovery;
but to Dot, Allan's words were full of complete comfort.
"Oh, I am so glad, I am so glad!" cried the unselfish little creature.
"I don't mind a bit for myself; I shouldn't be Dot without my sticks,
but it seemed so dreadful for poor Carrie."
And then, as she kissed him, with tears in her eyes, he whispered "that
she was not to mind, for Allan would soon make her all right: he always
did."
Carrie tried to be cheerful that evening, but it cost her a great
effort. It was hard returning to everyday life, without strength or
capacity for its duties, with no bright prospect dawning in the future,
only a long, gray horizon of present monotony and suffering. But here
the consolation of the Gospel came to her help; the severe test of her
faith proved its reality; and her submission and total abnegation of
will brought her the truest comfort in her hour of need.
Looking back on this part of our lives, I believe Carrie needed just
this discipline; like many other earnest workers she made an idol of
her work. It cost her months of suffering before she realized that God
does not always need our work; that a chastened will is more acceptable
to Him than the labor we think so all-sufficient. Sad lesson to poor
human pride, that believes so much in its own efforts, and yet that
many a one laid by in the vigor of life and work, has to learn so
painfully. Oh, hardest of all work, to do nothing while others toil
round us, to wait and look on, knowing God's ways are not our ways,
that the patient endurance of helplessness is the duty ordained for us!
Carrie had to undergo another ordeal the following day, for she was
just settled on her couch when Mrs. Smedley entered unannounced.
I had never liked Mrs. Smedley; indeed, at one time I was very near
hating her; but I could not help feeling sorry for the woman when I saw
how her face twitched and worked at the sight of her favorite.
Carrie's altered looks must have touched her conscience. Carrie was a
little nervous, but she soon recovered herself.
"You must not be sorry for me," she said, taking her hand, for actually
Mrs. Smedley could hardly speak; tears stood in her hard eyes, and then
she motioned to me to leave them together.
I never knew what passed between them, but I am sure Mrs. Smedley had
been crying when I returned to the room. She rose at once, making some
excuse about the lateness of the hour--and then she did what she never
had done before--kissed me quite affectionately, and hoped they would
soon see me at the vicarage.
"There, that is over," said Carrie, as if to herself, in a relieved
tone; but she did not seem disposed for any questioning, so I let her
close her eyes and think over the interview in silence.
The next day was a very eventful one. I had made up my mind to speak to
mother and Carrie that morning, and announce my intention of going back
to the Cedars. I was afraid it would be rather a blow to Carrie, and I
wanted to get it over.
In two or three days the three weeks' leave of absence would be
over--Ruth would be expecting to hear from me. The old saying,
"_L'homme propose, Dieu dispose_," was true in this case. I had little
idea that morning, when I came down to breakfast, that all my cherished
plans were to be set aside, and all through old Aunt Podgill.
Why, I had never thought of her for years; and, as far as I can tell,
her name had not been mentioned in our family circle, except on the
occasion of dear father's death, when Uncle Geoffrey observed that he
or Fred must write to her. She was father's and Uncle Geoffrey's aunt,
on their mother's side, but she had quarreled with them when they were
mere lads, and had never spoken to them since. Uncle Geoffrey was most
in her black books, and she had not deigned to acknowledge his letter.
"A cantankerous old woman," I remember he had called her on that
occasion, and had made no further effort to propitiate her.
It was rather a shock, then, to hear Aunt Podgill's name uttered in a
loud voice by Allan, as I entered the room, and my surprise deepened
into astonishment to find mother was absolutely crying over a
black-edged letter.
"Poor Mrs. Podgill is dead," explained Uncle Geoffrey, in rather a
subdued voice, as I looked at him.
But the news did not affect me much; I thought mother's handkerchief
need hardly be applied to her eyes on that account.
"That is a pity, of course; but, then, none of us knew her," I
remarked, coldly. "She could not have been very nice, from your
account, Uncle Geoffrey, so I do not know why we have to be so sorry
for her death," for I was as aggrieved as possible at the sight of
mother's handkerchief.
"Well, she was a cantankerous old woman," began Uncle Geoffrey; and
then he checked himself and added, "Heaven forgive me for speaking
against the poor old creature now she is dead."
"Yes, indeed, I have a great respect for Aunt Podgill," put in Allan;
and I thought his voice was rather curious, and there was a repressed
mirthful gleam in his eyes, and all the time mother went on crying.
"Oh, my dear," she sobbed at last, "I am very foolish to be so
overcome; but if it had only come in Frank's--in your father's time, it
might--it might have saved him;" and here she broke down.
"Ah, to be sure, poor thing!" ejaculated Uncle Geoffrey in a
sympathizing tone; "that is what is troubling her; but you must cheer
up, Dora, for, as I have always told you, Frank was never meant to be a
long-lived man."
"What are you all talking about?" I burst out, with vexed impatience.
"What has Mrs. Podgill's death to do with father? and why is mother
crying? and what makes you all so mysterious and tiresome?" for I was
exasperated at the incongruity between mother's tears and Allan's
amused face.
"Tell her," gasped out mother: and Uncle Geoffrey, clearing his voice,
proceeded to be spokesman, only Allan interrupted him at every word.
"Why, you see, child, your mother is just a little upset at receiving
some good news--"
"Battling good news," put in Allan.
"It is natural for her, poor thing! to think of your father; but we
tell her that if he had been alive things would have shaped themselves
differently--"
"Of course they would," from that tiresome Allan.
"Aunt Podgill, being a cantankerous--I mean a prejudiced--person, would
never have forgotten her grudge against your father; but as in our last
moments 'conscience makes cowards of us all,' as Shakespeare has
it"--Uncle Geoffrey always quoted Shakespeare when he was agitated, and
Allan said, "Hear, hear!" softly under his breath--"she could not
forget the natural claims of blood; and so, my dear," clearing his
throat a little more, "she has left all her little fortune to your
mother; and a pretty little penny it is, close upon seven hundred a
year, and the furniture besides."
"Uncle Geoffrey!" now it was my turn to gasp. Jack and Dot burst out
laughing at my astonished face; only Dot squeezed my hand, and
whispered, "Isn't it splendid, Essie?" Mother looked at me tearfully.
"It is for your sakes I am glad, that my darling girls may not have to
work. Carrie can have every comfort now; and you can stay with us,
Esther, and we need not be divided any longer."
"Hurrah," shouted Dot, waving his spoon over his head; but I only
kissed mother without speaking; a strange, unaccountable feeling
prevented me. If we were rich--or rather if we had this independence--I
must not go on teaching Flurry; my duty was at home with mother and
Carrie.
I could have beaten myself for my selfishness; but it was true.
Humiliating as it is to confess it, my first feeling was regret that my
happy days at the Cedars were over.
"You do not seem pleased," observed Allan, shrewdly, as he watched me.
"I am so profoundly astonished that I am not capable of feeling," I
returned hastily; but I blushed a little guiltily.
"It is almost too good to believe," he returned. "I never liked the
idea of you and Carrie doing anything, and yet it could not be helped;
so now you will all be able to stay at home and enjoy yourselves."
Mother brightened up visibly at this.
"That will be nice, will it not, Esther? And Dot can have his lessons
with you as usual. I was so afraid that Miss Ruth would want you back
soon, and that Carrie would be dull. How good of your Aunt Podgill to
make us all so happy! And if it were not for your father--" and here
the dear soul had recourse to her handkerchief again.
If I was silent, no one noticed it; every one was so eager in detailing
his or her plans for the future. It was quite a relief when the lengthy
breakfast was over, and I was free to go and tell Carrie; somehow in
the general excitement no one thought of her. I reproached myself still
more for my selfishness, and called myself all manner of hard names
when I saw the glow of pleasure on her pale face.
"Oh, Esther, how nice! How pleased dear mother must be! Now we shall
have you all to ourselves, and you need not be spending all your days
away from us."
How strange! Carrie knew of my warm affection for Ruth and Flurry, and
yet it never occurred to her that I should miss my daily intercourse
with them. It struck me then how often our nearest and dearest
misunderstand or fail to enter into our feelings.
The thought recurred to me more than once that morning when I sat at my
work listening to the discussion between her and mother. Carrie seemed
a different creature that day; the wonderful news had lifted her out of
herself, and she rejoiced so fully and heartily in our good fortune
that I was still more ashamed of myself, and yet I was glad too.
"It seems so wonderful to me, mother," Carrie was saying, in her sweet
serious way, "that just when I was laid by, and unable to keep myself
or any one else, that this provision should be made for us."
"Yes, indeed; and then there is Dot, too, who will never be able to
work," observed mother.
It was lucky Dot did not hear her, or we might have had a reproachful
_resume_ of his artistic intentions.
"Dear mother, you need not be anxious any longer over the fortune of
your two cripples," returned Carrie, tenderly. "I shall not feel so
much a burthen now; and then we shall have Esther to look after us."
And they both looked at me in a pleased, affectionate way. What could I
do but put down my work and join in that innocent, loving talk?
At our early dinner that day Allan seemed a little preoccupied and
silent, but toward the close of the meal he addressed me in his
off-hand fashion.
"I want you to come out with me this afternoon; mother can look after
Carrie."
"It is a half holiday; may I come too?" added Jack, coaxingly.
"Wait till you are asked, Miss Jacky," retorted Allan good-humoredly.
"No, I don't want your ladyship's company this afternoon; I must have
Esther to myself." And though Jack grumbled and looked discontented, he
would not change his decision.
I had made up my mind to see Ruth, and tell her all about it; but it
never entered my head to dispute Allan's will if he wanted me to walk
with him. I must give up Ruth, that was all; and I hurried to put on my
things, that I might not keep him waiting, as he possessed his full
share of masculine impatience.
I thought that he had some plan to propose to me, but to my surprise he
only talked about the most trivial subjects--the weather, the state of
the roads, the prospects of skating.
"Where are we going?" I asked at last, for we were passing the Cedars,
and Allan rarely walked in that direction; but perhaps he had a patient
to see.
"Only to Eltham Green," he returned briefly.
The answer was puzzling. Eltham Green was half a mile from the Cedars,
and there was only one house there, beside a few scattered cottages;
and I knew Uncle Geoffrey's patient, Mr. Anthony Lambert, who lived
there, had died about a month ago.
As Allan did not seem disposed to be communicative, I let the matter
rest, and held my peace; and a few minutes quick walking brought us to
the place.
It was a little common, very wild and tangled with gorse, and in summer
very picturesque. Some elms bordered the road, and there was a large
clear-looking pond, and flocks of geese would waddle over the common,
hissing and thrusting out their yellow bills to every passer-by.
The cottages were pretty and rustic-looking, and had gay little gardens
in front. They belonged to Mr. Lucas; and Eltham Cottage, as Mr.
Lambert's house was called, was his property also.
Flurry and I had always been very fond of the common, where Flossy had
often run barking round the pond, after a family of yellow ducklings.
"Eltham Cottage is still to let," I observed, looking up at the board;
"it is such a pretty house."
Allan made no response to that, but bade me enter, as he wanted to look
at it.
It was a long, two-storied cottage, with a veranda all round it, and in
summer a profusion of flowers--roses and clematis, and a splendid
passionflower--twined round the pillars and covered the porch.
The woman who admitted us ushered us into a charming little hall, with
a painted window and a glass door opening on to the lawn. There was a
small room on one side of it, and on the other the dining room and
drawing-room. The last was a very long, pleasant room, with three
windows, all opening French fashion on to the veranda, and another
glass door leading into a pretty little conservatory.
The garden was small, but very tastefully laid out; but there was a
southern wall, where peaches and nectarines were grown, and beehives
stood, and some pretty winding walks, which led to snug nooks, where
ferns or violets were hidden.
"What a sweet place!" I exclaimed, admiringly, at which Allan looked
exultant; but he only bade me follow him into the upper rooms.
These were satisfactory in every respect. Some were of sunny aspect,
and looked over the garden and some large park-like meadows; the front
ones commanded the common.
"There is not a bad room in the house," said Allan; and then he made me
admire the linen-presses and old-fashioned cupboards, and the bright
red-tiled kitchen looking out on a laurestinus walk.
"It is a dear house!" I exclaimed, enthusiastically, at which Allan
looked well-pleased. Then he took me by the arm, and drew me to a
little window-seat on the upper landing--a proceeding that reminded me
of the days at Combe Manor, when I sat waiting for him, and looking
down on the lilies.
"I am glad you think so," he said, solemnly; "for I wanted to ask your
advice about an idea of mine; it came into my head this morning when we
were all talking and planning, that this house would be just the thing
for mother."
"Allan!" I exclaimed, "you really do not mean to propose that we should
leave Uncle Geoffrey?"
"No, of course not," with a touch of impatience, for he was always a
little hasty if people did not grasp his meaning at once, "but, you,
see, houses in Milnthorpe are scarce, and we are rather too tight a fit
at present. Besides, it is not quiet enough for Carrie: the noise of
the carts and gigs on Monday morning jars her terribly. What I propose
is, that you should all settle down here in this pretty countrified
little nook, and take Uncle Geoff and Deb with you, and leave Martha
and me to represent the Camerons in the old house in the High street."
"But, Allan--" I commenced, dubiously, for I did not like the idea of
leaving him behind; but he interrupted me, and put his views more
forcibly before me.
Carrie wanted quiet and country air, and so did Dot, and the
conservatory and garden would be such a delight to mother. Uncle
Geoffrey would be dull without us, and there was a nice little room
that could be fitted up for him and Jumbles; he would drive in to his
work every morning and he--Allan--could walk out and see us on two or
three evenings in the week.
"I must be there, of course, to look after the practice. I am afraid I
am cut out for an old bachelor, Esther, like Uncle Geoff, for I do not
feel at all dismal at the thought of having a house to myself,"
finished Allan with his boyish laugh.