TOLD IN THE SUNSET.
What a clever head Allan had! I always said there was more in that boy
than half a dozen Freds! To think of such a scheme coming into his
mind, and driving us all nearly wild with excitement!
Allan's strong will bore down all opposition. Mother's feeble
remonstrances, which came from a sheer terror of change; even Uncle
Geoffrey's sturdy refusal to budge an inch out of the old house where
he had lived so long, did not weigh a straw against Allan's solid
reasoning.
It took a vast amount of talking, though, before our young autocrat
achieved his final victory, and went off flushed and eager to settle
preliminaries with Mr. Lucas. It was all sealed, signed, and delivered
before he came back.
The pretty cottage at Eltham was to be ours, furnished with Aunt
Podgill's good old-fashioned furniture, and in the early days of April
we were to accomplish our second flitting.
The only remaining difficulty was about Jack; but this Uncle Geoffrey
solved for us. The gig would bring him into Milnthorpe every morning,
and he could easily drive Jack to her school, and the walk back would
be good for her. In dark, wintry weather she could return with him, or,
if occasion required it, she might be a weekly boarder.
Mr. Lucas came back with Allan, and formally congratulated mother on
her good fortune.
I do not know if it were my fancy, but he seemed a little grave and
constrained in his manners that evening, and scarcely addressed me at
all until the close of his visit.
"Under the circumstances I am afraid Flurry will have to lose her
governess," he said, not looking at me, however, but at mother; and
though I opened my lips to reply, my mother answered for me.
"Well, yes, I am afraid so. Carrie depends so much on her sister."
"Of course, of course," he returned, hastily; and actually he never
said another word, but got up and said good-by to mother.
But I could not let him go without a word after all his kindness to me;
so, as Allan had gone out, I followed him out into the hall, though he
tried to wave me back.
"It is cold; I shall not open the hail door while you stand there, Miss
Esther."
"Oh, I do not mind the cold one bit," I returned, nervously; "but I
want to speak to you a moment, Mr. Lucas. Will you give Ruth my love,
and tell her I will come and talk to her to-morrow, and--and I am so
sorry to part with Flurry."
"You are not more sorry than she will be," he returned, but not in his
old natural manner; and then he begged me so decidedly to go back into
the warm room that I dared not venture on another word.
It was very unsatisfactory; something must have put him out, I thought,
and I went back to mother feeling chilled and uncomfortable. Oh, dear!
how dependent we are for comfort on the words and manners of those
around us.
I went to the Cedars the following afternoon, and had a long
comfortable talk with Ruth. She even laid aside her usual quiet
undemonstrativeness, and petted and made much of me, though she laughed
a little at what she called my solemn face.
"Confess now, Esther, you are not a bit pleased about all this money!"
"Oh, indeed I am," I returned, quite shocked at this. "I am so
delighted for mother and Dot and Carrie."
"But not for yourself," she persisted.
There was no deceiving Ruth, so I made a full confession, and stammered
out, in great confusion, that I did not like losing her and Flurry;
that it was wrong and selfish, when Carrie wanted me so; but I knew
that even at Eltham I should miss the Cedars.
She seemed touched at that. "You are a faithful soul, Esther; you never
forget a kindness, and you cannot bear even a slight separation from
those you love. We have spoiled you, I am afraid."
"Yes, indeed," I returned, rather sadly, "you have been far too good to
me."
"That is a matter of opinion. Well, what am I to say to comfort you,
when you find fault with even your good luck? Will it make you any
better to know we shall all miss you dreadfully? Even Giles owned as
much; and as for Flurry, we had quite a piece of work with her."
"Mr. Lucas never even said he was sorry," I returned, in a piqued
voice. It was true I was quite spoiled, for I even felt aggrieved that
he did not join us in the drawing-room, and yet I knew he was in the
house.
"Oh, you do not know Giles," she answered, brightly; "he is one of the
unselfish ones, he would not have damped what he thought your happiness
for the world. You see, Esther, no one in their senses would ever
believe that you were really sorry at your stroke of good fortune; it
is only I who know you, my dear, that can understand how that is."
Did she understand? Did I really understand myself? Anyhow, I felt
horribly abashed while she was speaking. I felt I had been conducting
myself in an unfledged girlish fashion, and that Ruth, with her staid
common sense, was reproving me.
I determined then and there that no more foolish expression of regret
should cross my lips; that I would keep all such nonsense to myself; so
when Flurry ran in very tearful and desponding, I took Ruth's cue, and
talked to her as cheerfully as possible, giving her such vivid
descriptions of the cottage and the garden, and the dear little
honeysuckle arbor where Dot and she could have tea, that she speedily
forgot all her regrets in delicious anticipations.
"Yes, indeed," observed Ruth, as she benevolently contemplated us, "I
expect Flurry and I will be such constant visitors that your mother
will complain that there is no end of those tiresome Lucases. Run
along, Flurry, and see if your father means to come in and have some
tea. Tell him Esther is here."
Flurry was a long time gone, and then she brought back a message that
her father was too busy, and she might bring him a cup there, and that
she was to give his kind regards to Miss Cameron, and that was all.
I went home shortly after that, and found mother and Carrie deep in
discussion about carpets and curtains. They both said I looked tired
and cold, and that Ruth had kept me too long.
"I think I am getting jealous of Ruth," Carrie said, with a gentle
smile.
And somehow the remark did not please me; not that Carrie really meant
it, though; but it did strike me sometimes that both mother and she
thought that Ruth rather monopolized me.
My visits to the Cedars became very rare after this, for we were soon
engrossed with the bustle of moving. For more than six weeks I trudged
about daily between our house and Eltham Cottage. There were carpets to
be fitted, and the furniture to be adapted to each room, and when that
was done, Allan and I worked hard in the conservatory; and here Ruth
often joined us, bringing with her a rare fern or plant from the
well-stocked greenhouses at the Cedars. She used to sit and watch us at
our labors, and say sometimes how much she wished she could help us,
and sometimes she spent an hour or two with Carrie to make up for my
absence.
I rather reveled in my hard work, and grew happier every day, and the
cottage did look so pretty when we had finished.
Ruth was with me all the last afternoon. We lighted fires in all the
rooms, and they looked so cozy. The table in the dining-room was spread
with Aunt Podgill's best damask linen and her massive old-fashioned
silver; and Deborah was actually baking her famous griddle cakes, to
the admiration of our new help, Dorcas, before the first fly, with
mother and Carrie and Dot, drove up to the door. I shall never forget
mother's pleased look as she stood in the little hall, and Carrie's
warm kiss as I welcomed them.
"How beautiful it all looks!" she exclaimed; "how home-like and bright
and cozy; you have managed so well, Esther!"
"Esther always manages well," observed dear mother, proudly. The extent
to which she believed in me and my resources was astonishing. She
followed me all over the house, praising everything. I was glad Ruth
heard her, and knew that I had done my best for them all. Allan
accompanied the others, and we had quite a merry evening.
Ruth stayed to tea. "She was really becoming one of us!" as mother
observed; and Allan took her home. We all crowded into the porch to see
them off; even Carrie, who was getting quite nimble on her crutches. It
was a warm April night; the little common was flooded with moonlight;
the spring flowers were sleeping in the white rays, and the limes
glistened like silver. Uncle Geoffrey and I walked with them to the
gate, while Ruth got into her pony carriage.
I did not like saying good-night to Allan; it seemed so strange for him
to be going back to the old house alone; but he burst into one of his
ringing laughs when I told him so.
"Why, I like it," he said, cheerily; "it is good fun being monarch of
all I survey. Didn't I tell you I was cut out for an old bachelor? You
must come and make tea for me sometimes, when I can't get out here."
And then, in a more serious voice, he added, "It does put one into such
good spirits to see mother and you girls safe in this pretty nest."
I had never been idle; but now the day never seemed long enough for my
numerous occupations, and yet they were summer days, too.
The early rising was now an enjoyment to me. I used to work in the
garden or conservatory before breakfast, and how delicious those hours
were when the birds and I had it all to ourselves; and I hardly know
which sang the loudest, for I was very happy, very happy indeed,
without knowing why. I think this unreasoning and unreasonable
happiness is an attribute of youth.
I had got over my foolish disappointment about the Cedars. Ruth kept
her word nobly, and she and Flurry came perpetually to the cottage.
Sometimes I spent an afternoon or evening at the Cedars, and then I
always saw Mr. Lucas, and he was most friendly and pleasant. He used to
talk of coming down one afternoon to see how I was getting on with my
fernery, but it was a long time before he kept his promise.
The brief cloud, or whatever it was, had vanished and he was his own
genial self. Flurry had not another governess, but Ruth gave her
lessons sometimes, and on her bad days her father heard them. It was
rather desultory teaching, and I used to shake my head rather solemnly
when I heard of it; but Ruth always said that Giles wished it to be so
for the present. The child was not strong, and was growing fast, and it
would not hurt her to run wild a little.
When breakfast was over, Dot and I worked hard; and in the afternoon I
generally read to Carrie; she was far less of an invalid now, and used
to busy herself with work for the poor while she lay on her couch and
listened. She used to get mother to help her sometimes, and then Carrie
would look so happy as she planned how this garment was to be for old
Nanny Stables, and the next for her little grandson Jemmy. With
returning strength came the old, unselfish desire to benefit others. It
put her quite into spirits one day when Mrs. Smedley asked her to cover
some books for the Sunday school.
"How good of her to think of it; it is just work that I can do!" she
said, gratefully; and for the rest of the day she looked like the old
Carrie again.
Allan came to see us nearly every evening. Oh, those delicious summer
evenings! how vividly even now they seem to rise before me, though
many, many happy years lie between me and them.
Somehow it had grown a sort of habit with us to spend them on the
common. Mother loved the sweet fresh air, and would sit for hours among
the furze bushes and gorse, knitting placidly, and watching the
children at their play, or the cottagers at work in their gardens; and
Uncle Geoffrey, in his old felt hat, would sit beside her, reading the
papers.
Allan used to tempt Carrie for a stroll over the common; and when she
was tired he and Jack and I would saunter down some of the long country
lanes, sometimes hunting for glow-worms in the hedges, sometimes
extending our walk until the moon shone over the silent fields, and the
night became sweet and dewy, and the hedgerows glimmered strangely in
the uncertain light.
How cozy our little drawing-room always looked on our return! The lamp
would be lighted on the round table, and the warm perfume of flowers
seemed to steep the air with fragrance; sometimes the glass door would
lie open, and gray moths come circling round the light, and outside lay
the lawn, silvered with moonlight. Allan used to leave us regretfully
to go back to the old house at Milnthorpe; he said we were such a snug
party.
When Carrie began to visit the cottages and to gather the children
round her couch on Sunday afternoons, I knew she was her old self
again. Day by day her sweet face grew calmer and happier; her eyes lost
their sad wistful expression, and a little color touched her wan cheeks.
Truly she often suffered much, and her lameness was a sad hindrance in
the way of her usefulness; but her hands were always busy, and on her
well days she spent hours in the cottages reading to two or three old
people, or instructing the younger ones.
It was touching to see her so thankful for the fragments of work that
still fell to her share, content to take the humblest task, if she only
might give but "a cup of cold water to one of these little ones;" and
sometimes I thought how dearly the Good Shepherd must love the gentle
creature who was treading her painful life-path so lovingly and
patiently.
I often wondered why Mr. Lucas never kept his promise of coming to see
us; but one evening when Jack and Allan and I returned from our stroll
we found him sitting talking to mother and Uncle Geoffrey.
I was so surprised at his sudden appearance that I dropped some of the
flowers I held in my hand, and he laughed as he helped me to pick them
up.
"I hope I haven't startled you," he said, as we shook hands.
"No--that is--I never expected to see you here this evening," I
returned, rather awkwardly.
"Take off your hat, Esther," said mother, in an odd tone; and I thought
she looked flushed and nervous, just as she does when she wants to cry.
"Mr. Lucas has promised to have supper with us, and, my dear, he wants
you to show him the conservatory and the fernery."
It was still daylight, though the sun was setting fast; we had returned
earlier than usual, for Allan had to go back to Milnthorpe, and he bade
us goodnight hastily as I prepared to obey mother.
Jack followed us, but mother called her back, and asked her to go to
one of the cottages and fetch Carrie home. Such a glorious sunset met
our eyes as we stepped out on the lawn; the clouds were a marvel of
rose and violet and golden splendor; the windows of the cottage were
glittering with the reflected beams, and a delicious scent of lilies
was in the air.
Mr. Lucas seemed in one of his grave moods, for he said very little
until we reached the winding walk where the ferns were, and then----
I am not going to repeat what he said; such words are too sacred; but
it came upon me with the shock of a thunderbolt what he had been
telling mother, and what he was trying to make me understood, for I was
so stupid that I could not think what he meant by asking me to the
Cedars, and when he saw that, he spoke more plainly.
"You must come back, Esther; we cannot do without you any longer," he
continued very gently, "not as Flurry's governess, but as her mother,
and as my wife."
He was very patient with me, when he saw how the suddenness and the
wonder of it all upset me, that a man like Mr. Lucas could love me, and
be so clever and superior and good. How could such a marvelous thing
have happened?
And mother knew it, and Uncle Geoffrey, for Mr. Lucas had taken
advantage of my absence to speak to them both, and they had given him
leave to say this to me. Well, there could be no uncertainty in my
answer. I already reverenced and venerated him above other men, and the
rest came easy, and before we returned to the house the first
strangeness and timidity had passed; I actually asked him--summoning up
all my courage, however--how it was he could think of me, a mere girl
without beauty, or cleverness, or any of the ordinary attractions of
girlhood.
"I don't know," he answered, and I knew by his voice he was smiling;
"it has been coming on a long time; when people know you they don't
think you plain, Esther, and to me you can never be so. I first knew
what I really felt when I came out of the room that dreadful night, and
saw you standing with drenched hair and white face, with Dot in your
arms and my precious Flurry clinging to your dress; when I saw you
tottering and caught you. I vowed then that you, and none other, should
replace Flurry's dead mother;" and when he had said this I asked no
more.