_A NEIGHBOUR_.
The packing and sending off of boxes was ended at last; and the bare,
empty, echoing, forlorn house seemed of itself to eject its
inhabitants. When it came to that, everybody was ready to go. Mrs.
Barker lamented that she could not go on before the rest of the family,
to prepare the place a bit for them; but that was impossible; they must
all go together.
It was the middle of November when at last the family made their
flitting. They had no dear friends to leave, and nothing particular to
regret, except that one low mound in the churchyard; yet Esther felt
sober as they drove away. The only tangible reason for this on which
her thoughts could fix, was the fact that she was going away from the
place where Pitt Dallas was at home, and to which he would come when he
returned from England. She would then be afar off. Yet there would be
nothing to hinder his coming to see them in their new home; so the
feeling did not seem well justified. Besides that, Esther also had a
somewhat vague sense that she was leaving the domain of childhood and
entering upon the work and sphere of a woman. She was just going to
school! But perhaps the time of confusion she had been passing through
might have revealed to her that she had already a woman's life-work on
her hands. And the confusion was not over, and the work only begun. She
had perhaps a dim sense of this. However, she was young; and the
soberness was certainly mixed with gladness. For was she not going to
school, and so, on the way to do something of the work Pitt was doing,
in mental furnishing and improvement? I think, gladness had the upper
hand.
It took two days of stage travelling to get them to their destination.
They were days full of interest and novelty for Esther; eager
anticipation and hope; but the end of the second day found her well
tired. Indeed, it was the case with them all. Mrs. Barker had lamented
that she and Christopher were not allowed to go off some time before
'the family,' so as to have things in a certain degree of readiness for
them; the colonel had said it was impossible: they could not be spared
from Seaforth until the last minute. And now here they were 'all in a
heap,' as Mrs Barker expressed it, 'to be tumbled into the house at
once.' She begged that the colonel would stay the night over in the
city, and give her at least a few hours to prepare for him. The colonel
would not hear of it, however, but at once procured vehicles to take
the whole party and their boxes out to the place that was to be their
new home. It was then already evening; the short November day had
closed in.
'He's that simple,' Mrs. Barker confided to her brother, 'he expects to
find a fire made and a room ready for him! It's like all the gentlemen.
They never takes no a 'Thinks the furniture 'll hop out o' the boxes,
like, 'count of how things is done, if it ain't _their_ things.' and
stan' round,' echoed Christopher. 'I'm afeard they won't be so
obligin'.'
The drive was somewhat slower in the dark than it would have been
otherwise, and the stars were out and looking down brilliantly upon the
little party as they finally dismounted at their door. The shadow of
the house rising before them, a cool air from the river, the sparkling
stars above, the vague darkness around; Esther never forgot that
home-coming.
They had stopped at a neighbour's house to get the key; and now, the
front door being unlocked, made their way in, one after another. Esther
was confronted first by a great packing-case in the narrow hall, which
blocked up the way. Going carefully round this, which there was just
room to do, she stumbled over a smaller box on the floor.
'Oh, papa, take care!' she cried to her father, who was following her;
'the house is all full of things, and it is so dark. Oh, Barker, can't
you open the back door and let in a gleam of light?'
This was done, and also in due time a lantern was brought upon the
scene. It revealed a state of things almost as hopeless as the world
appeared to Noah's dove the first time she was sent out of the ark. If
there was rest for the soles of their feet, it was all that could be
said. There was no promise of a place to sit down; and as for _lying_
down and getting their natural rest, the idea was Utopian.
'Now look here,' said a voice suddenly out of the darkness outside:
'you're all fagged out, ain't ye? and there ain't nothin' on arth ye
kin du to-night; there's no use o' your tryin'. Jes' come over to my
house and hev some supper. Ye must want it bad. Ben travellin' all day,
ain't ye? Jes' come over to me; I've got some hot supper for ye. Lands
sakes! ye kin't do nothin' here to-night. It _is_ a kind of a turn-up,
ain't it? La, a movin's wuss'n a weddin', for puttin' everybody out.'
The voice, sounding at first from the outside, had been gradually
drawing nearer and nearer, till with the last words the speaker also
entered the back room, where Esther and her father were standing. They
were standing in the midst of packing-cases, of every size and shape,
between which the shadows lay dark, while the faint lantern light just
served to show the rough edges and angles of the boxes and the hopeless
condition of things generally. It served also now to let the new-comer
be dimly seen. Esther and her father, looking towards the door,
perceived a stout little figure, with her two hands rolled up in her
shawl, head bare, and with hair in neat order, for it glanced in the
lantern shine as only smooth things can. The features of the face were
not discernible.
'It's the cunnel himself, ain't it?' she said. 'They said he was a tall
man, and I see _this_ is a tall un. Is it the cunnel himself? I
couldn't somehow make out the name--I never kin; and I kin't _see_
nothin', as the light is.'
'At your service, madam,' said the person addressed. 'Colonel
Gainsborough.'
The visitor dropped a little dot of a curtsey, which seemed to Esther
inexpressibly funny, and went on.
'Beg pardon for not knowin'. Wall, cunnel, I'm sure you're tired and
hungry,--you and your darter, is it?--and I've got a hot supper for you
over to my house. I allays think there's nothin' like hevin' things
hot,--cold comfort ain't no comfort, for me,--and I've got everythin'
hot for you--hot and nice; and now, will you come over and eat it? You
see, you kin't do nothin' here to-night. I don't see how ever you're to
sleep, in this world; there ain't nothin' here but the floor and the
boxes, and if you'll take beds with me, I'm sure you're welcome.'
'I thank you, madam; you are very kind; but I do not think we need
trouble you,' the colonel said, with civil formality. Esther was
amused, but also a little eager that her father should accept the
invitation. What else would become of him? she thought. The prospect
was desolation. Truly they had some cooked provisions; but that was
only cold comfort, as their visitor had said; doubtful if the term
could be applied at all.
'Now you'd jes' best come right over!' the fluent but kind voice said
persuasively. 'It's all spilin' to be eat. An' what kin you do? There
ain't no fire here to warm you, and it'll take a bit of a while before
you kin get one; an' you're all tired out. Jes' come over and hev a cup
o' hot coffee, and get heartened up a bit, and then you'll know what to
do next. I allays think, one thing at a time.'
'Papa,' said Esther a little timidly, 'hadn't you better do it? There's
nothing but confusion here; it will be a long time before we can get
you even a cup of tea.'
'It's all ready,' their visitor went on,--'ready and spilin'; an' I got
it for you o' purpose. Now don't stan' thinkin' about it, but jes' come
right over; I'll be as glad to hev you as if you was new apples.'
'How far is it, ma'am?' Esther asked.
'Jes' two steps--down the other side o' the field; it's the very next
house to your'n. Oh, I've lived there a matter o' ten year; and I was
main glad to hear there was somebody comin' in here agin; it's so sort
o' lonesome to see the winders allays shut up; and your light looks
real cheery, if it is only a lantern light. I knowed when you was a
comin', and says I, they'll be real tired out when they gits there,
says I; and I'll hev a hot supper ready for 'em, it's all I kin du; but
I'm sure, if you'll sleep, you're welcome.'
'If you please, sir,' put in Mrs. Barker, 'it would be the most
advisedest thing you could do; for there ain't no prospect here, and if
you and Miss Esther was away for a bit, mebbe me and Christopher would
come to see daylight after a while; which it is what I don't do at
present.'
The good woman's voice sounded so thoroughly perturbed, and expressed
such an undoubted earnest desire, that the colonel, contrary to all his
traditions, gave in. He and Esther followed their new friend, ''cross
the field,' as she said, but they hardly knew where, till the light and
warmth of her hospitable house received them.
How strange it was! The short walk in the starlight; then the homely
hospitable room, with its spread table--the pumpkin pie, and the
sausage, and the pickles, and the cheese, and the cake! The very coarse
tablecloth; the little two-pronged forks, and knives which might have
been cut out of sheet iron, and singular ware which did service for
china. The extreme homeliness of it all would almost have hindered
Esther from eating, though she was very hungry. But there was good
bread and butter; and coffee that was hot, and not bad otherwise,
although assuredly it never saw the land of Arabia; certainly it seemed
very good to Esther that night, even taken from a pewter spoon. And the
tablecloth was clean, and everything upon it. So, with doubtful
hesitation at first, Esther found the supper good, and learned her
first lesson in the broadness of humanity and the wide variety in the
ways of human life.
Their hostess, seen by the light of her dip candles, was in perfect
harmony with her entertainment. A round little woman, very neat, and
terribly plain, with a full oval face, which had no other
characteristic of beauty; insignificant features, and a pale skin,
covered with freckles. Out of this face, however, looked a pair of
small, shrewd, and kind grey eyes; their owner could be no fool.
Esther was surprised to see that her father, who was, to be sure, an
old campaigner, made a very fair supper.
'In the darkness I could hardly see where we went,' he remarked. 'But I
suppose your husband is the owner of the neat gardens I observed
formerly near our house?'
'Wall, he would be if he was alive,' was the answer, 'but that's what
he hain't ben this five year.'
'Then, do _you_ manage them?'
'Wall, cunnel, I manage 'em better'n he did. Mr. Blumenfeld was an easy
kind o' man; easy to live with, tu; but when you hev other folks to see
to, it don't du no ways to let 'em hev their own head too much. An'
that's what he did. He was a fust-rate gardener and no mistake; he
knowed his business; but the thing he _didn't_ know was folks. So they
cheated him. La, folks ain't like flowers, not 'zactly; or if they be,
as he used to say, there's thorns among 'em now and then and a weed or
two!'
'Blumenfeld?' repeated the colonel. 'You are not German, surely?'
'Wall, I guess I ain't,' said the little woman, 'Not if I know myself.
I ain't sayin' nothin' agin what _he_ was; but la, there's different
naturs in the world, and I'm different. Folks doos say, his folks is
great for gittin' along; but _he_ warn't; that's all I hev to say. He
learned me the garden work, though; that much he did.'
'And now you manage the business?'
'I do so. Won't you hev another cup, cunnel?'
They went back to their disordered house, resisting all further offers
of hospitality. And in time, beds were got out and prepared; how,
Esther could hardly remember afterwards, the confusion was so great;
but it was done, and she lost every other feeling in the joy of repose.