_MOVING_.
Esther made to herself a pleasure of getting the little dwelling in
order. With two such helpers as she had, the work went on bravely, and
Christopher got in coal and chopped wood enough to last all winter. The
ready money from the sale of Buonaparte had given her the means for
that and for some other things. She was intent upon making the new home
look so homelike that her father should be in some measure consoled for
the shock which she knew its exterior would give him. The colonel liked
no fire so well as one of his native 'sea-coal.' The house had open
fireplaces only. So Esther had some neat grates put in the two lower
rooms and in her father's sleeping chamber. They had plenty of carpets,
and the two little parlours were soon looking quite habitable.
'We will keep the back one for a dining-room,' she said to Mrs. Barker;
'that will be convenient for you, being nearest the kitchen stairs, and
this will be for papa's study. But it has a bare look yet. I must make
some curtains and put up, to hide the view of that dreadful street.'
'That'll cost money, mum,' observed the housekeeper. 'Wouldn't some o'
them old ones at home be passable, if they was made over a bit?'
'The colour would not fit here. No, that would not do. I'll get some
chintz that is dark and bright at once. I have money. Oh, we are going
to be rich now, Barker; and you shall not be stinted in your marketing
any more. And this is going to be very nice, _inside_.'
To the outside Esther could not get accustomed. It gave her a kind of
prick of dismay every time she saw it anew. What would her father say
when _he_ saw it? Yet she had done right and wisely; of that she had no
doubt at all; it was very unreasonable that, her judgment being
satisfied, her feeling should rebel. Yet it did rebel. When did ever
one of her family live in such a place before? They had come down
surely very far, to make it possible. Only in the matter of money, to
be sure; but then, money has to do largely with the outward appearance
one makes, and upon the appearance depends much of the effect upon
one's fellow-creatures. The whisper would come back in Esther's mind:
Who will believe you are what you are, if they see you coming out of
such a house? And what then? she answered the whisper. If the Lord has
given us this place to dwell in, that and all other effects and
consequences of it are part of His will in the matter. What if we are
to be overlooked and looked down upon? what have I to do with it? what
matters it? Let pride be quiet, and faith be very thankful. Here are
all my difficulties set aside, and no danger of not paying our debts
any more.
She reasoned so, and fought against pride, if pride it were, which took
the other side. She _would_ be thankful; and she was. Nevertheless, a
comparison would arise now and then with the former times, and with
their state at Seaforth; and further back still, with the beauties and
glories of the old manor house in England. Sometimes Esther felt a
strange wave of regret come over her at the thought of the gay circle
of relations she did not know, who were warm in the shelter of
prosperity and the cheer of numbers. She knew herself in a better
shelter, yes, and in a better cheer; and yet sometimes, as I said, an
odd feeling of loss and descent would come over her as she entered
Major Street Esther was working hard these days, which no doubt had
something to do with this. She rushed from her morning duties to the
school; then at three o'clock rushed to Major Street; and from there,
when it grew too dark to work, drove home to minister to her father.
Probably her times of discouragement were times when she was a little
tired. The thought was very far from her usually. In her healthy and
happy youth, busy life, and mental and spiritual growth and thrift,
Esther's wants seemed to be all satisfied; and so long as things ran
their ordinary course, she felt no deficiency. But there are conditions
in which one is warm so long as one does not move, while the first stir
of change brings a chill over one. And so sometimes now, as Esther
entered Major Street or set her face towards it, she would think of her
far-off circle of Gainsborough cousins, with a half wish that her
father could have borne with them a little more patiently; and once or
twice the thought came too, that the Dallases never let themselves be
heard from any more. Not even Pitt. She would not have thought it of
him, but he was away in a foreign country, and it must be that he had
forgotten them. His father and mother were near, and could not forget;
was not the old house there before them always to remind them? But they
were rich and prosperous and abounding in everything; they had no need
of the lonely two who had gone out of their sight and who did need
them. It was the way of the world; so the world said. Esther wondered
if that were really true, and also wondered now and then if Major
Street were to be henceforth not only the sphere but the limit of her
existence. She never gave such thoughts harbour; they came and they
went; and she remained the cheerful, brave, busy girl she had long been.
The small house at last looked homelike. On the front room Esther had
put a warm, dark-looking carpet; the chintz curtains were up and in
harmony with the carpet; and the colonel's lounge was new covered with
the same stuff. The old furniture had been arranged so as to give that
pleasant cosy air to the room which is such a welcome to the person
entering it, making the impression of comfort and good taste and of the
habit of good living; not good living in matters of the table, but in
those other matters which concern the mind's nourishment and social
well-being. Everything was right and in order, and Esther surveyed her
work with much content.
'It looks _very_ nice,' she said to her good friend the housekeeper.
'It do, mum,' Mrs. Barker answered, with a reservation. 'But I'm
thinkin', Miss Esther, I can't stop thinkin', whatever'll the colonel
say when he sees the outside.'
'He shall see the inside first. I have arranged that. And, Barker, we
must have a capital supper ready for him. We can afford it now. Have a
pheasant, Barker; there is nothing he likes better; and some of that
beautiful honey Mrs. Bounder has brought us; I never saw such rich
honey, I think. And I have good hope papa will be pleased, and put up
with things, as I do.'
'Your papa remembers Gainsborough Manor, mum, and that's what you
don't.'
'What then! Mrs. Barker, do you really think the Lord does _not_ know
what is good for us? That is sheer unbelief. Take what He gives, and be
thankful. Barker, why do you suppose the angels came to the sepulchre
so, as they did the morning of the resurrection?'
'Mum!' said Mrs. Barker, quite taken aback by this sudden change of
subject. But Esther went on in a pleasant, pleased tone of interest.
'I was reading the last chapter of Matthew this morning, and it set me
to thinking. You know a number of them, the angels, came, and were seen
about the sepulchre; and I suppose there was just a crowd of them
coming and going that morning. What for, do you suppose?'
'Miss Esther!' said the housekeeper open-mouthed, 'I'm sure I can't
say.'
'Why, they came _to see the place_, Barker; just for that. They knew
what had been done, and they just came in crowds, as soon as Jesus had
left the sepulchre--perhaps before--to look at the spot where that
wonder of all wonders had been. But it never occurred to me before how
like it was to the way we human creatures feel and do. _That_ was what
they came for; and don't you remember what one of them, with his
lightning face and his robes of whiteness, sitting on the stone, said
to the women? He told them to do what he had been doing. "_Come see the
place_." It brought the angels nearer to me than ever they had seemed
to be before.'
Mrs. Barker stood there spellbound, silenced. To be sure, if Miss
Esther's head was so busy with the angels, she was in a sort lifted up
above the small matters or accidents of common earthly life. And as
much as the words the girl's face awed her too, its expression was so
consonant with them.
'Now, Barker, Christopher may bring up some coal and make a fire before
he drives back for papa. In both rooms, Barker. And-- Hark! what is
that?'
A long-drawn, musical cry was sounding a little distance off, slowly
coming nearer as it was repeated. A cry that New York never hears now,
but that used to come through the streets in the evening with a
sonorous, half melancholy intonation, pleasant to hear.
'Oys----ters!----Oys----ters! Here's your fresh oys----ters!'
'That's just what we want, Barker. Get Christopher to stop the man.'
Esther had arranged that her father's room and belongings at home
should not be disturbed until the very day when he himself should make
the transfer from the one house to the other. So until that morning
even the colonel's sofa had not been moved. Now it was brought over and
placed in position between the fireplace and the window, where the
occupant would have plenty of light and warmth. The new chintz cover
had been put on it; the table was placed properly, and the books which
the colonel liked to have at hand lay in their usual position. In the
back room the table was set for supper. The rooms communicated, though
indeed not by folding doors; still the eye could go through and catch
the glow of the fire, and see the neat green drugget on the floor and
the pleasant array on the supper table.
'It looks _very_ nice, Barker!' Esther could not help saying again.
'It certainly do, mum,' was the answer, in which, nevertheless, Esther
heard the aforementioned mental reservation. If her father liked it!
Yes, that could not be known till he came; and she drew a breath of
patient anxiety. It was too dark for him to take the effect of anything
outside; she had arranged that. One thing at a time, she thought. The
house to-day; Major Street to-morrow.
She met him in the hall when he came, giving him a kiss and a welcome;
helped him to take off his greatcoat, and conducted him into the small
apartment so carefully made ready for him. It offered as much tasteful
comfort as it was possible for a room of its inches to do. Esther
waited anxiously for the effect. The colonel warmed his hands at the
blaze, and took his seat on the sofa, eyeing things suspiciously.
'What sort of a place is this we have come to?' were his first words.
'Don't you think it is a comfortable place, papa? This chimney draws
beautifully, and the coal is excellent. It is really a very nice little
house, papa. I think it will be comfortable.'
'Not very large,' said the colonel, taking with his eye the measure of
the room.
'No, papa; and none the worse for that. Room enough for you, and room
enough for me; and quite room enough for Barker, who has to take care
of it all. I like the house very much.'
'What sort of a street is it?'
Must that question come up to-night! Esther hesitated.
'I thought, sir, the street was of less importance to us than the home.
It is _very_ comfortable; and the rent is so moderate that we can pay
our way and be at ease. Papa, I would not like the finest house in the
world, if I had to run in debt to live in it.'
'What is the name of the street?'
'Major Street'
'Whereabouts is it? In the darkness I could not see where we were
going.'
'Papa, it is in the east part of the city, not very far from the river.
Fulton Market is not very far off either, which is convenient.'
'Who lives here?' asked the colonel, with a gathering frown on his brow.
'I know none of the people; nor even their names.'
'Of course not! but you know, I suppose, what sort of people they are?'
'They are plain people, papa; they are not of our class. They seem to
be decent people.'
'Decent? What do you mean by decent?'
'Papa, I mean not disorderly people; not disreputable. And is not that
enough for us, papa? Oh, papa, does it matter what the people are, so
long as our house is nice and pretty and warm, and the low rent just
relieves us from all our difficulties? Papa, do be pleased with it! I
think it is the very best thing we could have done.'
'Esther, there are certain things that one owes to oneself.'
'Yes, sir; but must we not pay our debts to other people first?'
'Debts? We were not in debt to anybody!'
'Yes, papa, to more than one; and I saw no way out of the difficulty
till I heard of this house. And I am so relieved now--you cannot think
with what a relief;--if only _you_ are pleased, dear papa.'
He must know so much of the truth, Esther said to herself with rapid
calculation. The colonel did not look pleased, it must be confessed.
All the prettiness and pleasantness on which Esther had counted to
produce a favourable impression seemed to fail of its effect; indeed,
seemed not to be seen. The colonel leaned his head on his hand and
uttered something very like a groan.
'So this is what we have come to!' he said. 'You do not know what you
have done, Esther.'
Esther said nothing to that. Her throat seemed to be choked. She looked
at her beautiful little fire, and had some trouble to keep tears from
starting.
'My dear, you did it for the best, I do not doubt,' her father added
presently. 'I only regret that I was not consulted before an
irrevocable step was taken.'
Esther could find nothing to answer.
'It is quite true that a man remains himself, whatever he does that is
not morally wrong; it is true that our real dignity is not changed;
nevertheless, people pass in the world not for what they are, but for
what they seem to be.'
'Oh, papa, do you think that!' Esther cried. But the colonel went on,
not heeding her.
'So, if you take to making shoes, it will be supposed that you are no
better than a cobbler; and if you choose your abode among washerwomen,
you will be credited with tastes and associations that fit you for your
surroundings. Have we _that_ sort of a neighbourhood?' he asked
suddenly.
'I do not know, papa,' Esther said meekly. The colonel fairly groaned
again. It was getting to be more than she could stand.
'Papa,' she said gently, 'we have done the best we knew,--at least I
have; and the necessity is not one of our own making. Let us take what
the Lord gives. I think He has given us a great deal. And I would
rather, for my part, that people thought anything of us, rather than
that we should miss our own good opinion. I do not know just what the
inhabitants are, round about here; but the street is at least clean and
decent, and within our own walls we need not think about it. Inside it
is _very_ comfortable, papa.'
The colonel was silent now, not, however, seeming to see the comfort.
There was a little interval, during which Esther struggled for calmness
and a clear voice. When she spoke, her voice was very clear.
'Barker has tea ready, papa, I see. I hope that will be as good as
ever, and better, for we have got something you like. Shall we go in?
It is in the other room.'
'Why is it not here, as usual, in my room? I do not see any reason for
the change.'
'It saves the mess of crumbs on the floor in this room. And then it
saves Barker a good deal of trouble to have the table there.'
'Why should Barker be saved trouble here more than where we have come
from? I do not understand.'
'We had Christopher there, papa. Here Barker has no one to help
her--except what I can do.'
'It must be the same thing, to have tea in one room or in another, I
should think.'
Esther could have represented that the other room was just at the head
of the kitchen stairs, while to serve the tea on the colonel's table
would cost a good many more steps. But she had no heart for any further
representations. With her own hands, and with her own feet, which were
by this time wearily tired, she patiently went back and forth between
the two rooms, bringing plates and cups and knives and forks, and
tea-tray, and bread and butter and honey and partridge, and salt and
pepper, from the one table to the other, which, by the way, had first
to be cleared of its own load of books and writing materials. Esther
deposited these on the floor and on chairs, and arranged the table for
tea, and pushed it into the position her father was accustomed to like.
The tea-kettle she left on its trivet before the grate in the other
room; and now made journeys uncounted between that room and this, to
take and fetch the tea-pot. Talk languished meanwhile, for the spirit
of talk was gone from Esther, and the colonel, in spite of his
discomfiture, developed a remarkably good appetite. When he had done,
Esther carried everything back again.
'Why do you do that? Where is Barker?' her father demanded at last.
'Barker has been exceedingly busy all day, putting down carpets and
arranging her storeroom. I am sure she is tired.'
'I suppose you are tired too, are you not?'
'Yes, papa.'
He said no more, however, and Esther finished her work, and then sat
down on a cushion at the corner of the fireplace, in one of those moods
belonging to tired mind and body, in which one does not seem at the
moment to care any longer about anything. The lively, blazing coal fire
shone on a warm, cosy little room, and on two somewhat despondent
figures. For his supper had not brightened the colonel up a bit. He sat
brooding. Perhaps his thoughts took the road that Esther's had often
followed lately, for he suddenly came out with a name now rarely spoken
between them.
'It is a long while that we have heard nothing from the Dallases!'
'Yes,' Esther said apathetically.
'Mr. Dallas used to write to me now and then.'
'They are busy with their own concerns, and we are out of sight; why
should they remember us?'
'They used to be good neighbours, in Seaforth.'
'Pitt. Papa, I do not think his father and mother were ever specially
fond of us.'
'Pitt never writes to me now,' the colonel went on, after a pause.
'He is busy with _his_ concerns. He has forgotten us too. I suppose he
has plenty of other things to think of. Oh, I have given up Pitt long
ago.'
The colonel brooded over his thoughts a while, then raised his head and
looked again over the small room.
'My dear, it would have been better to stay where we were,' he said
regretfully.
Esther could not bear to pain him by again reminding him that their
means would not allow it; and as her father lay back upon the sofa and
closed his eyes, she went away into the other room and sat down at the
corner of that fire, where the partition wall screened her from view.
For she wanted to let her head drop on her knees and be still; and a
few tears that she could not help came hot to her eyes. She had worked
so hard to get everything in nice order for her father; she had so
hoped to see him pleased and contented; and now he was so illogically
discontented! Truly he could tell her nothing she did not already know
about the disadvantages of their new position; and they all rushed upon
Esther's mind at this minute with renewed force. The pleasant country
and the shining river were gone; she would no longer see the lights on
the Jersey shore when she got up in the morning; the air would not come
sweet and fresh to her windows; there would be no singing of birds or
fragrance of flowers around her, even in summer; she would have only
the streets and the street cries and noises, and dust, and unsweet
breath. The house would do inside; but outside, what a change! And
though Esther was not very old in the world, nor very worldly-wise for
her years, she knew--if not as well as her father, yet she knew--that
in Major Street she was pretty nearly cut off from all social
intercourse with her kind. Her school experience and observation had
taught her so much. She knew that her occupation as a teacher in a
school was enough of itself to put her out of the way of invitations,
and that an abode in Major Street pretty well finished the matter.
Esther had not been a favourite among her school companions in the best
of times; she was of too uncommon a beauty, perhaps; perhaps she was
too different from them in other respects. Pleasant as she always was,
she was nevertheless separate from her fellows by a great separation of
nature; and that is a thing not only felt on both sides, but never
forgiven by the inferiors. Miss Gainsborough, daughter of a rich and
influential retired officer, would, however, have been sought eagerly
and welcomed universally; Miss Gainsborough, the school teacher,
daughter of an unknown somebody who lived in Major Street, was another
matter; hardly a desirable acquaintance. For what should she be desired?
Esther had not been without a certain dim perception of all this; and
it came to her with special disagreeableness just then, when every
thought came that could make her dissatisfied with herself and with her
lot. Why had her father ever come away from England, where friends and
relations could not have failed? Why had he left Seaforth, where at
least they were living like themselves, and where they would not have
dropped out of the knowledge of Pitt Dallas? The feeling of loneliness
crept again over Esther, and a feeling of having to fight her way as it
were single-handed. Was this little house, and Major Street, henceforth
to be the scene and sphere of her life and labours? How could she ever
work up out of it into anything better?
Esther was tired, and felt blue, which was the reason why all these
thoughts and others chased through her mind; and more than one tear
rolled down and dropped on her stuff gown. Then she gathered herself
up. How had she come to Major Street and to school teaching? Not by her
own will or fault. Therefore it was part of the training assigned for
her by a wisdom that is perfect, and a love that never forgets. And
Esther began to be ashamed of herself. What did she mean by saying,
'The Lord is my Shepherd,' if she could not trust Him to take care of
His sheep? And now, how had she been helped out of her difficulties,
enabled to pay her debts, brought to a home where she could live and be
clear of the world; yes, and live pleasantly too? And as for being
alone-- Esther rose with a smile. 'Can I not trust the Lord for that
too?' she thought. 'If it is His will I should be alone, then that is
the very best thing for me; and perhaps He will come nearer than if I
had other distractions to take my eyes in another direction.'
Barker came in to remove the tea-things, and Esther met her with a
smile, the brightness of which much cheered the good woman.
'Was the pheasant good, mum?' she asked in a whisper.
'Capital, Barker, and the honey. And papa made a very good supper. And
I am so thankful, Barker! for the house is very nice, and we are moved.'