THE JOURNEY'S END.
"Yes, he's a minister," Ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being
seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the
young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found
leisure to observe him more closely. Mr. Newton was absorbed in the
_Tribune_; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could
hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well
as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water
and attended to all her simple wants. During the stopping of the train
at a station, their talk became distinct.
"And I haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old
lady was saying. "Won't he be glad though, to see his mother once
more? And he's got children--two of them; one is named after me,
Sabrina. It's an awful homely name, I think, don't you? But then, you
see, it was grandma's."
"And that makes all the difference in the world," her companion
answered. "So the old home is broken up, and you are going to make a
new one."
"Yes; and I'll show you every _thing_ I've got to remember my old
garden by."
With eager, trembling fingers, she untied the string which held down
the cover of her basket, and, rummaging within, brought to light
a withered bouquet of the very commonest and, perhaps, the very
homeliest flowers that grew, if there _are_ any homely flowers.
"There," she said, holding it tenderly, and speaking with quivering
lip and trembling voice. "I picked 'em the very last thing I did, out
in my own little garden patch by the backdoor. Oh, times and times
I've sat and weeded and dug around them, with him sitting on the stoop
and reading out loud to me. I thought all about just how it was while
I was picking these. I didn't stay no longer, and I didn't go back to
the house after that. I couldn't; I just pulled my sun-bonnet over my
eyes, and went across lots to where I was going to get my breakfast"
Ester felt very sorry for the poor homeless, friendless old
woman--felt as though she would have been willing to do a good deal
just then to make her comfortable; yet it must be confessed that that
awkward bunch of faded flowers, arranged without the slightest regard
to colors, looked rather ridiculous; and she felt surprised, and not
a little puzzled, to see actual tears standing in the eyes of her
companion as he handled the bouquet with gentle care.
"Well," he said, after a moment of quiet, "you are not leaving
your best friend after all. Does it comfort your heart very much to
remember that, in all your partings and trials, you are never called
upon to bid Jesus good-by?"
"What a way he has of bringing that subject into every conversation,"
commented Ester, who was now sure that he was a minister. Someway
Ester had fallen into a way of thinking that every one who spoke
freely concerning these matters must be either a fanatic or a
minister.
"Oh, that's about all the comfort I've got left." This answer came
forth from a full heart, and eyes brimming with tears. "And I don't
s'pose I need any other, if I've got Jesus left I oughtn't to need any
thing else; but sometimes I get impatient--it seems to me I've been
here long enough, and it's time I got home."
"How is it with the boy who is expecting you; has he this same
friend?"
The gray head was slowly and sorrowfully shaken. "Oh, I'm afraid he
don't know nothing about _Him_."
"Ah! then you have work to do; you can't be spared to rest yet. I
presume the Master is waiting for you to lead that son to himself."
"I mean to, I mean to, sir," she said earnestly, "but sometimes I
think maybe my coffin could do it better than I; but God knows--and
I'm trying to be patient."
Then the train whirred on again, and Ester missed the rest; but one
sentence thrilled her--"Maybe my coffin could do it better than I."
How earnestly she spoke, as if she were willing to die at once, if by
that she could save her son. How earnest they both were, anyway--the
wrinkled, homely, ignorant old woman and the cultivated, courtly
gentleman. Ester was ill at ease--conscience was arousing her
to unwonted thought. These two were different from her She was a
Christian--at least she supposed so, hoped so; but she was not like
them. There was a very decided difference. Were they right, and was
she all wrong? wasn't she a Christian after all? and at this thought
she actually shivered. She was not willing to give up her title, weak
though it might be.
"Oh, well!" she decided, after a little, "she is an old woman,
almost through with life. Of course she looks at everything through a
different aspect from what a young girl like me naturally would;
and as for him, ministers always are different from other people, of
course."
Foolish Ester! Did she suppose that ministers have a private Bible
of their own, with rules of life set down therein for them, quite
different from those written for her! And as for the old woman, almost
through with life, how near might Ester be to the edge of her own life
at that very moment! When the train stopped again the two were still
talking.
"I just hope my boy will look like you," the old lady said suddenly,
fixing admiring eyes on the tall form that stood beside her, patiently
waiting for the cup from which she was drinking the tea which he had
procured for her.
Ester followed the glance of her eye, and laughed softly at the
extreme improbability of her hope being realized, while he answered
gravely:
"I hope he will be a noble boy, and love his mother as she deserves;
then it will matter very little who he looks like."
While the cup was being returned there was a bit of toilet making
going on; the gray hair was smoothed back under the plain cap, and
the faded, twisted shawl rearranged and carefully pinned. Meantime her
thoughts seemed troubled, and she looked up anxiously into the face of
her comforter as he again took his seat beside her.
"I'm just thinking I'm such a homely old thing, and New York is such
a grand place, I've heard them say. I _do_ hope he won't be ashamed of
his mother."
"No danger," was the hearty answer; "he'll think you are the most
beautiful woman he has seen in ten years."
There is no way to describe the happy look which shone in the faded
blue eyes at this answer; and she laughed a softly, pleased laugh as
she said:
"Maybe he'll be like the man I read about the other day. Some mean,
old scamp told him how homely his mother was; and he said, says
he, 'Yes, she's a homely woman, sure enough; but oh she's such a
_beautiful_ mother!' What ever will I do when I get in New York," she
added quickly, seized with a sudden anxiety. "Just as like as not,
now, he never got a bit of my letter, and won't be there to get me!"
"Do you know where your son lives?"
"Oh, yes, I've got it on a piece of paper, the street and the number;
but bless your heart, I shouldn't know whether to go up, or down, or
across."
Just the shadow of a smile flitted over her friend's face as the
thought of the poor old lady, trying to make her way through the city
came to him. Then he hastened to reassure her.
"Then we are all right, whether he meets you or not; we can take a
carriage and drive there. I will see you safe at home before I leave
you."
This crowning act of kindness brought the tears.
"I don't know why you are so good to me," she said simply, "unless you
are the friend I prayed for to help me through this journey. If you
are, it's all right; God will see that you are paid for it."
And before Ester had done wondering over the singular quaintness of
this last remark there was a sudden triumphant shriek from the engine,
and a tremendous din, made up of a confusion of more sounds than
she had ever heard in her life before; then all was hurry and bustle
around her, and she suddenly awakened to the fact that as soon as they
had crossed the ferry she would actually be in New York. Even then she
bethought herself to take a curious parting look at the oddly matched
couple who were carefully making their way through the crowd, and
wonder if she would ever see them again.
The next hour was made up of bewilderment to Ester. She had a confused
remembrance afterward of floating across a silver river in a palace;
of reaching a place where everybody screamed instead of talked, and
where all the bells were ringing for fire, or something else. She
looked eagerly about for her uncle, and saw at least fifty men who
resembled him, as she saw him last, about ten years ago. She fumbled
nervously for his address in her pocket-book, and gave Mr. Newton
a recipe for making mince pies instead; finally she found herself
tumbled in among cushions and driving right into carriages and carts
and people, who all got themselves mysteriously out of the way; down
streets that she thought must surely be the ones that the bells
were ringing for, as they were all ablaze. It had been arranged that
Ester's escort should see her safely set down at her uncle's door,
as she had been unable to state the precise time of her arrival; and
besides, as she was an entire stranger to her uncle's family, they
could not determine any convenient plan for meeting each other at the
depot. So Ester was whirled through the streets at a dizzying rate,
and, with eyes and ears filled with bewildering sights and sounds, was
finally deposited before a great building, aglow with gas and gleaming
with marble. Mr. Newton rang the bell, and Ester, making confused
adieus to him, was meantime ushered into a hall looking not unlike
Judge Warren's best parlor. A sense of awe, not unmixed with
loneliness and almost terror, stole over her as the man who opened the
door stood waiting, after a civil--"Whom do you wish to see, and what
name shall I send up?"
"Whom _did_ she wish to see, and what _was_ her name, anyway. Could
this be her uncle's house? Did she want to see any of them?" She felt
half afraid of them all. Suddenly the dignity and grandeur seemed
to melt into gentleness before her, as the tiniest of little women
appeared and a bright, young voice broke into hearty welcome:
"Is this really my cousin Ester? And so you have come! How perfectly
splendid. Where is Mr. Newton? Gone? Why, John, you ought to have
smuggled him in to dinner. We are _so_ much obliged to him for taking
care of _you_. John, send those trunks up to my room. You'll room with
me, Ester, won't you? Mother thought I ought to put you in solitary
state in a spare chamber, but I couldn't. You see I have been so many
years waiting for you, that now I want you every bit of the time."
All this while she was giving her loving little pats and kisses, on
their way up stairs, whither she at once carried the traveler. Such a
perfect gem of a room as that was into which she was ushered. Ester's
love of beauty seemed likely to be fully gratified; she cast one eager
glance around her, took in all the charming little details in a second
of time, and then gave her undivided attention to this wonderful
person before her who certainly was, in veritable flesh and blood, the
much-dreamed over, much-longed for Cousin Abbie. A hundred times had
Ester painted her portrait--tall and dark and grand, with a perfectly
regal form and queenly air, hair black as midnight, coiled in heavy
masses around her head, eyes blacker if possible than her hair. As to
dress, it was very difficult to determine; sometimes it was velvet and
diamonds, or, if the season would not possibly admit of that, then a
rich, dark silk, never, by any chance, a material lighter than silk.
This had been her picture. Now she could not suppress a laugh as
she noted the contrast between it and the original. She was even two
inches shorter than Ester herself, with a manner much more like a
fairy's than a queen's; instead of heavy coils of black hair, there
were little rings of brown curls clustering around a fair, pale
forehead, and continually peeping over into the bluest of eyes; then
her dress was the softest and quietest of muslins, with a pale-blue
tint. Ester's softly laugh chimed merrily; she turned quickly.
"Now have you found something to laugh at in me already?" she said
gleefully.
"Why," said Ester, forgetting to be startled over the idea that she
should laugh at Cousin Abbie, "I'm only laughing to think how totally
different you are from your picture."
"From my picture!"
"Yes, the one which I had drawn of you in my own mind. I thought you
were tall, and had black hair, and dressed in silks, like a grand
lady."
Abbie laughed again.
"Don't condemn me to silks in such weather as this, at least," she
said gaily. "Mother thinks I am barbarous to summon friends to the
city in August; but the circumstances are such that it could not well
be avoided. So put on your coolest dress, and be as comfortable as
possible."
This question of how she should appear on this first evening had been
one of Ester's puzzles; it would hardly do to don her blue silk at
once, and she had almost decided to choose the black one; but Abbie's
laugh and shrug of the shoulder had settled the question of silks. So
now she stood in confused indecision before her open trunk.
Abbie came to the rescue.
"Shall I help you?" she said, coming forward "I'll not ring for Maggie
to-night, but be waiting maid myself. Suppose I hang up some of these
dresses? And which shall I leave for you? This looks the coolest," and
she held up to Ester's view the pink and white muslin which did duty
as an afternoon dress at home.
"Well," said Ester, with a relieved smile, "I'll take that."
And she thought within her heart: "They are not so grand after all."
Presently they went down to dinner, and in view of the splendor of the
dining-room, and sparkle of gas and the glitter of silver, she changed
her mind again and thought them very grand indeed.
Her uncle's greeting was very cordial; and though Ester found it
impossible to realize that her Aunt Helen was actually three years
older than her own mother, or indeed that she was a middle-aged lady
at all, so very bright and gay and altogether unsuitable did her
attire appear; yet on the whole she enjoyed the first two hours of her
visit very much, and surprised and delighted herself at the ease with
which she slipped into the many new ways which she saw around her.
Only once did she find herself very much confused; to her great
astonishment and dismay she was served with a glass of wine. Now
Ester, among the stanch temperance friends with whom she had hitherto
passed her life, had met with no such trial of her temperance
principles, which she supposed were sound and strong; yet here she
was at her uncle's table, sitting near her aunt, who was contentedly
sipping from her glass. Would it be proper, under the circumstances,
to refuse? Yet would it be proper to do violence to her sense of
right?
Ester had no pledge to break, except the pledge with her own
conscience; and it is most sadly true that that sort of pledge does
not seem to be so very binding in the estimation of some people. So
Ester sat and toyed with hers, and came to the very unwarrantable
conclusion that what her uncle offered for her entertainment it
must be proper for her to take! Do Ester's good sense the justice of
understanding that she didn't believe any such thing; that she knew it
was her own conscience by which she was to be judged, not her uncle's;
that such smooth-sounding arguments honestly meant that whatever her
uncle offered for her entertainment she had not the moral courage to
refuse. So she raised the dainty wine-glass to her lips, and never
once bethought herself to look at Abbie and notice how the color
mounted and deepened on her face, nor how her glass remained untouched
beside her plate. On the whole Ester was glad when all the bewildering
ceremony of the dinner was concluded, and she, on the strength of her
being wearied with her journey, was permitted to retire with Abbie to
their room.