AUNT ESTHER'S TROUBLE.—THE LAMP IN THE WINDOW.
AUNT ESTHER was troubled. Evening was falling, and the dwarf had not
returned. A score of times had she peered anxiously from the cabin
window, a score of times donned sun-bonnet with assumed carelessness,
and repaired to the gentle eminence beyond the stable, and shading her
eyes with her neat hand, scanned the landscape.
She had hoped he would not have so far to go but that he would be back
by dark, at the farthest. She blamed herself bitterly for consenting to
so ventursome a project. What if Simmons should chance to detect the
pursuit, the dwarf fall sick, or be torn by prowling beasts, or get
lost! The last thought sent a deathly pallor to her cheeks.
And now the family were wondering at his absence. How would they regard
her when it transpired that she was secretly a party to it?
A clandestine enterprise, even when entirely defensible, indeed
praiseworthy, if it lacks success, is apt to react against those
concerned in it. That aunt Esther's motives were every way what
they should be, in fitting off the dwarf, is entirely apparent. But
would Mrs. Willard appreciate them?—Especially if the dwarf met with
misfortune in his singular and hazardous undertaking? And a woman will
rarely excuse it if not counted in, in a secret where her husband or
children are involved.
True, it was necessary—or appeared so—that the confiding Mrs. Willard
should remain ignorant of the proceedings against Mr. Simmons; for if
she were informed, she would most certainly inform him and what then? A
knave would have them at his fingers' ends. Nevertheless, Mrs. Willard
could not see this, for she trusted Mr. Simmons. What defence, then,
could poor aunt Esther offer, should the lad miscarry in his schemes?
"Where can Frankie be!" the mother repeated.
The exclamation set aunt Esther trembling.
Supper was eaten, the dishes washed,—save the absent one's unsoiled
plate and cup,—the candle lighted, and no Frankie.
Aunt Esther, unable to bear the tumult in her own breast, walked about
on the moon-lit grass, longing, O, so much, that the distorted, though
ever dear form of the Hunchback would appear, and she be spared the
pain of telling his mother the cause of his tarrying.
But there was no alternative, and ever resolute in duty, she went in,
and laying her hand in her sister's, she said,—
"I must tell you all. Frankie, I fear, will not be here to-night—he
mentioned that he 'might' not when he went away."
"Went away!" repeated Mrs. Willard, dropping the sock she was darning.
"Went away! Where?"
She related all the circumstances.
"You and Frankie are both crazy!" exclaimed the mother, deeply
agitated. "That poor, weak, wee thing following a person of Mr.
Simmons's strength across the pathless prairies! You've lost your wits,
Esther! And keeping it hidden from his mother, too! It's wicked for a
child not to confide in its mother. He had no right to leave, and not
let me know it. You have encouraged him to deceive the best friend and
the safest counsellor he has in the world; and what will come of it God
alone can foresee. How could you be so foolish and cruel, Esther?"
Esther sobbed as the mother wept.
What could she say? She intended it nobly, heroically, at serious
cost to her own affections. She deemed it a resistless necessity. But
now that Frankie did not return, and while witnessing the parent's
grief, and listening to her arguments and accusations, so sharp-edged,
touching, and vehement, she forgot the real reasons for her partnership
in the affair, and came to view herself as heartless, weak, and sinful
in the extreme.
Besides, she was instinctively aware that this new sorrow had unsealed
anew that other; and that the bereaved wife and mother now mourned a
double loss.
Mrs. Willard arose, lighted a second candle, and placed it in the
window. And that night, aunt Esther saw her frequently rise and trim it
that the blaze might be steady and strong. And each succeeding night,
the flame of that friendly lamp, kept bright by the vigilant watcher,
shone on the velvet grass, and gleamed far over the unbeaten waste.
"He may come home, belated," said she.
When Frank had been gone four days, there was one evening, a welcome
arrival at the Willard cabin. A clerical-looking gentleman rode up, and
introduced himself as Mr. Parsons, the missionary at L—. He apologized
for calling at that hour, by mentioning that young Jones had informed
him about the family, and desired that their whereabouts might be
ascertained; but he had had some difficulty in finding them.
Besides, he said, he had a little errand to do for Mr. Cowles, on
behalf of a Mr. Swallow.
"It appears," explained the missionary, "that the latter had a horse
stolen from him, and our storekeeper, having reasons to suspect that
the missing animal is about your premises, has commissioned me, if I
find the beast, to take him along with me."
Then drawing Mr. Swallow's advertisement from his pocket, he read it
aloud.
"Why," cried Georgie, in amazement, "Mr. Simmons's horse is exactly
like that!"
Ferdie ran to the stable, and with marvellous quickness rode the horse
to the door, and the Willards, with their reverend caller, carefully
compared the animal with the printed description. The clergyman was
satisfied that it was the stolen horse.
"What is your opinion, ladies? And yours, my lads?"
"It must be the one," gasped astonished Mrs. Willard.
"It is, and no mistake," echoed the brothers.
"Mr. Swallow has authorized Mr. Cowles to pay the person recovering
the animal," observed the minister, "the amount offered as reward. The
money is in my charge. Where is the lad who brought the information to
Mr. Cowles?"
"Do you mean Frankie?" eagerly asked aunt Esther.
"He was somewhat deformed, the grocer said, but he didn't learn his
name."
"It is—it is Frankie. Can you tell me, sir, where he is?" cried the
mother.
"Is he not here?" counting the bills into Mrs. Willard's hand. "He left
our village next day, promising to bring the horse on Thursday. And as
he did not come, and Mr. Swallow was in a hurry to reclaim the animal,
I hunted you up, as you perceive."
"Then Frankie has perished on the prairies," exclaimed the mother,
sinking into a seat, faint and trembling.
"My good woman," gently exhorted the minister, "do not too hastily
abandon hope. Persons frequently go astray on the prairies, and long
afterwards return alive and well. Some out of the way cabin may have
given shelter to your boy. I will rouse the settlers, and diligent
search shall be instituted.
"And now, if you can stow me away in a corner—no matter where—till
morning, I will not try to go home in the darkness."
Mr. Parson's visit was timely and comforting.
"I cannot infer," said he to Mrs. Willard, "that your Frankie is
hopelessly lost. It was an eminently worthy and courageous deed that
he left you to accomplish, and I have lived long enough to know that a
kind Providence is intimately concerned in the interests of such heroic
and self-denying persons. And his bodily infirmity would serve to
attract to him the special care of God. How is it with yourself, madam?
Is your 'afflicted' son less dear than the two well-formed boys before
me? Do not the weakness and deformity of the other elicit from you a
peculiar tenderness? And is Frankie's heavenly Parent less loving and
considerate than you?"
"Frankie was very brave and disinterested in undertaking such an
enterprise," observed aunt Esther.
"Nobly so," answered the minister, "and that fact gives me a pleasing
assurance of his ultimate success. When the young engage in such
services, they usually come out splendidly."
"Did you do such things when you were a boy?" asked Georgie.
"I did not live on the prairie then," he smilingly replied, "and
therefore had no occasion, like your brother, to chase a scoundrel
across one. I dwelt in a crowded city, and had no call to such a
peculiar mission."
At this point, Mrs. Willard handed a Bible to her visitor, and reading
a cheerful Psalm of trust, he knelt down, and fervently prayed for the
little household, not forgetting the two mysteriously missing members.
His words were like "apples of old in pictures of silver" to the
afflicted household.
And as Mrs. Willard bade him good night, her radiant face reflected her
inward peace.