Esther Part 28

"Yes, indeed, I have a great respect for Aunt Podgill," put in Allan; and I thought his voice was rather curious, and there was a repressed mirthful gleam in his eyes, and all the time mother went on crying.

"Oh, my dear," she sobbed at last, "I am very foolish to be so overcome; but if it had only come in Frank's--in your father's time, it might--it might have saved him;" and here she broke down.

"Ah, to be sure, poor thing!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Uncle Geoffrey in a sympathizing tone; "that is what is troubling her; but you must cheer up, Dora, for, as I have always told you, Frank was never meant to be a long-lived man."

"What are you all talking about?" I burst out, with vexed impatience. "What has Mrs. Podgill's death to do with father? and why is mother crying? and what makes you all so mysterious and tiresome?"

for I was exasperated at the incongruity between mother's tears and Allan's amused face.

"Tell her," gasped out mother: and Uncle Geoffrey, clearing his voice, proceeded to be spokesman, only Allan interrupted him at every word.

"Why, you see, child, your mother is just a little upset at receiving some good news--"

"Battling good news," put in Allan.

"It is natural for her, poor thing! to think of your father; but we tell her that if he had been alive things would have shaped themselves differently--"

"Of course they would," from that tiresome Allan.

"Aunt Podgill, being a cantankerous--I mean a prejudiced--person, would never have forgotten her grudge against your father; but as in our last moments 'conscience makes cowards of us all,' as Shakespeare has it"--Uncle Geoffrey always quoted Shakespeare when he was agitated, and Allan said, "Hear, hear!" softly under his breath--"she could not forget the natural claims of blood; and so, my dear,"

clearing his throat a little more, "she has left all her little fortune to your mother; and a pretty little penny it is, close upon seven hundred a year, and the furniture besides."

"Uncle Geoffrey!" now it was my turn to gasp. Jack and Dot burst out laughing at my astonished face; only Dot squeezed my hand, and whispered, "Isn't it splendid, Essie?" Mother looked at me tearfully.

"It is for your sakes I am glad, that my darling girls may not have to work. Carrie can have every comfort now; and you can stay with us, Esther, and we need not be divided any longer."

"Hurrah," shouted Dot, waving his spoon over his head; but I only kissed mother without speaking; a strange, unaccountable feeling prevented me. If we were rich--or rather if we had this independence --I must not go on teaching Flurry; my duty was at home with mother and Carrie.

I could have beaten myself for my selfishness; but it was true.

Humiliating as it is to confess it, my first feeling was regret that my happy days at the Cedars were over.

"You do not seem pleased," observed Allan, shrewdly, as he watched me.

"I am so profoundly astonished that I am not capable of feeling," I returned hastily; but I blushed a little guiltily.

"It is almost too good to believe," he returned. "I never liked the idea of you and Carrie doing anything, and yet it could not be helped; so now you will all be able to stay at home and enjoy yourselves."

Mother brightened up visibly at this.

"That will be nice, will it not, Esther? And Dot can have his lessons with you as usual. I was so afraid that Miss Ruth would want you back soon, and that Carrie would be dull. How good of your Aunt Podgill to make us all so happy! And if it were not for your father--"

and here the dear soul had recourse to her handkerchief again.

If I was silent, no one noticed it; every one was so eager in detailing his or her plans for the future. It was quite a relief when the lengthy breakfast was over, and I was free to go and tell Carrie; somehow in the general excitement no one thought of her. I reproached myself still more for my selfishness, and called myself all manner of hard names when I saw the glow of pleasure on her pale face.

"Oh, Esther, how nice! How pleased dear mother must be! Now we shall have you all to ourselves, and you need not be spending all your days away from us."

How strange! Carrie knew of my warm affection for Ruth and Flurry, and yet it never occurred to her that I should miss my daily intercourse with them. It struck me then how often our nearest and dearest misunderstand or fail to enter into our feelings.

The thought recurred to me more than once that morning when I sat at my work listening to the discussion between her and mother. Carrie seemed a different creature that day; the wonderful news had lifted her out of herself, and she rejoiced so fully and heartily in our good fortune that I was still more ashamed of myself, and yet I was glad too.

"It seems so wonderful to me, mother," Carrie was saying, in her sweet serious way, "that just when I was laid by, and unable to keep myself or any one else, that this provision should be made for us."

"Yes, indeed; and then there is Dot, too, who will never be able to work," observed mother.

It was lucky Dot did not hear her, or we might have had a reproachful _resume_ of his artistic intentions.

"Dear mother, you need not be anxious any longer over the fortune of your two cripples," returned Carrie, tenderly. "I shall not feel so much a burthen now; and then we shall have Esther to look after us."

And they both looked at me in a pleased, affectionate way. What could I do but put down my work and join in that innocent, loving talk?

At our early dinner that day Allan seemed a little preoccupied and silent, but toward the close of the meal he addressed me in his off-hand fashion.

"I want you to come out with me this afternoon; mother can look after Carrie."

"It is a half holiday; may I come too?" added Jack, coaxingly.

"Wait till you are asked, Miss Jacky," retorted Allan good-humoredly.

"No, I don't want your ladyship's company this afternoon; I must have Esther to myself." And though Jack grumbled and looked discontented, he would not change his decision.

I had made up my mind to see Ruth, and tell her all about it; but it never entered my head to dispute Allan's will if he wanted me to walk with him. I must give up Ruth, that was all; and I hurried to put on my things, that I might not keep him waiting, as he possessed his full share of masculine impatience.

I thought that he had some plan to propose to me, but to my surprise he only talked about the most trivial subjects--the weather, the state of the roads, the prospects of skating.

"Where are we going?" I asked at last, for we were pa.s.sing the Cedars, and Allan rarely walked in that direction; but perhaps he had a patient to see.

"Only to Eltham Green," he returned briefly.

The answer was puzzling. Eltham Green was half a mile from the Cedars, and there was only one house there, beside a few scattered cottages; and I knew Uncle Geoffrey's patient, Mr. Anthony Lambert, who lived there, had died about a month ago.

As Allan did not seem disposed to be communicative, I let the matter rest, and held my peace; and a few minutes quick walking brought us to the place.

It was a little common, very wild and tangled with gorse, and in summer very picturesque. Some elms bordered the road, and there was a large clear-looking pond, and flocks of geese would waddle over the common, hissing and thrusting out their yellow bills to every pa.s.ser-by.

The cottages were pretty and rustic-looking, and had gay little gardens in front. They belonged to Mr. Lucas; and Eltham Cottage, as Mr. Lambert's house was called, was his property also.

Flurry and I had always been very fond of the common, where Flossy had often run barking round the pond, after a family of yellow ducklings.

"Eltham Cottage is still to let," I observed, looking up at the board; "it is such a pretty house"

Allan made no response to that, but bade me enter, as he wanted to look at it.

It was a long, two-storied cottage, with a veranda all round it, and in summer a profusion of flowers--roses and clematis, and a splendid pa.s.sionflower--twined round the pillars and covered the porch.

The woman who admitted us ushered us into a charming little hall, with a painted window and a gla.s.s door opening on to the lawn. There was a small room on one side of it, and on the other the dining room and drawing-room. The last was a very long, pleasant room, with three windows, all opening French fashion on to the veranda, and another gla.s.s door leading into a pretty little conservatory.

The garden was small, but very tastefully laid out; but there was a southern wall, where peaches and nectarines were grown, and beehives stood, and some pretty winding walks, which led to snug nooks, where ferns or violets were hidden.

"What a sweet place!" I exclaimed, admiringly, at which Allan looked exultant; but he only bade me follow him into the upper rooms.

These were satisfactory in every respect. Some were of sunny aspect, and looked over the garden and some large park-like meadows; the front ones commanded the common.