Poppy's boldness vanished when it came to going downstairs, and, though she had been ready so long, she waited for Esther after all. So did the others; they all felt rather shy at meeting Miss Charlotte again.
In the breakfast-room they found their cousin sitting at the table with some books before her. She looked up and smiled brightly when they entered, and beckoning to them, drew each in turn to her for a morning kiss. A quite unusual beginning to their day.
"Now, darlings," she said, "will you find seats for yourselves for prayers?"
The request startled them. They had never before heard of such a proceeding; but Esther, quickly recovering herself, tried to appear as though she were used to everything, though, with Poppy looking at her with such interested, astonished eyes, it was difficult.
"I've said mine," whispered Poppy, in rather an injured tone. Esther looked at her warningly. "Yes, I know, but Cousin Charlotte hasn't, and—and this is different. Lots of people do this. Sit there, and don't talk."
Poppy obeyed. Anything that her sisters approved was right, in her judgment. Penelope seated herself by the window, Angela on a little chair by the empty hearth, a grave, devout look on her pretty face. Then Anna came in, and Miss Ashe opened the Bible and read. She read only a few verses, but they were such as would appeal to the hearts of children. Then she closed the book and knelt down; at a sign from Esther they all knelt too, and Miss Ashe asked God's blessing on this new day and their new life, and thanked Him for His care and love, after which she began to repeat the Lord's Prayer.
"Oh, I know that," exclaimed Poppy delightedly. She repeated the prayer sentence by sentence; Anna did the same, and Esther and the others joined in; and to Esther, at least, as the sacred words were spoken, the whole world seemed to alter. The worry and irritability, the dread of she knew not what, all slipped away from her; and life seemed brighter and happier, and full of good things.
"What a lovely way to begin a day," she thought. "I hope we always have prayers. She got up and helped Poppy to her feet, and, after a moment or two, they all drew up to the table. Poppy looked about her with frank interested eyes.
"Oh,whata lovely breakfast!" she sighed, apparently overwhelmed by the loveliness, and every one was obliged to laugh. It was what they were all thinking, but the elder ones did not like to put their thoughts into words. Yet it was a simple enough meal; but the clean white cloth and shining silver, the flowers and fruit, and the dainty neatness of everything made it seem perfectly beautiful to little people accustomed to Lydia's untidy, careless ways, to soiled and ragged cloths, badly washed silver and dirty knives, and food put down anyhow, and often not enough of it. This was what Esther had always instinctively yearned for; to the others it came as a surprise.
"I've been thinking, children," said Cousin Charlotte—who had indeed been lying awake half the night, realising for the first time all she had undertaken, and trying to grasp all her duties. "I have been thinking you had better perhaps have a few days' holiday to begin with, so as to get accustomed to your new surroundings, and then by and by we must begin to think about lessons. I am expecting to hear from your mother or father as to their views on the subject of your education. I expect they are anxious that you two elder ones should go to a good school at once. And that is one of my greatest difficulties, and the greatest drawback to your coming here, for there is no good school within reach, and I am puzzled to know what to do. It is so important that you should have every advantage now."
Esther's heart sank, for Cousin Charlotte's sake as much as anything. She knew as well as possible that Cousin Charlotte would have to settle this matter for herself, and bear the responsibility entirely. She knew, too, that the importance of it appealed as little to her mother as it did greatly to her cousin. Mrs. Carroll was one of those happy-go-lucky persons, so difficult to deal with, who think that 'sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' and 'the future will take care of itself,' so what is the use of worrying—something is sure to turn up, and everything will turn out right, somehow.
It never occurred to her that her four children's future depended almost entirely on the education given them now; or to ponder what, poor and ill-educated, their future would be.
"Oh, something will be sure to happen," she would have answered. "What is the use of planning, no one knows what the future may bring." Miss Ashe's idea, on the other hand, was that with a good education any child had, at any rate, one strong weapon with which to fight her way.
At Dorsham the post did not come in until ten o'clock, so that there was no correspondence to discuss over the breakfast-table. Not that the children expected any letters; they had never received one in their lives.
Breakfast over, Miss Ashe was a little at a loss to know what to do with her charges; her life had suddenly become so changed and complicated, that the little lady had difficulty in grappling with it all at once. "I think you may like to go out and look about you," she said at last. "You can come to no harm, I am sure, if you keep away from the river. You may play in the garden, or wander on the moor a little way. But if you go beyond the garden, take Guard with you; he will be a companion and protector. Don't go very far, dears; I want you all to come back at eleven for some milk and biscuits."
The children were enchanted. This was a happy life indeed! As quickly as ever they could they got on hats and boots and started. They had never a doubt as to where they would go. The garden was very nice, but the moor! —a heaven-sent playground, miles of freedom, and all to themselves. The thought of having to return at eleven was the only thing that marred their perfect joy; they felt they wanted to have the whole long day before them to cover all the ground and make all the discoveries they wanted to. Guard, a proud and delighted protector, rushed about as excitedly as any of them. The new interest that had come into his life promised to be all that he could desire.
"I do want to get to the very top of that mountain," said Penelope, gazing earnestly at what was really a very modest hill, and apparently at no great distance from them.
"Well, let's," said Esther encouragingly, "it can't be very far away," and off they started. But the grey tor seemed to possess the power of gliding backwards, and the more the children walked, the further it seemed to recede; until at last, when, on scaling what they thought was the last height, they saw still a long stretch of moorland before them, with more deceptive dips and rises, they gave in and postponed their climb for another day. Moor air has a way of increasing the appetite at an alarming rate.
"I am afraid it must be past eleven," said Esther as they gave up the quest, and sat down to rest before turning homewards. "I wish I had put on my watch; but I was afraid of losing it."
Esther had a silver watch of her very own, one she had earned for herself. She had won it as a prize in a competition offered by a magazine the children took in. Her success had come as a surprise to them all, but most of all to herself, and the proudest moment of her life had been that when a carefully sealed-up jeweller's box had come directed to 'Miss E. J. Carroll,' and she had lifted out her prize under the admiring eyes of Lydia and the children, and the astonished gaze of her mother.
Mrs. Carroll was doubly astonished, firstly because she had not considered Esther capable, secondly because she had not grasped the fact that Esther was really seriously competing; but when she saw this proof of her labours, she made her a present of a pretty silver chain, with two little silver tassels at the end, and Esther's cup of joy overflowed.
From that moment she would have bodices to her frocks that buttoned up in front, that she might pass the little silver bar through the buttonhole; and she set herself to make watch-pockets in all her skirts, which she managed by cutting slits in them just below the waistband, and sewing to the slits on the inside little pockets like small bag purses. Lydia showed her how to do it; and if the work was somewhat rough, and not quite finished, the pocket answered very well, and we cannot all reach perfection at once.
But at this moment the precious watch stood on the mantelpiece in the blue bedroom, on the watch-stand which was another of Esther's treasures. Lydia had given it to her on one of her birthdays; it was made of white wood, and had a little view on it of Blackpool, where Lydia had been spending her holidays. In her shabby, ugly bedroom at home Esther had not used her precious stand, it was all too dusty and ill-cared for; but here, where everything was so nice, it was to be given a prominent position.
When the children got home at last, tired and very hungry, they found four mugs of milk awaiting them, and a tin of biscuits; they found also that the postman had been with letters. There were none for them; but they never expected any, and postmen and posts held little interest for them as a rule. To-day, though, it had brought them something.
"I have heard from your mother, dears," said Cousin Charlotte, "and she sends you her love, and hopes you have arrived safely."
"Oh, we ought to let her know," cried Penelope, with sudden remorse that they had none of them thought of doing so before.
"It is all right," said Miss Charlotte consolingly. "I sent her a telegram last evening, after you came. She knew before Poppy went to bed. Ephraim took it to Gorley for me. Oh, you don't know Ephraim yet, do you? He is our handyman. He attends to the garden, and the poultry, and does all kinds of useful things. But, of course, you want to hear about your mother, more than about Ephraim. Well, dears, I cannot tell you much, for I have broken my glasses and cannot read very well. I was waiting for Esther to come home and be my eyes for me for once. I did make out, though, that she is very busy, and leaves Framley to-morrow. No, dear," to Esther, "I won't ask you to read it now. We will wait till you have had your lunch. I expect you are all hungry, and there is no great hurry."
Their milk and biscuits disposed of, Penelope and the two younger ones sauntered away to the garden. Esther waited. Miss Charlotte took Mrs. Carroll's letter from a little pile, and handed it to her. Esther, who was burning with impatience to know if her mother wrote of those things that were troubling her, began to read at once:
"DEAREST COUSIN CHARLOTTE,
"It ismorethan good of you to have my four poor children and give them ahome. They will be ashappyas possible with you, Iknow. I expect by this time they have reached you. To come to thebusinesspart of our plan, which I knowyou dislikeas much asIdo, I amverythankful you can keep them, clothe and educate them, for the hundred and fifty pounds a year. Their clothes need cost butvery little; after all, it does not much matter whatchildrenwear in a country place."
"I have my friends here," Miss Charlotte was thinking, "and I cannot let my little cousins run about dressed like little tramps."
"While as for theireducation, we need only think of Esther and Penelopeyet, and theirs must be of thesimplest; it matters so muchlessforgirlsthan forboys."
"Oh dear, oh dear," thought Miss Charlotte, "what a mistaken notion!"
"Ronaldhopesto send more when the children are a little older. Oh, thisdreadfulwant of money! I have been nearlydistractedto know what to do.Doyou mind, dear Cousin Charlotte, if I do not send you the cheque for this quarter till later on, but keep it for my own needs, which aresourgent? Ihaveto getsomuch for my outfit, and somanythings besides, I find I have not nearly enough money for it all. Ihopeyou do not mind. I am up tomy eyesin work, turning out the house and packing; and to-morrow I go to stay with friends in the North. I think the change willbraceme up for the journey;I sadly needit.
"My love to the chicks and to yourself.
"Your affectionate cousin," "MAUDE CARROLL."
For a moment Esther could not lift her eyes from the sheet, they were too full of bitter tears of mortification. "Oh, why does mother always act like this," she was crying to herself, "and make people think unkind things of her? It is cruel of her, too, to leave us like this with a stranger, and not a penny to pay for it all."
Esther's heart burnt hot with shame as well as anger, for she knew instinctively that Miss Charlotte Ashe would never see one penny of that money. She knew, oh, she knew only too well! She had had six years' experience of debt and trouble and shame, of money being diverted from its destined use and frittered away and wasted, of tradesmen and servants continually asking for their money, their threatenings, and all the shifts and contrivances that had to be resorted to to get a little to satisfy them for the moment.
The cheque her father had intended for their needs would, she knew, be frittered away on useless, foolish things; and never, never would her mother be able to get together so large a sum again, for she would never tell her husband of the debt; she would not have the courage; it would mean 'a scene,' and she hated to be scolded. If Miss Charlotte worried and made continual demands, a sovereign or a few shillings might be sent to her now and again; but if she were too proud or too kind to ask, she would never have a penny of it. Esther knew, oh, how well she knew and understood it all; and how it hurt and humiliated and maddened her, as she realised their position! Helpless, penniless, homeless, four of them, and dependent on this gentle little lady, who was neither rich nor young, and could have no great love for them. They had no claim on her whatever. Esther could scarcely summon courage sufficient to look up; her shame and trouble burnt in her eyes and wrung her young heart. It was a bitter, bitter moment, how bitter Miss Charlotte had no conception, for she did not know all. But never, throughout the whole of her life, did Esther lose the memory of that scene, and the shame and misery which swamped her.
But, though she did not realise Esther's trouble, Miss Charlotte was greatly troubled too, for she had but a limited income, and to make it provide for six where it had only been expected to suffice for two was a matter that required some consideration, and when the extra four were but scantily supplied with clothes, and had to be provided with education too, the matter became very serious indeed.
But Miss Charlotte was not one to worry unduly. In the first place she had been accustomed all her life to facing difficulties, and in the second, she had too much faith to worry about things.
"The dear Lord has His own plans for us," she would say, "and He will guide us through if we only have faith and hope." She said it to herself now, as she tried to put troublesome thoughts into the background.
But poor Esther had as yet none of Miss Charlotte's faith. Troubles to the young appear so much more appalling than they do in later life, for they have no experience to look back upon and learn from.
Cousin Charlotte began to perceive, though, that Esther was very troubled too, seriously troubled. With quick intuition she divined something of what she was feeling, and her whole heart flew out in sympathy to the child.
"It will be all right, dear," she said, smiling cheerfully. "We shall do. Don't let the matter trouble you. We grown-ups will see to it all. Don't upset yourself, Esther dearest."
The kindness of her words and tone broke down Esther's last powers of restraint. "But—I can't help it—you didn't want us, you couldn't have, and—and here we are—so many, filling up your house, and—and costing so much, and—and—oh, Cousin Charlotte, I am so sorry. We must go away, go back, we can't stay here—" Esther's voice and manner grew almost hysterical.
"Oh, but, dear, you must stay,please," pleaded Cousin Charlotte gently. "You would not go away and leave me lonely again, would you, and upset all my plans and my pleasure, would you? Don't you know that it is a very great pleasure to me to have you? It is," seeing Esther's look of incredulity, "I assure you. I love girls of all ages, and I have missed them terribly here. Never let such a thought trouble you again. After all, dear, I could not expect to have the money in advance. I might, you know," smiling, "take it and spend it on myself, and pack you all up and set you adrift if I had it beforehand. Every one has to earn their money before they get it. It is about your education and Penelope's that I am troubled most. Your mother does not mention it. I wanted to send you to a good school, but if I did it would cost the whole of the money your father is able to spare for you all, and I think I am hardly justified in running him into so much expense. I would gladly put out the money—"
"Oh no, please, you mustn't," cried Esther eagerly. "Please don't, Cousin Charlotte, you mustn't think of it." Again Cousin Charlotte was perplexed by her very real distress. "I will teach myself and the others if I can only have some books, but it mustn't cost you anything."
Miss Ashe would not allow a glimmer of a smile to show in her face or eyes. "Well, dear," she said gravely, "we will think about it and have another talk. We cannot settle such a big question in a moment, can we? At any rate, if you cannot manage the teaching you can help me in other ways."
"How?" asked Esther eagerly, her whole face brightening. "Oh, I do so want to help."
But at that moment Anna came in to say Miss Ashe was wanted, and the conversation had to end.
"Run out and amuse yourself now, dear, and keep an eye on the others," said Miss Charlotte, laying a gentle hand on Esther's shoulder with a little caressing touch. "I am afraid I am leaving the care of them very much to you, but we shall settle down in time. I hoped to have got another maid; but well, Anna has lived so long alone now it is a little difficult to find any one she would live with happily. I want a girl, too, who would not require high wages. Now run along, dear. I hear Poppy calling to you," and with the same Miss Charlotte bustled away, and Esther was left alone.
"Girls," said Esther solemnly, as she hurried down the garden to where they were sitting, "I've got a lot to talk about. Let's go somewhere where we can be quiet."
There was a door in one wall of the garden, which led out directly on to the moor. Penelope had already discovered this, and at once led her sisters through it. At no great distance up the slope was a large group of rocks, which afforded them seats and shelter; it had other advantages, too, for from it they could look along the winding road, or down on the river and the cottages. Here the four of them ensconced themselves, with Guard beside them, and the three looked eagerly at their eldest sister.
"What is it?" asked Penelope.
"It isn't bad news from mother, is it?" gasped Angela, with a frightened face.
Esther sat looking very grave and absorbed, yet eager. "There is so much to say I hardly know where to begin," she said at last, and the excitement of the others increased.
"Begin anywhere," urged Poppy, who was not noted for her patience, and the others echoed her suggestion.
Methodical Esther, though, began at the beginning, and at great length told her story. The others listened with interest, but only Angela sympathised with Esther entirely. Penelope and Poppy were impressed, but they did not feel her peculiar horror of the situation as Angela did, nor her sensitive pride and shame. They grew more alert, though, when she, having finished her story of the letter, said gravely, "Girls, we've all got to do something, and I'll tell you what we've got to do."
"What?" they demanded in one breath.
"Well, we've got to save Cousin Charlotte all we can, and not cost a penny more than we can help."
"Must I only eat a very little teeny tiny bit?" asked Poppy gravely.
Esther laughed.
"Oh no, dear, you must eat as much as you want, or Cousin Charlotte will be angry. But we must manage so that she won't have to have another servant, and if we all help Anna and do a lot of the work, I don't think she need. We managed with only Lydia at home. But what I want most of all is to try and earn some money so as to be able to give it to Cousin Charlotte for what we cost her. But I can't think ofanyway, can you? Do let's try and think of something," she ended anxiously. "I am sure I would if I only knew how. I wish we weren't all so small."
"I saw a littler girl than me selling bootlaces once," said Poppy eagerly. "I could do that."
They all laughed, and the laugh inspirited them; the four faces grew bright and eager, the four brains went to work busily, and the maddest, wildest schemes chased each other through those little heads.
At dinner Miss Ashe was struck by the air of gravity which hung over them. She feared they must be tired or homesick, or suffering from the change of air, and grew quite troubled. They disclaimed all three when questioned, and spoke quite cheerfully when spoken to, and apparently were quite well; it seemed to be more an abstraction that enveloped them than depression.
Poppy at last gave a clue to their feelings. "We are finding," she said, looking at Miss Charlotte, as though she felt some explanation were necessary; but catching Esther's warning glance she said no more.
"We must not let Cousin Charlotte know," Esther had said. "She is so kind she would not like us to worry, so we won't say anything about it to her if we can help."
"We'll s'prise her," Poppy had cried gleefully; so, catching Esther's eye, she remembered, and grew silent again, leaving Cousin Charlotte more puzzled than ever.
"I wonder," said Miss Charlotte, as they rose from the table, "I wonder if you children would mind going to Mrs. Bennett's for me for some rice. Anna tells me she has run out of it. You haven't seen our shops yet, have you?"
"Shops! Oh no, we didn't know there were any." And off they ran delightedly and put on their hats at once. Esther took her purse with her too. She wanted to change the sovereign; she was so dreadfully afraid of losing it, and several silver and copper coins seemed safer than one small gold one.
Mrs. Bennett's shop was not difficult to find. Just beyond Miss Ashe's house, round a bend in the road, they found themselves in what was called 'the street.' There were at least a dozen cottages close together; a little further on were two or three more, and up the hill were scattered others, at greater distances apart. The children were perfectly delighted. Here was life and interest in plenty, and Moor Cottage was not so lonely as they had imagined.
The shops were in two of the first group of cottages they came to, and here was more delight—a perfect feast. Such fascinating windows they had, so full of all sorts of interesting things, and all at such reasonable prices too, or so it seemed to the children.
Mrs. Bennett's held groceries and drapery, and boots and writing-paper, kettles and saucepans, little china images and 'surprise' packets. Mrs. Vercoe's held ironmongery and drapery, and dolls and groceries, sweets and toys of various sorts, bread, cakes and books. Mrs. Bennett sold china too, and glass, some homely medicines, and hoops and thimbles and skipping-ropes. Mrs. Vercoe included cheese and bacon, rope and twine, and baskets.
Of the two they were most drawn to Mrs. Vercoe's. Her stock appealed to them more. But as they had been told to go to Mrs. Bennett, thither they went; and Mrs. Bennett, who kept the post office too, sold Esther some stamps and changed her sovereign for her, and while they gazed fascinated about her shop, she gazed at them with frank curiosity. But nothing she could say could draw them into conversation. For some reason, they could not have said what, they did not like her. It may have been that she 'talked fine,' as her neighbours said, and minced her words in a somewhat affected way, or that she seemed very inquisitive, or that her rather cold manner unconsciously offended them. The children could not have explained why it was, but fascinating though the shop was, they hurried away from it and crossed the road to Mrs. Vercoe's.
Mrs. Vercoe's window was certainly more enticing to them than Mrs. Bennett's. A prolonged and critical gaze showed them not only all the things already mentioned, but dear little rough red pitchers which would hold just half a pint, and a larger size which would hold a pint; packets of flower-seeds with gay pictures on the outside, and only a penny each; the pitchers were only a penny and twopence; there were the dearest little watering-cans too, and fancy handkerchiefs with a nursery rhyme round the border, and funny little books, with roughly done pictures in the brightest of colours, and money-boxes, some like little houses, others representing miniature letter-boxes.
Angela longed and longed for a pitcher. Poppy wanted a penny watering-can, painted bright red inside, and green out. Penelope wanted a book and some sweets, and Esther a money-box, that she might begin to save at once.
"Dolet's go inside," whispered Penelope. "There may be lots of other things inside."
"But wouldn't it look rude to come out of one shop and go right into another?" asked Esther, who was really as interested as Penelope.
"Can't we walk on a little way, and then on our way back go in as though we had just seen something we wanted?" suggested Angela, who was an adept at trying to spare people's feelings. "P'r'aps Mrs. Bennett won't be in her shop by that time."
They all agreed to this, and sauntered on with a simulated air of unconcern. They walked on past all the cottages, keeping to the wide granite road which led with many windings up and up a hill beyond the village. How far they went they had no idea, but by and by they heard a clock strike in the distance.
"I do believe we have come to a town, or something," said Penelope excitedly. "There isn't a church or a big clock in Dorsham, only a chapel. Let's go on and see."
But Esther checked her enthusiasm. "We had better not stay away too long, or Cousin Charlotte may be frightened, and we want to stop at Mrs. Vercoe's before we go home. Let's go there now, shall we?"
The suggestion was seconded with alacrity. But if they thought that their little manoeuvrings were going to blind Mrs. Bennett, or spare her feelings, they made a mistake. They had yet to learn that no single thing happened in Dorsham 'street,' no single person went up it or down, without the fact being known sooner or later—generally on the instant—to every dweller therein; and for four strangers, newly come to live in the place, to expect to escape notice was absurd.
The only result of their plan was to attract more attention to themselves; but of this they were happily unconscious, and once inside the little, low, dim, crowded place, their joy seemed unbounded. If Mrs. Bennett had repelled them, plump, jolly-looking Mrs. Vercoe, with her round rosy face and kindly, smiling eyes, attracted them at once.
"Well, my dears," she said warmly, "and what can I do for you to-day?"
There was a delicious smell of hot cake pervading the place, and Mrs. Vercoe herself had come out streaked with flour, and carrying a big black 'sheath' full of new currant cakes and buns.
"I—I hardly know," said Esther. "There are such lots of nice things here," she added politely. "Do you mind if we look about for a few minutes first?"
"Look about to your heart's content, my dear," she said genially. "Well, little missie," to Poppy, "'tis nice to see so many young ladies about Dorsham; 'tis what we ain't over-blessed with. I'm afraid you'll find it dull without any little companions; 'tis very quiet here, not that I'm complaining," she added hastily, afraid of seeming disloyal to her native place. "And what do 'ee think of our village?" she asked, seeing Penelope's eyes fixed interestedly on her. "Fine and lonely I reckon it looks to strangers, but 'tis airy," with a little laugh, "and bootiful air too. Makes 'ee hungry, I expect, missie, don't it? Could 'ee eat a new bun now?"
Penelope was about to decline, thinking it would be correct to do so, but her finer natural instinct told her that it might be politer to accept, and in response to Mrs. Vercoe's bidding she helped herself. The old dame delightedly invited them all to do the same. Angela and Poppy accepted; Esther held back with shy reluctance.
"Oh no, thank you," she said. "We are so many."
"Well, they'm only farden buns," said Mrs. Vercoe, with a little chuckle; "but p'r'aps you'd rather have one of these," and she held out to Esther an apple. Esther felt more embarrassed than ever. Mrs. Vercoe seemed to think she had declined the bun because she wanted something better.
"Oh no, thank you," she said, with a great effort. "I like the buns very much, but I am not hungry. We had dinner just before we came out."
Mrs. Vercoe laid the apple down without saying any more; but Esther thought she looked rather hurt, and felt that it would have been more tactful to have taken it. To break the awkward pause which followed, she plunged into business.
"Please how much each are those little pitchers?" she asked hastily.
"Tuppence, missie," said Mrs. Vercoe, as pleasantly as ever, to Esther's great relief. "And the littler ones are a penny."
"May I have one of the tiny ones?" whispered Angela eagerly.
"It was for you I wanted it," said Esther, who would have liked one for herself, too. "Aren't they dears!"
"I must look 'ee out a perfect one," said Mrs. Vercoe, tapping up one after another and rapping them with her knuckles. "They'm terrible things for getting chipped. There, I think those are all right."
Angela, in a high state of delight, chose the one she thought the prettiest. Poppy, meanwhile, was tugging at Esther's skirt. She had been very quiet for some time, absorbed in a boxful of the packets of flower-seeds, with gay pictures outside.
"Esther, may I have a packet of seeds? and one of those dear dinkey little watering-cans? May I, Essie? Do say 'yes,' please do."
Poppy was not only fascinated, but she was possessed by a sudden, brilliant idea which the packets of seeds had suggested. She could not rest until Esther had consented, and she could not keep from dancing with excitement as she bent over the box, trying to make a selection.
"Bless her pretty face," cried Mrs. Vercoe, much amused. The old lady was as delighted with her customers as though they were spending pounds instead of pennies. Penelope, meanwhile, was perched on a corner of a sugar-box, absorbed in one of the funny little books which were lying in a pile on the counter, and was quite oblivious of all that was going on around her.
Esther paid for Poppy's purchases. "And will you take for the book, too, please," she said, as she held out a shilling. "The book my sister is reading." She blushed as she spoke, for she was shocked at Penelope's behaviour.
But Mrs. Vercoe would not hear of it. "Why no, my dear; 'tisn't likely she'd be wanting to buy it now she mostly knows what's in it. You'd rather have another, wouldn't you, missie? and it don't make no manner of diff'rence to me."
Penelope looked up with a start, and blushed too, but an end to the discussion was put by Poppy, who came up very excitedly with a packet of parsley seed in her hand. It was not one of those with a picture on the outside, but a larger, plainer packet.
"Please, how much is this?" she asked eagerly.
"Ah, you wouldn't like that, dearie, that isn't pretty. It's parsley. Very good parsley it is, but it don't have no pretty flowers."
"I know," said Poppy, nodding her head vigorously. "How much does it cost?"
"A penny."
"Well, I'll take it, please, instead of the other," and she held out her hand for the packet as though she was afraid of having it wrested from her.
Mrs. Vercoe held it while her eyes searched Esther's face. It seemed to her such an extraordinary choice for a tiny child to make. She was reluctant to let her have it. "Hadn't she better have the one she chose first?" she asked anxiously. But Esther was accustomed to her sister's vagaries.
"No, thank you. I expect she would rather have this. Perhaps she thinks she gets more."
Poppy smiled, and pursed her lips, and hugged her secret to herself delightedly.
Then, having paid for Penelope's book, and bought some sweets for them all, Esther led her little troop out of the shop and home.
Miss Ashe was out when the children returned, so they strolled into the garden to amuse themselves as best they could. But the garden was too neat and well-tended to allow of much in the way of games, so very soon they wandered further, and escaped on to the moor, Penelope with her new book, Esther with another book and the sweets, Angela carrying her beloved pitcher. Guard followed them devotedly.
Poppy, though, decided to remain behind. She did not say so; nor did they, so busy were they with their plans, at first notice her absence.
Miss Ashe's garden was a large one. In Dorsham land was of little value, and one could have almost as much as one chose, if one took the trouble to enclose it. The Moor Cottage garden was large enough to allow of its being divided up into several small ones, the dividing being done chiefly to provide shelter from the storms which so often swept over the moor, though the strong stout walls provided excellent space for fruit-trees.
Poppy, when she saw she was alone, walked quickly from one part of the garden to another, looking about her eagerly, her watering-can in her hand, her packet of seeds in her pocket. No one else was about. Anna was in the kitchen, she heard her voice there, singing hymns; Ephraim, whom she was most afraid of meeting, was away, apparently. Probably he had gone to Gorley with Miss Charlotte's broken glasses. Having made quite sure that she had the place to herself, Poppy carefully deposited her can on the ground, and ran to a corner where she had seen some tools stacked. There were a spade, a large fork, a rake, and a little fork. Poppy seized the spade, but after she had struggled with it a few yards and tumbled down twice, she exchanged it for the little fork.
Close by where she had dropped her can was a neat square bed of nice earth, all beautifully sifted and raked over. This pleased her critical eye immensely. With the fork she made several little holes not far from the edge, then she got out her packet of seeds and opened it.
"Whatlots!" she cried delightedly, and proceeded to place carefully one seed in each hole. But the seeds she planted seemed not to lessen the number in the packet in the least. "I must make another row," she murmured, and carefully covering in the first holes, she stepped on the bed and made some more.
When she had made a third row and filled them in she sighed a little. Before she had finished she had had to commandeer the whole of the bed, and was weary and confused. There seemed to be nothing but footprints all over it, and where the seed was, or how to make the earth look nice and smooth again so that no one should guess her secret, she was puzzled to know. She could have cried with weariness, but she bravely kept back her tears with the thought of the splendid thing she had done, and the delight and surprise there would be when her secret came to light. While she was standing looking in some dismay at the trampled bed, she remembered the rake standing in the corner.
It was heavy, so heavy she could hardly carry it, and far too clumsy for her to wield properly, but she worked bravely, and tried to forget her aches; she had not a very critical eye either, and soon the bed, to her eyes, looked quite neat and tidy. Then came the crowning moment. At the water-tap, which stood over a butt sunk in the ground by one of the paths, she filled her new water-can, and proceeded to give her seeds a good watering.
This was joy indeed, pure joy. The can poured splendidly, Poppy was delighted. She had to run many times to the tap to get water enough for the whole bed, and by the time it was done to her satisfaction her pinafore was well soaked, and she herself was almost too weary to stand. Her task was perfected, but when she looked down over herself, at her mud-clogged shoes, her dripping clothes, her begrimed hands, and realised what she would have to go through in the way of questioning and scolding, her spirits sank altogether. Cousin Charlotte or Anna she dared not face. Her only resource was to try to find Esther, or the others. They would scold too, but she knew them and their scoldings; they were not very bad, and were soon over. With the aid of the fork she managed to lift the latch of the garden door, and stepped out on the great wide waste; but in all the length and breadth of it, as far as her eyes could see, she caught no glimpse of the others. They were nowhere in sight, and the moor looked big, and lonely, and frightening.
Poppy felt very forlorn, and miserable, and homesick, standing there in that great waste; and under the weight of her troubles her lip began to quiver, though she did her best to steady it. She dared not go indoors, and she was too weary to go in search of the others, so she crept up the slope to the nearest rocks large enough to hide her, determined to sit there and wait until she saw the others coming home, when she would call to them. She slipped off her pinafore, spread it on the ground to dry, and with much care and trouble cleaned first her hands and then her boots on the short coarse grass, after which, utterly weary, she lay down herself and knew no more.
Esther, Penelope, and Angela reached home at just about what they thought must be tea-time. They came in the way they had gone out, through the garden door. In the garden path they saw Poppy's new watering-can lying. They expected to see Poppy too, but she did not appear, and the garden seemed quite empty. She must have gone indoors, they concluded, and Esther began to feel very compunctious for having left her alone so long. With this feeling on her she hurried in to find her little sister, but the house seemed quiet and empty too. They ran up to their own rooms. No one was there. They came down and looked in the sitting-rooms, Esther with a sudden fear that Poppy might be at some mischief; but both rooms were quite empty. They next ran out and tapped at the kitchen door.
"Come in," said Anna cheerfully. She liked to have the children about her.
"Is Poppy here?" asked Esther.
"Miss Poppy! No, miss. I haven't seen her since she went out with you."
"She hasn't been with us. We have been on the moor ever since, and she must have stayed in the garden, but I can't see her there now. We saw her little can in the path, that was all, and I can't find her in the house anywhere. I thought perhaps she was here with you."
Anna looked anxious. "Have you been all over the house, miss?"
"I have been in our rooms and the dining-room and drawing-room, and we have all called her, but we can't find her."
"I'd look again, miss, if I was you; look in the missus's room, and mine too, if you like. I'd come with you, but I can't leave my bread for a few minutes."
"Oh, we will find her," said Esther cheerfully, and they ran off again.
She was back in a short while, though, and not quite so cheerful. Just as she reached the kitchen Ephraim came in at the other door.
"Who hev been meddlin' with my new turnip-bed?" he demanded. He did not see Esther.
"What's the matter with your turnip-bed?" asked Anna shortly. She was just lifting her loaves out of the oven, and it was a critical moment; besides, Anna was always 'short' with Ephraim; she had a theory that it was good for him.
"Why, it's in such a mess as you never saw in your life; anybody'd think there'd been a month's rain emptied over it, and all the hens in Dorsham scratching it over, and me only sowed the seeds this morning and left it as tidy as ever you see a bed, only so long ago as dinner-time."
Anna, looking up, caught sight of Esther. "Have 'ee found her, missie?" she asked, taking no further notice of Ephraim.
"No," said Esther anxiously, "she isn't in the house, I'm sure."
Anna always grew cross when she was frightened. "Here," she cried, turning sharply on Ephraim, "never mind your old turnip-bed. You just take and look for Miss Poppy; she's the youngest of our young ladies, a little bit of a thing, and she's lost, so you'd best go and look for her this very minute. Look in the garden first of all. Time enough to worry about an old garden bed when the children's all safe."
Esther, in spite of her growing trouble, could not help laughing, their speech sounded so odd and funny, and Ephraim's face was such a picture of offended dignity.
Penelope meanwhile, without saying a word to any one, had gone down to the garden again, and out on to the moor. She had a feeling that Poppy might be out there somewhere. Very likely she had gone in search of them and missed them.
Esther, not knowing this, followed Ephraim. "She couldn't come to any harm, even if she opened the door and got out, could she?" she asked eagerly.
Ephraim shook his head with ponderous gravity. "I wouldn't go for to say so much as that," he said soberly, "there's wild beastes about in plenty on these here moors."
"Wild beasts!" Esther almost screamed with horror at the thought. She pictured her poor little Poppy flying shrieking before a cruel wolf, frightened nearly to death, calling for help, for her sisters—and no one near to save her. Beyond that she dared not let her imagination go. She felt sick and almost fainting. "Do you mean wolves and bears, and— and—"
"Well, no," said Ephraim slowly, as he searched a bed of young carrots as though he thought Poppy might by chance have got under the feathery leaves. "I won't say there are any of them there kinds exactly, but wild cattle, and 'osses, and sheep; there's plenty 'nough of they about, and they'm 'most so bad."
Esther's heart was relieved. ''Osses and cattle' seemed so very mild after what she had pictured.
"I think we'd better go and look on the moor," she said impatiently, as Ephraim showed every sign of making a prolonged search amongst the sea-kale pots, taking the cover off each one in turn. Almost reluctantly he followed her. In the path there still stood Poppy's little watering-can. Esther's eyes filled with tears as she caught sight of it. Ephraim saw it too, and picked it up.
"Perhaps we'd better take this here along as a clue," he said, looking very wise.
Esther could not see what possible use it could be, or how it could help them, but she consented in order to hurry him along; so off they went, Ephraim carrying the tiny can. But hardly had they stepped through the doorway than they saw that their search was ended. Poppy, led by Penelope, was coming down the hill towards them.
"There she is! oh, there she is!" cried Esther, and flew up to meet them, Ephraim following.
On getting outside, Penelope had, by good fortune, at first followed almost exactly in Poppy's footsteps. By stopping to search every bush and boulder she had got somewhat out of her way, but, as she was stooping to look under a large clump of broom and gorse not so very far from where her little sister lay asleep, something white fluttering about had caught her eye. It was Poppy's pinafore, dried now by the breeze. A moment later she caught sight of Poppy's shoes standing alone, without any wearer in them. The sight of her little sister's clothes lying about the moor in this fashion turned Penelope perfectly sick and cold with a horrible, indescribable fear. With feet weighted with terror, and quivering limbs, she hurried to the spot, and dropped on her knees half senseless by her sister's body. A moment later all her terrors fled, replaced by a wonderful ecstasy of thankfulness and joy. Poppy stirred, turned in her sleep, and showed a dirty but rosy face to her frightened sister. In her relief Penelope, with a shout of happiness, flung her arms about her and hugged her.
Suddenly awakened, Poppy sat up and looked about her in a dazed way; then her eyes fell on her muddy pinafore and boots, and a hot blush spread over her baby face.
"I didn't mean to make my pinny dirty," she said anxiously, "but Itouldn'thelp it; there was such alotof seed, and Ihadto water it, and the silly water would run out over the can, though I waseverandeverso careful."
"But how did you come to be lying here, darling?" said Pen, drawing her little sister closer into her arms. In her relief she was quite unable to scold her for the fright she had given them. "We left you in the garden. You shouldn't have come out here alone. We thought you were lost, and we were awfully frightened!"
Poppy sat up very erect. She suddenly felt herself very important and interesting. "I wanted to find you and Essie. I was 'fraid to see Cousin Charlotte with my dirty pinny on; and I came out here and you weren't anywhere, and then I wassotired I lay down. Oh, it took me such a long time, but Mrs. Vercoe said it wasbeautifulparsley. Do you think it is beginning to grow yet, Pen?"
"I don't know," said Pen absently; "we must make haste back, now, to let them know you are safe. You see, if you go getting lost, Cousin Charlotte won't let us come out on the moor alone. Come along," raising her sister, after putting on her shoes for her.
For a moment Poppy looked troubled, but quickly cheered up. "I don't fink Cousin Charlotte will be cross when she knows," she said confidently.
"Knows what?" asked Penelope curiously.
"My secret," said Poppy solemnly. "I'll tell you if you'll promise not to tell any one else." But at that moment all confidences were stopped by the appearance of Esther and Ephraim.
Poppy accepted Esther's rapturous greeting calmly. She, of course, did not realise yet the state of alarm they had all been in on her account; her whole attention was absorbed by the sight of a strange man in possession of her precious watering-can. It was too much for her to pass unnoticed.
"That's my tan, please, I fink," she said politely but firmly, and Ephraim felt his wisdom in bringing this means of identification had been fully justified.
Happy and triumphant the whole party returned to the house, to be received by Anna with open arms and a face beaming with joy. What did it matter if Poppy's apron was covered with mud, and her frock and boots and hands the same? Instead of being treated as a culprit, she was made a heroine of, and appreciated the difference.
When Anna had finished crooning over her, and the story of the discovery had been repeated more than once, she was taken upstairs by Esther, and washed and changed, so that by the time Miss Ashe returned, instead of the bedraggled, dirty little maiden of an hour before, she saw only a perfectly neat and spotless one, and had no suspicion of all that had taken place during her absence.
Ephraim came into the hall to speak to his mistress just as Poppy came down the stairs.
"Well, Ephraim, how far did you get with your morning's work? Did you get the turnip-seed planted?"
"Well, yes, ma'am, I did," said Ephraim slowly. "I made a nice bed for it right there under the lew wall there in the far corner. But—well, whatever has come to it since, it passes me to know; when I went away that there bed was so smooth and tidy as my hand; when I comes back to it— well, ma'am, you honestly might have knocked me flat with a feather, that there newly made bed was—well, 'twas more like a mud-heap than anything you ever saw in your life, ma'am, and trampled—well, out of all shape and semblance. I neer see'd the likes of it in my life. So soon as it's dried I'll have to go and do it all again, and have a second sowing, but it'll be a day or so before it's fit to touch; 'tisn't no use to trust to that first crop—it's my belief it's all ruined."
Poppy drew up suddenly on her way to the dining-room. Her face had grown very red, her hands were working nervously. "You—oh, you mustn't disturb it, please," she gasped. "I—I've planted some thing, and it mustn't be disturbed, it'svery goodseed, and I watered it to make it grow quickly—it—it did look rather muddy, but—but it'll soon dry."
Ephraim stared in dumb bewilderment. Miss Ashe looked from him to the child and back again, scarcely taking in the situation. She looked again at Ephraim, but getting no help from him, she turned to Poppy.
"What do you mean, darling? Have you been sowing seeds?"
"Yes," said Poppy, but with marked hesitation. "You shall know soon, but it's a secret now, and I mustn't tell, only I was afraid he,"—nodding at Ephraim—"would dig them all up again."
"But, Poppy dear, you shouldn't have done it without asking permission; you see you might do considerable damage by taking a piece of ground like that, not knowing whether there is anything in it or not. As it is, you see, you have spoilt all my turnips. If we hadn't found it out in good time, we should have been left without any for the whole season. Don't you see, dear, how important it is?"
The importance of it was so apparent, and what she had done appeared so overwhelmingly naughty, it seemed to Poppy as though all joy and happiness had gone out of her life for ever. It was dreadful, intolerable. In trying to help Cousin Charlotte as Esther had wished, she had done harm instead of good. Her beautiful secret was over, and instead of being a help she had been a naughty, foolish little girl, whom these strange new people would wish they had never seen, while every one else would laugh when they heard the story. She felt herself covered with shame and disgrace; she was humiliated and miserable; her little lip quivered piteously, her eyes filled, and she was too tired and hurt to fight against her woe.
Miss Charlotte's kind eyes saw the humiliation in the pretty, tired little face, and held out her hand. "Never mind, dear; as it happens there is no harm done; Ephraim shall choose another spot for the turnips, and you shall have that piece of ground for your own garden. It would never do to destroy a second lot of seeds by digging the bed all over again. Good evening, Ephraim, I'll see you to-morrow."
So, thanks to Cousin Charlotte, Poppy was saved the disgrace of having cried before Ephraim; her tears did not fall; she winked them away, and her lip grew steadier. The thought restored her spirits, but her great pleasure in her scheme was dashed.
"And I sowed the parsley on purpose for Tousin Charlotte, only 'twas to be a secret," she confided to Esther as she was being put to bed that night, "to help her, like you said. She could have some to use, and I was going to sell most of it and give the money to her."
Esther did not smile; indeed her eyes were misty as she took her little sister on her lap and kissed her on the top of her head. "It will be all right, dear," she said, "and—and you are the first of us to begin to do something useful; it was splendid of you to think of it. I wish I knew what I could do," she added wistfully, her cheek resting on Poppy's curls.
"I'll try and fink of something for you," said Poppy gravely. "P'r'aps by the morning I'll have finked of somethingverynice—then won't you be glad?"
But she fell asleep before she had come to any satisfactory conclusion, and Esther, downstairs, in spite of her busy brain and sober face, was equally unsuccessful. She was still thinking when she got up to say 'good-night' and kiss Miss Charlotte. But Miss Charlotte did not bid her good-night at once; instead, she asked her to wait a few moments.
"I wanted to have a little talk, dear, now we are alone," she said, with her pretty smile.
Penelope and Angela had already gone to bed.
Esther sat down again, wondering what was coming.
"I have been thinking," said Miss Charlotte, laying down her pen and coming to sit by Esther, "I have been thinking over our plans, dear, and I have come to the conclusion that I might superintend your studies myself, for a time at any rate."
Esther looked up quickly, her pleasure showing in her eyes. "Oh, thatwouldbe nice, Cousin Charlotte," she cried. "I do want to learn so much, but—but you have such a lot to do already, and we areverybackward, and I am so—so stupid."
"I don't think you are that, dear," said Miss Charlotte gently, and her words, quiet though they were, brought deep pleasure to Esther.
"I think we might manage it," she went on cheerfully. "Of course I have many calls on my time, and I shall not be able to give you all the attention I should like to; but we can but do our best, and this seems the best plan I can think of. I cannot very well manage to have a governess to you, and there is no school nearer than Gorley, and that is not only four miles away, but a school I do not approve of. So, at any rate, we will try this plan for the present."
Esther got up and stood by Miss Charlotte, her colour coming and going, her fingers playing nervously with her pinafore. "I—I think you are too good to us, Cousin Charlotte," she said huskily, speechless almost with nervousness, but determined to say something of what was in her heart. "I—I don't know how to thank you, but Idowant to, and—and—"
Cousin Charlotte's arm was round her, drawing her to her. "We can never betoogood to one another, dear; and what are we here for but to help each other over hard places, to try to make each other's lives easier? I am only thankful to have this opportunity of doing good. I was growing narrow and selfish all by myself. I think you were sent to rouse me."
"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, I want to help too," cried Esther wistfully. "I do want to be useful, but I don't know how. Will you tell me? Nothing ever seems to happen to me; I never get a chance of helping people."
"Opportunities, small or great, occur every day, dear," said Miss Charlotte; "it is the little opportunity we must look out for, the small things that we must do. Big ones come sometimes, but little ones every day; if you look for them you will find them. We will help each other, dear. Now we will say good-night. You are tired with your long day in the open air. We will not begin lessons until Monday, there will be so much else to do and arrange. Good-night, my love," and with a warm kiss they parted.
Esther went up to her room with a great glow of happiness at her heart. For the first time in her life she had met some one who understood her; at least, some one who could draw out the good side of her, and not the bad. Esther did not understand what it was, but she felt a difference, and she undressed and said her prayers with Cousin Charlotte's words still ringing in her ears: "We can never betoogood to one another, dear; and what are we here for but to help each other over hard places?"
She prayed very especially that she might be shown how to do her share in helping others. Like Poppy, she lay down, determined to think and think, hoping that perhaps by morning she would have thought of some way of helping Cousin Charlotte; and, more successful than Poppy, before even she fell asleep an idea had come. Quite suddenly there came back to her Miss Ashe's remark, that 'it was not convenient then to have a governess.' "It must be on account of the expense," thought Esther, with sudden inspiration. "She talked of getting another servant; but I am sure, if she can't afford a governess she can't afford a servant; and I do believe we could do without one, if I helped quite a lot, as I did at home. And I can. I did all right there. I will ask her to let me try. Oh!"—enthusiastically, as the idea took a firmer hold on her—"Ihopeshe will. Shemust—and I am sure Anna would be glad."
Too excited and pleased to sleep, Esther slipped from her bed, crept to the window, and looked out. A bright moon lighted up the moor opposite and the river below, until she could see the old brown boulders quite plainly; birds called to each other across the distance, and far away a cow lowed monotonously for its calf. Esther stood and gazed and listened with uplifted heart, yearning for something, she knew not what, something higher and better to be and do.
"Oh, I am so glad we came here!" she murmured, "so glad! I am sure it will be easy to be good here, and I do so want to be good! I wish I hadn't been so horrid to mother sometimes, and—and now I can't ever be anything else, to her." And there came back to her mind her mother's words, "I am sure your Aunt Julia would not have Esther if she knew how bad her temper had become," and her eyes filled with tears at the recollection.
"I will try," she whispered. "I will try that no one else shall ever say that of me—and I will write to mother, and tell her I am sorry." And it was a very grave and serious Esther who fell asleep at last.