To the girls' relief they were not expected to appear at the very next choir practice. Miss Charlotte had a talk with her friend, which tempered her enthusiasm with common sense, with the result that the children had their voices tried and two or three lessons given them before they were expected to appear in public, with the result that poor Poppy, the only one who really longed to be in the choir, was the only one denied that honour. All their voices were pronounced quite good. But Poppy was too young; it would strain her voice, she was told, and to her chagrin she had to sit in an ordinary pew with Miss Ashe while the others sat in what Poppy called the 'dear little' choir stalls in the chancel.
But, to show her defiance of this objectionable, and, as she thought, unnecessary care for her voice, she sang always at the top of it. It happened often that she did not know the right words, but she always managed to pick up the tune quickly, and with just one sentence to repeat over and over again, she got along to her own satisfaction, at any rate convinced in her own mind that it would not be very long before they would be glad toaskher to come into the choir.
So the days flew by and the summer slipped away; autumn had gone and winter, almost, before they realised it, so full were their days with their lessons and their singing, their housework and gardening, walks on the moor, and games and play. By degrees, as Miss Charlotte had foretold, each had made a little niche for herself. Esther had obtained almost complete charge of the drawing-room—no one else dusted it or arranged a flower in it. Penelope sometimes tried to find room in it for one of her pet plants, but unless permission was asked, and Esther chose the place where it might stand, the treasure was certain to be found 'in the way.'
She dusted their own bedrooms, too, and helped to make the beds, and did lots of other little duties; and at Christmas, to her great delight, Miss Charlotte had given her the much-longed-for sleeves and aprons.
Angela had become, meantime, almost sole mistress of the hens and the eggs. She had begun by just collecting the eggs, and washing and marking them, and she did her work so well that no one else ever thought of troubling about them; and before very long, to her enormous pride, she was given the task of packing them for market. And oh! the joy of it! the pleasure she took in laying the rich brown and creamy-white eggs in cosy nests in the sweet-smelling hay; her pride in their appearance! The only flaw in her happiness was the fact that she could not carry the basket and dispose of the contents herself to the customers. She pictured herself turning back the snow-white cloth from the top of the basket, and counting out her beloved treasures one by one.
After that she began to feed the fowls, and keep account of the corn that was used, and the number of eggs that were laid. Anna consulted her quite gravely about the house scraps.
Perhaps, though, the very happiest day of all her life, at any rate the proudest, was that on which Fluffikins laid her first egg. Angela, when she saw it and the little hen strutting up and down before the nest in which it lay, stood in a kind of speechless ecstasy, much as a young author when his first work has been accepted, or an artist before his first completed picture. Then she held out her arms to the proud Fluffikins, who mounted to her shoulder, clucking happily; and, rubbing their cheeks against one another, they gazed ecstatically at the precious egg.
"Oh, Fluff, Iamso sorry to take it from you," she cried, "but Imustshow it to Cousin Charlotte. Fluff, you darling, do go on and lay lots more. I want one every day, then you shall sit on some, and hatch out some dear little baby chicks of your very own; and you shall live with me till you are an old, old bird, Fluffikins darling, and no one shall dare to—to—" she hesitated to name the dreadful word 'kill,'—"shall interfere with you. You are what they call the 'founder' of my fortune, you precious bird."
She did not take the egg in to show to Miss Charlotte after all. She thought of another plan. She took it in and showed it to Anna, and to the girls, who gazed at it and marvelled at its beauty, but Miss Charlotte was not to see it until it appeared on her plate at tea, with an inscription on it to say whose it was.
It hurt Angela very much to deprive poor Fluffikins of her treasure, but, while she was not looking, she slipped another new, warm egg in the nest in its place, and hoped the dear bird would not see through the fraud; and Miss Charlotte did deserve the honour, after all her goodness to Fluff and her mistress; in fact they were pledged to it.
Cousin Charlotte could not suppress a slight start of surprise when she saw the black-speckled thing in the egg-cup on her plate; but she was as pleased as the girls could wish when she read, 'My and Fluff's first egg for you,' and assured them, as she ate it under their united gaze, that she had never in her life tasted a better one.
Poppy had constituted herself every one's hand-maiden and handy-maiden. If she were allowed to have a duster and dust-brush and help Esther, her cup of joy was full, but she was just as pleased to run to the post, or to the shops, or to help Ephraim gather windfalls in the orchard, dig potatoes, or assist Anna in any way she was allowed to. And now that her parsley bed was really in full growth, in spite of its troubled beginning, she was very full of happy importance. To be asked if she could spare a pennyworth of parsley filled her with pleasure for days.
"I never saw anything like it," she would say seriously, shaking her little purse the while. "It only cost me a penny, and I've made fourpence by it already. I wonder every one doesn't grow parsley."
"If they did, dear, there would be no one to sell to," Cousin Charlotte explained.
Of them all Penelope did least to help. She had her flowers—quite a collection of them now. "But she doesn't do anything with them," complained Esther one day.
"They make the house pretty," urged Angela, always ready to defend her room-mate, "and they make our room so sweet and pretty."
"But she should try to sell them," argued Esther, "or—or do something. She seems to have forgotten all about helping Cousin Charlotte."
"She doesn't get much time," pleaded Angela, "by the time her lessons are done, and her organ lesson, and the practice, and her reading—she always reads for an hour a day, sometimes more. And—and there isn't any one here to sell flowers to—"
At that moment Penelope herself dashed in on them, her eyes dancing, her face glowing. "Oh, girls, whatdoyou think?" she cried, as she flung her music-case on to one chair, her hat on another, and herself on a third.
"What?" asked Esther, as she picked up the music-case and straightened the cushion it had knocked over.
"Oh,dotell, do tell quick," urged Angela.
"Well!" sitting up and clasping her hands tight in an ecstasy of pleasure, "you know Miss Row has friends staying with her."
"Yes; but I don't see much in that to be excited about," said Esther.
"Well, one of them is called Mr. Somerset, and he is a musician, and he— he heard me sing. Miss Row made me sing on purpose. I was awfully frightened, but I got through all right, and—and whatdoyou think he said?"
Esther felt the old demon jealousy clutching at her heart at once. "I don't know, I'm sure," she said coldly. "Do tell if you are going to, Penelope. I am too busy to wait."
"Oh, what?" gasped Angela, with eager, questioning eyes.
"He said,"—in an impressive, almost awed voice—"he said I had the promise of a very fine voice, and—and no expense ought to be spared in training it!" Penelope repeated the words slowly, like one in a dream.
"Oh, Pen!" Angela gasped, almost speechless with delight, "did he really?"
Pen nodded.
"What nonsense!" said Esther, in a strained voice, quite unlike her usual tones.
Angela turned on her reproachfully. "Essie, aren't you glad?"
"Of course I am," snapped Esther shortly; "but it is so silly to put such things into people's heads when thereisno money. I suppose he thinks we all ought to give up everything for this, and—and never thinks that the rest of us might like to—to have lessons—"
Esther really did not mean a tenth of the hard things she was saying, and she hated herself for saying them, but that wretched temper of hers got the upper hand of her again. She knew she was being mean and unkind, and it added to her vexation; but she had not the strength of will to get the better of it. In her calmer moments she longed to be one of those who could rise above such mean jealousies, and be unselfish and brave and strong, but when the trial came she succumbed.
Penelope was too lost in happy dreams, though, to heed or be hurt by Esther's remarks.
"Of course I can't have it trained, but all the same Iamglad I have a nice voice," she said in a happy, dreamy voice. "Fancy me,me, with a beautiful voice! Isn't it strange? Doesn't it seem as though it can't be true? Oh, Iamso happy!"
"I always loved to hear you sing, dear," said Angela, seating herself on the ground at Penelope's feet and hugging her sister's knees. "And, Pen, just imagine if you could have lessons, and could sing at concerts, and everybody wanted to hear you, and you made lots and lots of money—wouldn't it belovely! Esther, come and sit down and talk about what we would do if Pen were famous and made a heap of money." Angela never doubted that what good fortune came to one would be shared by all. "Come and sit here, Esther."
"It will be Penelope's money," said Esther coldly. "It would be for her to say what she would do with it, not for us. I am busy; I can't stay talking nonsense," and away she walked out of the room, leaving Penelope and Angela with their spirits considerably lowered.
"I don't know why it is," sighed Penelope, roused at last from her happy oblivion, "but whenever I bring home what I think is good news it always seems to upset Esther. I thought she was just dying for us all to be able to do something to help father and Cousin Charlotte, and this seemed such a lovely thing! Of course there is all the expense first, butifI have a really good voice, later on I should be able to keep you all, and give you all you want. I think she might have seemed a little bit glad."
"Perhaps she is worried," said Angela, "because she wants you to have lessons, and there isn't any money for them, and—and I think she is tired."
"I wish she would not do so much and get so tired," said Penelope wistfully. "We scarcely ever see her now; she hardly ever has any time to play, and—and it is disappointing when she acts like that." Penelope's voice quavered a little, in spite of herself, and she rose and looked out of window that Angela might not see her misty eyes.
"Never mind, dear," coaxed comforting Angela, "don't you fret. Essie is as glad as either of us,really, and by and by she will be all right. Let us go out on the moor, and talk over what we will do when you are rich, shall we?"
"Yes," said Penelope, with a little sigh, and a shake to shake off her gloom. "Dear old moor, I feel I want to lie down on it and hug it when big, nice things happen, and tell it all about them. Come along, Angel."
Esther, from upstairs, saw them go out together, Angela's arm about Pen's waist, Penelope's arm about Angela's shoulders. With angry eyes and aching heart she watched them go through the garden, and guessed whither they were bound; and a sense of loneliness, of being shut out, stole over her.
Cousin Charlotte had gone to Gorley and taken Poppy with her, so she was quite alone. With a hasty movement she flung on her hat, and dashed downstairs and out of the front door. "If they went out, she could go out too," she told herself angrily, and could find her own company sufficient. If they went one way she would go another, the moor was large enough, and—and at any rate the tors and the gorse and the birds liked her as much as they liked Penelope. She would not there be put aside for her younger sister.
By that time she had worked herself up into such a state of resentfulness of imagined injuries and fancied wrongs, she felt she could hardly endure her unhappy lot. She walked along the road in a perfect turmoil of mind, and, fearing she might meet some one, turned down towards the bridge and the river; but the weather had been rainy lately, and the river was swollen, and the bank all wet and slippery.
She had never been further than the bridge and the river-bank before, and as she clambered up from the muddy, slippery river-path, and pushed through the sheltering brushwood which lined it, she found herself, a tiny speck, apparently the only living creature, in a huge great stretch of moorland which was all new ground to her. There were a few big rocks here and there, but no big hills, as on the other side, with their friendly sheltering look; and the great stretch of bare land, stretching away and away, looked the picture of desolation.
The spirit of it seemed in tune with Esther's own sense of loneliness; but it touched her heart with the softening touch of sadness. She sank down on a big boulder beside her, and, stretching out her arms on its rough, lichen-covered breast, buried her face in them and burst into sobs.
"Why is it? why is it? Why should every one like the others and no one like me? Why should Penelope have everything and me nothing, and why can't I feel nice about it? Why do I care, or why can't I pretend I don't mind?" At that moment Esther really did believe that no one in all the world cared in the least for her. "Penelope is pretty and clever, and— and taking, and—and now she has a beautiful voice, and I have nothing. I am not pretty or clever or nice, and I shall never be anything, or do anything, and—and no one wants me. She will be able to go about and travel, and be rich and have everything she wants, and be able to help the others, and—and I am no better than a drudge!"
A little field-mouse, creeping out of its hole, heard the sobs and flew away again, nearly scared out of its wits. A goldfinch came and perched on a furze-bush near, looked wonderingly at the odd-shaped thing that made such funny noises, and then flew away to a thistle and began to search for any stray seeds that might have been overlooked. Little spiders ran over the boulder and put out delicate feelers to try to discover what curious pinky-white things those were that lay on the old stone; then, after a first venture, finding them harmless, ran over and over Esther's hand in a perfect fuss and fury of excitement.
Esther, feeling the slight tickling of the little creatures' feet, raised her head to look, and kept it raised to watch their busy movements. Her storm of tears had relieved her heart, and done her good. She felt less injured, and in a better frame of mind. She did not dare to move until the last spider had finished his investigations, for fear of alarming him; but when he had scurried away home, evidently eager to tell of his adventures, she raised herself and looked about her.
Her face and eyes were hot and swelled and aching. She could not meet any one while looking such a sight as she was. She would walk on until the fresh breeze should have cooled down her burning features. She turned away from Dorsham in the same direction as the river ran. It was all a strange country to her, and she would explore it. No one would miss her at home. The anger and jealousy were gone, but she still felt sad and lonely, and full of pity for herself.
She walked on and on and on, still too absorbed in herself to pay any heed to the voice of the birds or the river or the myriad little creatures moving about her. She was thinking how much she would like to frighten them all at home, and make them anxious about her; she felt she would like to walk on and on until twilight and darkness fell, and she and the moor were left to their loneliness together. It was all very foolish; but as long as there are boys and girls, or men and women, these moods will come to them, to be fought down and overcome; and we must remember that to the sufferer they do not seem foolish at the time.
How far she did walk she had no idea at the time; it seemed to her it was miles and miles;—in reality it was only about a mile and a half,—and the sun was going down, and she was beginning to admit doubts to her mind as to whether she should turn back or not, when suddenly, in a hollow in the moor before her, she saw, though at first she could hardly believe her eyes, a real little house with real smoke coming out of the chimney on the thatched roof.
If it had not been for the smoke, whirled and beaten about by the breeze, she would have thought the house was not really a human habitation, but a bit of the moor itself risen up, so brown and rough and weather-beaten it looked under its old lichen-grown thatch. But the smoke was real smoke, and Esther, stepping nearer, saw one window lit by the leaping, cheery glow of a fire.
Fascinated and surprised, she drew nearer and nearer. Before the cottage was a little garden surrounded by a sturdy railing and a thick-set, close-clipped holly-hedge, within the shelter of which whole beds of crocuses and daisies and polyanthuses bloomed gaily. The crocuses were all asleep now, their little petals fast closed, and the daisies too, but the polyanthuses looked bravely with their beautiful eyes at the fast darkening sky. Over the cottage walls, as well as on the thatch, lichen and house-leeks grew, as though to prove it was but a boulder, one of the many scattered thereabouts in all directions, and not a house at all.
Ester stood staring fascinated, quite unconscious of the fact that a pair of bright but dim eyes were peering out at her wonderingly; and she started, quite guiltily, when presently the cottage door opened, and a lady came along the garden path towards her.
Esther began to move away, feeling ashamed that she should have stared so rudely; but the lady hearing her, spoke.
"Don't go away, please," she said in a pretty soft voice with a foreign accent. "I saw you, and I wondered if you had lost your way. It is not often we see strangers here, we are so far away from other houses."
"No-o, thank you," stammered Esther shyly. "I—I don't think I have lost my way. I was out for a walk, and had never been this way before. I have come from Dorsham."
"Dorrsham, oh!" the lady rolled her r's, and poke in the prettiest way imaginable. "It is rather a long walk home for a young lady when the light is beginning to fail. Have you no one with you?"
"No," said Esther, suddenly realising her disobedience in not having brought Guard. "I am not afraid; at least—I—I shall be home before it is dark."
"I do not feel so sure of that."
Neither did Esther as she looked about her, and saw how quickly twilight had fallen since the sun had gone.
"I hardly like to let you go, my child, by yourself only, over the moor. You could so easily miss your way, and get into the river, or fall over a boulder and injure yourself. Will you come into my house and rest; and after you have had some tea—"
"Oh, thank you, no," cried Esther, overcome with shyness at the thought of giving so much trouble. "I am sure I shall get back all right."
"Will you not do it to oblige me?" And the lady, who was very pretty and graceful and charming, spoke so coaxingly, so prettily, Esther could not refuse her.
"I—I—but it would make me later," she began.
"Ah, but I was going to say, Anne is going to Dorsham presently, and he shall conduct you safely home."
"Who?" breathed Esther, puzzled beyond politeness.
"Anne. He—well, he is not exactly my servant—he is my friend and factotum; he and his wife live in the cottage at the back," explained the little lady. "His wife is ill, unfortunately, and he is going to get some mustard for poultices for us to apply, and he will see you home."
"Oh, thank you," stammered Esther, interested but uneasy. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about Cousin Charlotte, and the anxiety she might be causing her; but she really did shrink from the long walk home in the gathering darkness, and, too, she did not know how to refuse the kind stranger's request. So she stepped in at the open gate, and put her hand in the one outstretched to welcome her.
"My name is Esther Carroll," she said, feeling some introduction was necessary, "and I and my sisters live with Miss Ashe at Moor Cottage."
"Oh," said the lady vaguely. Evidently she did not know Miss Ashe or the cottage. "I have not the pleasure of knowing Miss Ashe. I never go to Dorsham. I seldom go beyond my garden; in fact—I cannot walk much," and Esther noticed for the first time that she was lame. "My name is Mademoiselle Leperier. I am not one of your countrywomen, though I might claim to be, having lived in England most of my life. Now I think," with a bright smile, "we know each other. Come inside, do. Anne had just brought in the tea-tray when he caught sight of you, and drew my attention. We thought perhaps you had lost your way. Come in, we will have tea at once, and you shall start very soon for home, or your cousin will be anxious."
Esther, following her kind hostess, thought she had never in all her life seen anything so pretty as the little firelit room into which she now stepped, with its pure white walls, its green dresser hung with priceless old blue china, the high white mantelpiece, loaded, too, with china, the high-waisted lattice window, with its prim little creamy silk curtains.
By the fire stood two comfortable easy-chairs, and a little square table, on which was spread a white cloth and dainty tea-things, bread-and-butter, and tempting little cakes. To Esther it all seemed perfect, as perfect a picture as Mademoiselle Leperier herself in her soft grey gown, with her white hair, bright eyes, and pale face.
In a very short time they were seated on either side of the table, drinking fragrant creamy tea and chatting as friendly as though they had often met before. Anne, who had brought another cup and saucer, had been told his errand, and with quiet politeness expressed his eagerness to oblige. Esther looked at him with interest. Somehow she had expected to see quite a young man, but Anne was old—older than his mistress. That he was a foreigner, too, there could be no doubt; his speech, his appearance, his every action bespoke the fact.
"Is—is Mr. Anne French too?" asked Esther, and then blushed, fearing she had been rude.
But Mademoiselle nodded brightly. "Yes. Call him 'Anne,' please, dear. His name is Anne Roth. His parents came to England with mine, when they had to fly from France, and he and his have been with me and mine ever since. Ah! but he is a dear, faithful soul is Anne, and so is Laura, his English wife. They would not leave me, even when I came to this far-away spot. At first it made them sad, I think, but now they have come to like it."
"Were you exiles?" asked Esther, with eager interest. "Oh, how interesting!"
Mademoiselle Leperier's heart warmed towards her sympathetic visitor with the eager face, and soon they were deep in talk, so deep that they were surprised when Anne knocked at the door to say he had come to know if the young m'amzelle was ready to be conducted home.
Under the spell of her hostess's kind face and voice Esther had told some of her story too—told more, really, than she could have believed possible considering that she had not spoken of the events of that afternoon, nor to what led to her appearance at Edless, as the spot was called where Mademoiselle lived.
"May I come to see you again?" she asked impulsively, as she put up her face to kiss the gentle, fragile-looking French lady.
"Will you, dear? I shall be so pleased if your cousin will permit you. It is a little desolate here, andtristeat times, for I cannot read or write much, or use my needle; my eyes are not strong."
"Those bright, shining eyes not strong!" thought Esther with surprise. "Could I read to you sometimes, or write for you, or sew?" she asked eagerly. "I am sure Cousin Charlotte would be pleased for me to, and—and I shouldloveto. May I?"
"Ifla cousinedoes not object, dear child, I should be grateful indeed; but, remember, she does not know me, or anything of me, and you must not be angry if she does not permit you. It would be but natural."
"Oh, I am sure she will," said Esther confidently, and out she stepped into the darkness with Anne.
To the end of her life Esther will never forget that walk across the moor under the cold blue of the darkening sky—the long, mysterious-looking Stretches of darkness with here and there a big rock standing up grim and gaunt in the silence, the vastness in which they seemed but specks, the shrill, sweet voices of the birds calling to each other, and the busy, persistent voice of the river, added to the weirdness and loneliness of the experience. The only lifelike sounds were their own footsteps, and it was only here and there, when they got on to rough ground and off the turf, that these could be heard.
Esther grew oppressed by the awe and silence. She longed for her companion to speak. She would have said something herself, only she did not know what to begin about, and it needed courage to break, with her small voice, that vast silence.
At last though, a rabbit, or some other wild animal that loves the night-time and the silence, darted right across their path, making her start and scream. The shock past, she laughed a little with shame of her own weakness. The scream and the laugh broke the spell.
"It was very silly of me, but it came so suddenly," she explained apologetically.
"It did, m'amzelle. I expect you are not used to such places at night?"
"No, not at night. We love the moor, though, by day, and know it well, and I am not really afraid of the wild things."
"No, m'amzelle," politely. Silence followed again. Esther grew desperate.
"I—I hope your wife will soon be better," she said sympathetically.
"Thank you, m'amzelle. I hope so, too."
"Is she very ill?"
"Well, not—not dangerous, but she troubles. Our M'amzelle Lucille is not strong, she suffers so, and when Laura—my wife—is ill, M'amzelle does too much, she is so good."
"Can't you have some one in to help you?" asked practical Esther.
"No, m'amzelle, we are so far away. But we do not want any one really. I can do all. I know how to nurse," with evident pride, "but M'amzelle likes to help us, and—and she is not strong, she suffers so."
"Does she?" asked Esther sympathetically. "I am so sorry. I noticed she was lame. Does she suffer pain from her lameness?"
"Yes, m'amzelle. She had a fall some years ago. You know, I daresay, that M'amzelle Lucille was at one time a famous singer. No? She has not told you? Then perhaps I should not have, but I thought that when she told you her name you would know."
"I can keep a secret," said Esther. "I will never mention it if I may not. Why did M'amzelle stop singing and come here?"
"Ah, she stopped singing long, long before she came here. She never sang after the great trouble came to her life, when the great English gentleman she was so soon to marry was killed."
Esther gave a little cry of horror. "Oh, how dreadful, but—but how—was it an accident?"
Anne's tongue was loosened now, he needed no questioning; he had so few opportunities to talk, he could not resist this one, and he wanted every one's sympathy for his beloved mistress. "Yes, it was an accident, a fearful, a cruel accident, and it happened less than a week before the wedding day. They were together at a station waiting for a train, when some one ran against him with so great force he reeled, he lost his balance, he fell forward, right off the platform—the train was just coming in!" Anne's voice died away in an awful impressive silence. "M'amzelle Lucille sprang to catch him—"
"Oh!" gasped Esther, in horror.
"They savedher," he added significantly; "but she was injured, she was lame always from that day, and her eyes were injured. She may be blind, some day—if she lives. He was killed before her eyes."
"Oh, poor M'amzelle Leperier," groaned Esther, her heart aching with the tragedy of the terrible story. "I wonder it did not kill her."
"It nearly did," said Anne significantly.
"And her singing?"
"She never sang again, m'amzelle. She says her voice broke with the shock—but it was her heart that broke. She loved him so; it was too cruel, too terrible."
"Did you come here to live then?"
"No, m'amzelle, not for a long time. We travelled from place to place. M'amzelle Lucille said she would go alone, but my wife and I would not leave her, she was so lonely, sotriste, she had no one but us. Wherever we went people stared at her and annoyed her so. Very often they recognised her, she was so well known; or they saw she was beautiful, and they knew her story, or found it out, and they had no delicacy, no feeling. We always had to leave. Last year we came here. M'amzelle does not suffer here, except from loneliness, and I think she never will, but it is too lonely for her. I hope you will come to see her, m'amzelle. She likes you, I can see."
Esther was delighted. Here, at last, was some one who really needed her. In her heart she determined to devote all her spare time to M'amzelle Lucille. The walk home was over much sooner than she wished. She could have gone on listening to Anne for miles further, but the bridge was crossed, the lights began to show in the cottage windows, and soon they were at the gate of Moor Cottage.
Here Esther's new joy began to moderate. It was quite dark now. Anne told her it was nearly six o'clock. What would Cousin Charlotte be thinking? Now she had time to spare a thought for her, Esther felt sorry and ashamed.
The sounds of their footsteps or voices must have reached the anxious ears within, for even while she was saying 'good-night' to her companion the cottage door was opened wide, letting a flood of light pour along the pathway. "Esther, dear, is that you?" asked Cousin Charlotte's gentle voice reproachfully, and Esther flew to her and flung her arms about her.
"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, Iamso sorry," she cried repentantly. "I can't tell youhowsorry. I didn't mean to be so late, really—at least, at first I did—but—but—I shouldn't have—"
"Never mind now, dear. Come in and warm yourself, and you can tell me all about it later. You have frightened me dreadfully, Esther; but just now I am too relieved to scold, only—only don't do it again, it is more than I can endure bravely," and Cousin Charlotte leaned down and kissed her.
Esther saw then that she was white and trembling, that tears glistened in her eyes, and understood for the first time how much Cousin Charlotte cared.
"Oh, Cousin Charlotte, Cousin Charlotte," she cried remorsefully, "if only I were like you. I wish I could be good. I do want to be, I do really."
"Try to be good, but not like me, dear," said Cousin Charlotte huskily, "or you will be a very weak and foolish old woman. Now," with another kiss, "run upstairs and take off your hat and shoes, and come and tell us all your adventures. We have all been dreadfully anxious."
Esther went upstairs feeling far more remorseful than if Miss Charlotte had scolded her well. When she had taken off her hat and shoes, and made herself tidy, she felt really shy of going down to face them all. But while she was hesitating, the door opened and Poppy flew into the room and straight to Esther's arms.
"Oh, Essie, I couldn't wait, and Cousin Charlotte said I might come up for you. Are you all right? You are not hurt or—"
"You have been crying," broke in Esther. "Oh, Poppy, I made you!"
"I couldn't help just a teeny tiny little cry, but it was only a tear or two when I thought the wild beasts had got you and were eating you right up. Come down now."
In the dining-room it was all so cosy and pleasant that Esther soon forgot her embarrassment, and, seated in the midst of the circle round the fire, was soon telling her story to a rapt audience.
"I should love to see the little cottage, and have tea in that dear little room," said Angela, after Esther had described her sudden discovery of the little brown house and the flower-filled garden.
"Mademoiselle Leperier!" cried Miss Ashe quite excitedly. "Why, child, I remember her quite well; at least her name and fame, and the tragedy of her lover's death. I have often wondered what had become of the poor lady."
"Have you?" cried Esther, delighted. "Cousin Charlotte, I wish you would get to know her. I am sure she is very lonely."
"Perhaps she prefers loneliness, dear. I should be only too pleased to show friendly neighbourliness to the poor lady if she would like it, but sometimes it is greater kindness not to intrude. You can go there, dear, if you and she wish it, and perhaps the friendliness will increase by degrees."
"Is she very ill? Does she have a great lot of pain?" asked Poppy anxiously. "I wonder if she knows she may be blind some day. Why doesn't she have a doctor?" Poppy had no doubt in her mind that a doctor could cure every ill human beings can suffer.
"She has seen nearly every famous doctor there is," said Esther, "so Anne said. But, Poppy, if you ever see Mademoiselle, you must never let her know that we know about it, andneverspeak about her toany one. Do you hear? You won't, will you, dear? She might not like it."
Poppy promised. "Oh, no," she cried emphatically, "tourse not "; and Poppy's promises were always kept. "Esther, hasn't she got any eyes, and is she very sad, and—and—"
"Not at all. She was anxious about Laura, and she looked thin and delicate, but you would never know she was suffering; and her eyes are as bright and pretty as any I have ever seen." Then Penelope, who had been all this time thinking things over, began to put her questions. All her curiosity was about Mademoiselle's singing, but Esther could tell her little on that point. "Perhaps she will tell me more when I know her better," she said hopefully, and went to bed in high spirits at the thought of the new friend she had made, and of another visit to the dear little cottage soon.
"Angela, has Fluffy laid an egg to-day?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Will you sell it to me? I've got the money for it." Poppy opened her hand to display the penny she had been tightly grasping.
"What do you want to buy an egg for?" asked Angela, with sudden caution. "I don't think you had better eat any more without asking Cousin Charlotte first. You had a big breakfast."
"I don't want to eat it," cried Poppy, in a tone of wounded dignity. "I want it to—to give to some one."
"Some poor person?"
"Well, yes, I think she is poor. I know she is not well, and eggs are good for people who are not well."
"Yes, very. Well, there's the egg. Isn't it a beauty?Icall it perfectly lovely." Angela looked at it lovingly. To her there never were or would be such eggs as her Fluffikins laid. "Now do be careful. How are you going to carry it?"
Poppy ran off, and in a moment was back again with a little covered basket lined with hay. Evidently it had been prepared beforehand for this purpose. The egg was laid in and carefully covered over, and the lid shut down and secured.
"Are you going with it now?" asked Angela.
"In a minute. I have to get something else too."
The girls were always very considerate to each other over their little mysteries and secrets, so Angela, without further inquiry, went away to her hens, and Poppy hurried off to the end of the garden, where she gathered a bunch of beautiful green parsley, and wrapped it round with a piece of paper which she tied with a little piece of pink ribbon she had saved on some previous occasion.
Miss Charlotte and Anna were in the kitchen arranging the meals for the day. Esther was busy in the bedroom, Angela was in the hen-house, and Penelope already at the church, practising, for although it was Easter, and holiday time, she continued her organ-practice daily. So no one saw Poppy as she and Guard started off together. She was bound on a secret expedition to Mademoiselle Leperier, carrying with her all she could compass as suitable offerings to an invalid—a new-laid egg and a bunch of her own fresh parsley. She had not mentioned her plan to Miss Charlotte— not because she was afraid of being stopped, but because she wanted to give of her very own, and not make demands on Cousin Charlotte. She knew if she did speak of it that Miss Ashe would be thinking of all sorts of things to send, and Poppy did not want that. She wanted it to be entirely her own little scheme, in gratitude to the poor lady for her kindness to Esther.
She did not know in the least how long the walk would be, but she was prepared for it to take her a very great while. Essie had said it was a long way there but a short way back, and it had not occurred to either of them to wonder how this could be possible. Thinking, though, of the expedition before her as something very great, she hurried along without once pausing to look at the river or play on the bridge or pay heed to any of the hundreds of attractions which lie on a walk on a beautiful spring day. Guard made little dashes and excursions in all directions, but was never absent for more than a moment or two from his little mistress's side.
Now and again Poppy sat down on a big boulder to rest, standing her basket on the ground beside her, and she and Guard would gaze eagerly about them at the wide-spreading sunny moorland; and probably both of them thought of the games they might be having there if matters so serious were not engaging their attention, but no thought of doing so crossed their minds now.
The result of all this haste was that, long before she expected it, Poppy found herself face to face with the little brown cottage, and felt there must be some mistake. This could not be the place, she thought; it must be another. Perhaps, oh dreadful doubt! she had come the wrong way. She was a very wise little person, though, and to make sure, before she went further, she determined to go in and inquire.
Rather timidly, but full of interest, she walked along the paved garden path, and tapped at the door with her knuckles, not being able to reach the knocker. It was a feeble knock, but soon called forth an answer. A man opened it, an elderly man—Anne himself, in fact.
"Please does Mademoiselle Le-le-, the French lady, live here?" she asked, finding some difficulty in pronouncing the long French name.
"Yes, m'amzelle. M'amzelle Leperier lives here."
Poppy was a little non-plussed. She had not thought out any plan or reason to give for her visit, nor how she was to reach the presence of Esther's new friend, but her usual ready frankness stood her in good stead. "I have come to ask how she is, and how—how Anne's wife is. My sister Esther was here last night. Made—Miss, the French lady, asked her to tea, and—and sent her home with a Mr. Anne." The man smiled.
"Ah! I know. The young lady I conducted to her home last night— Miss Esthaire. Come inside, m'amzelle. I know M'amzelle Leperier will wish to see you."
A sudden shyness rushed over Poppy. "Oh, I—I don't think I had better come in, thank you. I didn't mean to do that. I have to go all the way home, and it will take me rather a long time. I—I only brought a fresh egg that Angela's hen laid this morning, and some parsley out of my own garden for—for Miss Leperier, and perhaps if she didn't like it she might give it to your wife. I am sorry I had nothing nicer."
"There couldn't be anything nicer, m'amzelle," said Anne Roth with ready tact. "It will come in for an omelette for the mistress's lunch, and the parsley too, it will be most useful. How fine it is. We have none here. It is always a difficulty to get any."
"Oh, I am so glad I brought it!" cried Poppy, flushing with delight. "If ever you want any,docome and have some of mine. I have a whole bedful, and all from a penny packet of seed that I sowed myself. I should be delighted to give you some at any time."
She refrained from mentioning the fact that it was her only source of income. She had thrust the basket and the parsley into the man's hand, and was edging away.
"But M'amzelle will be annoyed with me if I let you go all the way back without any rest," he pleaded. "Please to enter, m'amzelle."
At that moment Mademoiselle Leperier herself appeared. Anne turned to her with relief.
"Here, M'amzelle, is the sister of the young lady who was here last night. She has come with kind inquiries for M'amzelle and my wife."
Mademoiselle Leperier stepped to the door, and taking the blushing Poppy's hands in both her own, stooped and kissed her. "Oh, you dear child, how sweet of you," she cried with warm delight. "Come in, you must come in. Is that beautiful dog at the gate yours? I saw him there and felt I must go out and speak to him, and then I heard your voice and Anne's. Do call him in, I want to know him too. You must both come."
There was no shyness or hesitation about Guard; he hurried in almost before he was invited to, and he and his little mistress found themselves in the room Esther had described so vividly the night before, only now it was lit by sunshine instead of fire and lamp. Poppy did not like to look about her, she knew it was not polite to do so, but her eye fell on the dresser with its lovely china, and the blue bowl of primroses and moss and ivy leaves on the little black table, and thought it all more perfect even than she had imagined.
Guard, as though feeling he was too large for the small room, went over and sat close against the wall by the window, shedding around him genial smiles in return for all the attentions lavished on him. Anne was despatched for milk and biscuits; and while he was gone Mademoiselle inquired for Esther, and how she got home, politely hoping they had not been very anxious.
"Yes, we were; we were very anxious, thank you," said Poppy, half absently. She was looking at her hostess, and thinking of the story she had heard of her. It seemed so wonderful that after going through such terrible tragedies she could laugh and talk and be interested in little every-day matters. But she was, especially when Poppy, at last recovering her tongue, told her all about themselves, and their father and mother in Canada, and how they four came to Cousin Charlotte's because no one else could have them, and how frightened they ware until they saw her, but were never frightened after, she was so kind; and how they all wanted to help her, and how they tried all sorts of ways.
Mademoiselle was very interested in the parsley-bed, and Angela's hen, and Esther helping in the house, and Penelope's desire to be able to play the organ and sing; and Poppy chattered on, delighted to find so interested a listener.
"I think it quite cheered her and did her good," she confided to Angela later. "She said it did, and she asked me to come again; and I am to keep threepennyworth of parsley for her every week. Isn't it lovely! A whole shilling a month! Oh, I wish I had a whole garden to sow parsley in. Do you think it will go on growing for ever, Angela?"
Angela did not know, but she was hopeful. Ephraim, however, thought that at the rate she was picking it her crop would not last another month, and strongly advised the clearing of a part of the bed and tilling more seeds.
But when Poppy went to Esther to tell her about her expedition, she met with a disappointment. Esther did not seem at all pleased at the attentions she had shown the invalids. She seemed, in fact, quite annoyed.
"I was going myself," she said coldly, "by and by; but I sha'n't now, of course. I don't suppose Mademoiselle Leperier wants the whole Carroll family continually going to her house. It was not right for you, either, to go all that way alone; it was not safe."
"I had Guard with me," said the crestfallen Poppy. "I didn't know you wouldn't like it, Essie. I thought you—you would be glad." Her lip would quiver a little as she spoke. "I—I only wanted to be kind to the poor lady because she was kind to you, and I—didn't mean to go inside, but she made me. Aren't you really going again, Esther? She expects you, she said so."
"I can't go if all the rest of you keep going. Besides, Mademoiselle won't want me."
"Oh yes, she will," cried Poppy, almost in tears. "Shedoeswant you; and—and I won't go any more if you don't like me to. You can take the parsley for me. I wish now I hadn't promised to bring it; but they can't get any one to come, and—and—" and then a tear really forced its way out and fell; but at the sight of it Esther's better nature conquered her temper, and she took her little sister in her arms with real remorse.
"No, darling, you shall go, and we will go together; but not always," she added presently. "I should like to go alone sometimes, Poppy, to have a quiet talk with Mademoiselle."