Esther : a book for girls

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

"She is tired and unhappy, poor little thing," repeated Uncle Geoffrey, answering for me, as he drew my arm through his. "I hope Carrie has got some tea for her;" and as he spoke Carrie came out in the porch to meet us. How sweet she looked, the "little nun," as Fred always called her, in her gray dress; with her smooth fair hair and pale pretty face.

"Poor Esther, how tired you look!" she said, kissing me affectionately, but quietly—Carrie was always a little undemonstrative—"but I have got tea for you in the brown room" (we always called it the brown room, because it was wainscoted in oak); "will you have it now, or would you like to see mother?"

"You had better have tea first and see your mother afterward," observed Uncle Geoffrey; but I would not take this prudent counsel. On the stairs I came upon Jack, curled up on a window-sill, with Smudge, our old black cat, in her arms, and was welcomed by both of them with much effusion. Jack was a tall, thin girl, all legs and arms, with a droll, freckled face and round blue eyes, with all the awkwardness of fourteen, and none of its precocity. Her real name was Jacqueline, but we had always called her Jack, for brevity, and because, with her cropped head and rough ways, she resembled a boy more than a girl; her hair was growing now, and hung about her neck in short ungainly lengths, but I doubt whether in its present stage it was any improvement. I am not at all sure strangers considered Jack a prepossessing child, she was so awkward and overgrown, but I liked her droll face immensely. Fred was always finding fault with her and snubbing her, which brought him nothing but pert replies; then he would entreat mother to send her to school, but somehow she never went. Dot could not spare her, and mother thought there was plenty of time, so Jack still roamed about at her own sweet will; riding Dapple barebacked round the paddock, milking Cherry, and feeding the chickens; carrying on some pretense at lessons with Carrie, who was not a very strict mistress, and plaguing Fred, who had nice ways and hated any form of untidiness.

"Oh, you dear thing!" cried Jack, leaping from the window-seat and nearly strangling me, while Smudge rubbed himself lovingly against my dress; "oh, you dear, darling, delightful old Esther, how pleased I am to see you!" (Certainly Jack was not undemonstrative.) "Oh, it has been so horrid the last few days—father ill, and mother always with him, and Fred as cross as two sticks, and Carrie always too busy or too tired for any one to speak to her; and Dot complaining of pain in his back and not caring to play, oh!" finished Jack, with a long-drawn sigh, "it has been almost too horrid."

"Hush, Jack," was my sole reply; for there was dear mother coming down the passage toward us. I had only been away from her two months, and yet it struck me that her hair was grayer and her face was thinner than it used to be, and there were lines on her forehead that I never remember to have seen before; but she greeted me in her old affectionate way, putting back my hair from my face to look at me, and calling me her dear child. "But I must not stop a moment, Esther," she said hurriedly, "or father will miss me; take off your hat, and rest and refresh yourself, and then you shall come up and see him."

"But, mother, where is Dot?"

"In there," motioning toward the sick room; "he is always there, we cannot keep him out," and her lip trembled. When Jack and I returned to the brown room, we found the others gathered round the table. Carrie, who was pouring out the tea, pointed to the seat beside her.

It was the first dreary meal I had ever remembered in the brown room; my first evening at home had always been so happy. The shallow blue teacups and tiny plates always seemed prettier than other people's china, and nothing ever tasted so delicious as our home-made brown bread and butter.

But this evening the flavor seemed spoiled. Carrie sat in mother's place looking sad and abstracted, and fingering her little silver cross nervously. Fred was downcast and out of spirits, returning only brief replies to Uncle Geoffrey's questions, and only waking up to snub Jack if she spoke a word. Oh, how I wished Allan would make his appearance and put us all right! It was quite a relief when I heard mother's voice calling me, and she took me into the great cool room where father lay.

Dot was curled up in mother's great arm-chair, with his favorite book of natural history; he slipped a hot little hand in mine as I passed him.