The Carroll Girls Part 18

"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 be _lovely_! 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, but _if_ I 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 st.u.r.dy 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.

CHAPTER XII.

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-b.u.t.ter, 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!"