Part 24 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXII.
”LITTLE PLUM PIES.”
Ester was in the kitchen tr.i.m.m.i.n.g off the puffy crusts of endless pies--the old brown calico morning dress, the same huge bib ap.r.o.n which had been through endless similar sc.r.a.pes with her--every thing about her looking exactly as it had three months ago, and yet so far as Ester and her future--yes, and the future of every one about her was concerned, things were very different. Perhaps Sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously, and took note that there was a different light in her eye, and a sort of smoothness on the quiet face that she had never noticed before. In fact, Sadie missed some wrinkles which she had supposed were part and parcel of Ester's self.
”How I _did_ hate that part of it,” she remarked, watching the fingers that moved deftly around each completed sphere. ”Mother said my edges always looked as if a mouse had marched around them nibbling all the way. My! how thoroughly I hate housekeeping. I pity the one who takes me for better or worse--always provided there exists such a poor victim on the face of the earth.”
”I don't think you hate it half so much as you imagine,” Ester answered kindly. ”Any way you did nicely. Mother says you were a great comfort to her.”
There was a sudden mist before Sadie's eyes.
”Did mother say that?” she queried. ”The blessed woman, what a very little it takes to make a comfort for her. Ester, I declare to you, if ever angels get into kitchens and pantries, and the like, mother is one of them. The way she bore with my endless blunderings was perfectly angelic. I'm glad, though, that her day of martyrdom is over, and mine, too, for that matter.”
And Sadie, who had returned to the kingdom of spotless dresses and snowy cuffs, and, above all, to the dear books and the academy, caught at that moment the sound of the academy bell, and flitted away. Ester filled the oven with pies, then went to the side doorway to get a peep at the glowing world. It was the very perfection of a day--autumn meant to die in wondrous beauty that year. Ester folded her bare arms and gazed. She felt little thrills of a new kind of restlessness all about her this morning. She wanted to do something grand, something splendidly good. It was all very well to make good pies; she had done that, given them the benefit of her highest skill in that line--now they were being perfected in the oven, and she waited for something.
If ever a girl longed for an opportunity to show her colors, to honor her leader, it was our Ester. Oh yes, she meant to do the duty that lay next her, but she perfectly ached to have that next duty something grand, something that would show all about her what a new life she had taken on.
Dr. Van Anden was tramping about in his room, over the side piazza, a very unusual proceeding with him at that hour of the day; his windows were open, and he was singing, and the fresh lake wind brought tune and words right down to Ester's ear:
”I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro, Seeking for some great thing to do, Or wondrous thing to know; I would be guided as a child, And led where'er I go.
”I ask thee for the daily strength, To none that ask denied, A mind to blend with outward life, While keeping at thy side; Content to fill a little s.p.a.ce If thou be glorified.”
Of course Dr. Van Anden did not know that Ester Ried stood in the doorway below, and was at that precise moment in need of just such help as this; but then what mattered that, so long as the Master did?
Just then another sense belonging to Ester did its duty, and gave notice that the pies in the oven were burning; and she ran to their rescue, humming meantime:
”Content to fill a little s.p.a.ce If thou be glorified.”
Eleven o'clock found her busily paring potatoes--hurrying a little, for in spite of swift, busy fingers their work was getting a little the best of Maggie and her, and one pair of very helpful hands was missing.
Alfred and Julia appeared from somewhere in the outer regions, and Ester was too busy to see that they both carried rather woe-begone faces.
”Hasn't mother got back yet?” queried Alfred.
”Why, no,” said Ester. ”She will not be back until to-night--perhaps not then. Didn't you know Mrs. Carleton was worse?”
Alfred kicked his heels against the kitchen door in a most disconsolate manner.
”Somebody's always sick,” he grumbled out at last. ”A fellow might as well not have a mother. I never saw the beat--n.o.body for miles around here can have the toothache without borrowing mother. I'm just sick and tired of it.”
Ester had nearly laughed, but catching a glimpse of the forlorn face, she thought better of it, and said:
”Something is awry now, I know. You never want mother in such a hopeless way as that unless you're in trouble; so you see you are just like the rest of them, every body wants mother when they are in any difficulty.”
”But she is my mother, and I have a right to her, and the rest of 'em haven't.”
”Well,” said Ester, soothingly, ”suppose I be mother this time. Tell me what's the matter and I'll act as much like her as possible.”
”_You_!” And thereupon Alfred gave a most uncomplimentary sniff.