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-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, and triste at 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 should love to. May I?"

"If la cousine does 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 saved her," 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, so triste, 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, I am so sorry," she cried repentantly. "I can't tell you how sorry. 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, and never speak about her to any 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.