ESTHER'S TRIUMPH

BY

EMMA LESLIE

Author of

"Maggie's Message," "Dearer than Life," etc.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. ESTHER'S HOME

II. RHODA MORRIS

III. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

IV. BROTHER AND SISTER

V. AT THE CIRCUS

VI. ALONE IN THE WORLD

VII. IN THE WORKHOUSE

VIII. CONCLUSION

ESTHER'S TRIUMPH

CHAPTER I.

ESTHER'S HOME.

"MARY, it's vulgar, and it's no better than taking God's name in vain, to say 'Goodness gracious,' and, 'Oh, my goodness,' as Rhoda Morris does every time she speaks."

And the two friends hung behind, and let the vulgar girl pass on. She was poorly dressed, with a washed-out plaid frock, and a jacket very much the worse for wear, while Esther Wright and her friend were well and warmly clad, with gloves and mittens to keep out the searching stings of the rough east wind.

"I wonder she comes to school," said Mary Coppinger, "for I know they are very poor."

"I wish she wouldn't," said Esther, "or that she wasn't in our class. Teacher was explaining only yesterday about taking God's name in vain, and yet, the moment Rhoda Morris got outside the door, she exclaimed, 'Oh, lor a mussy,' about something or other."

Esther Wright was the "show girl" of the class, at school. At examinations she was always the first ready with an answer. If the teacher was questioning, her hand always went up more frequently than anybody else's. But nobody ever expected much from Rhoda Morris at school, any more than they did from Esther, at home.

Rhoda's vulgarity and irreverence seemed to trouble Esther a good deal just now, for when she got home she said to her mother,—

"That Rhoda Morris gets worse and worse every day, mother, I do believe."

"Never mind; you won't be called upon to answer for Rhoda's faults. Make haste and get your things off; I want you to take baby while I get the dinner ready."

Esther pouted. "Tiresome little thing! Why can't she keep asleep? I do so hate nursing babies."

Without noticing this speech, her mother said, "You had better slip off your school frock, Esther, at once; for as it is half-holiday, I have promised to go and see poor Mrs. Grant, who is very ill."

"And leave me to mind the children!" exclaimed Esther.

"Now, Esther, you can surely do that for once. Baby gets so heavy now, and Mrs. Grant may be glad for me to do some little things for her, which I could not do if I had baby, for you know how cross he is in a strange place."

"I know my half-holidays are all made miserable through that baby," said Esther, dropping into a chair, and looking ready to cry.

Her mother turned away. "It's always the same," she said in a tone of vexation; "no matter what you are asked to do, there is always some objection raised."

"Well! I do think you might me let have my half-holidays to myself. I am at school all day, and—"

"There, go and get your things off; I'd rather take the baby a dozen times than have all this grumbling."

Esther's face cleared in a moment, and she ran upstairs with her hat and jacket. She did not take off her school frock, but stood a long time at the glass, brushing her hair, and arranging her apron bib, while she sang "Stand up, stand up for Jesus."

She went downstairs slowly, still singing it, and finding her mother had managed to prop baby up in the bassinet, and was cooking the dinner without her help, she went into the parlour and opened the piano.

When dinner was ready, she went in and took her seat, but never attempted to lift one of the little ones to theirs. And they dragged their chairs across the room, and clambered into them as they could.

"Now, Esther, you must cut Bobbie's dinner, and see that Lilla does not put too much in her mouth at once," said her mother sharply.

"Greedy little thing! what does she want to stuff herself like a pig for? She's old enough to know better."

"Because she's your sister, and you set her the example," retorted her brother Tom.

Esther looked aggrieved. "Mother, do you hear what Tom says? I'm sure I'm not greedy," she said indignantly.

"No, only selfish. Knowing better and doing worse," said Tom, "singing hymns like a saint, and leaving your mother to do all the work."

"Now, Tom, be quiet," said Mrs. Wright.

Tom went on with his dinner, and took no further notice of his sister. Presently, he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, mother, our foreman told me to ask if you or father knew anything about the Morrises; they live up this way, somewhere."

"I know Rhoda Morris," said Esther quickly; "she's a vulgar, irreverent girl, always taking God's name in vain."

"Whew! A girl too," exclaimed Tom. "The young un won't suit us then, for Mr. Mortimer is very particular, and the errand boy would be about the front shop sometimes, as well as in the printing office."

"I really don't know anything about the people, Tom," said his mother.

"No, but from what Esther says of the girl, I should think they were a bad lot."

"Yes, I'm sure they are," hastily announced Esther; "and I know governess wishes Rhoda would go somewhere else to school."

"Well, there ain't much choice of schools up here. If we lived in the town, she probably would go to another."

Tom rose from the table at this moment, and hastily kissing his mother, took his cap from the peg and hurried away, for he had a long walk back to the town. He was a year or two older than Esther, and had been recently apprenticed to learn the printing.

Mrs. Wright got up as soon as Tom had left. "I can leave you with the little ones, Esther," she said. "When they have finished, wash their faces and hands, and then clear the dinner things away. If I take baby with me, you can sew the seams of Tom's shirt; you will find it all ready in my work-basket."

Esther turned away with a pout. She hated needlework almost as much as she did nursing.

"Can't I practise that new piece of music?" she said.

"Yes, of course you can, but that won't take you all the afternoon and evening. You will have plenty of time to do that, and the sewing too." And Mrs. Wright went upstairs.

Bobbie and Lilla disliked having their faces washed by Esther, almost as much as she disliked the needlework, and very soon the house resounded with their shrieks, until the baby grew frightened and screamed in chorus. Mrs. Wright came running down to quell the disturbance, looking both cross and tired.

"Oh, Esther, why can't you learn to be more gentle and patient with them!" she exclaimed. "They never make all this fuss when I wash them."

"No, the nasty little things just do it to get me into a row," answered Esther angrily, as the children ran to their mother for comfort, after the violent application of soap and flannel they had just received.

It was some minutes before peace was restored, but at length Mrs. Wright was able to go upstairs again to finish dressing, and she took the baby with her.

"When I have got his things on, Esther, you come and fetch him while I put my bonnet on. Don't let him cry now; take him to the window and keep him amused until I come down."

With rather an ill grace, Esther did as her mother told her, and before she had been at the window many minutes, her friend Mary Coppinger came past. Seeing Esther, and the baby, dressed, in her arms, she halted.

"Coming out?" she said, putting her face close to the window, so as to make herself heard.

Esther shook her head.

"Oh, but you must," called Mary again.

Again Esther shook her head, and her mother coming in at this moment, putting on her gloves, she turned away from the window.

"Now, Esther, be very careful of the children and the fires. Don't let the kitchen fire out, and be sure to keep the guard up in front of the parlour fire, and have tea ready in time for father and Tom."

She took the big heavy baby from Esther and went out. And as soon as she had turned the corner, Mary Coppinger came to the window again.

"Open the door, Esther; I want to speak to you," she called.

Esther went to the door at once.

"Isn't it a nuisance I can't come out?" she said.

"What's to prevent you, as you haven't got the baby?" said Mary.

"Why, there's the others—Bobbie and Lilla; I can't leave them."

"Oh, yes, you can, and you must for half an hour. Teacher's sent me up to ask you to go down there and practise that duet with me; she don't think we've got it quite perfect in the high notes."

Esther shook her head.

"I don't think I can leave them," she said; "and another thing, I haven't got the street door key to let myself in again."

"Oh, that could easily be managed. Nobody scarcely comes up this quiet street in the afternoon, and you could leave the door ajar."

The two girls walked into the sitting-room.

"I wish I could go with you," said Esther, glancing at the children, who had just turned out a box of wooden bricks, and were busy building a house.

"Come along, then. You've a good chance now; the children won't miss you, and you'll be back before the house is finished," whispered Mary.

The guard was in front of the fire, the children at a safe distance from it, and both so interested in their play that they took no notice of their elder sister and her friend.

"There, come along, they'll never miss you," repeated Mary Coppinger.

And Esther nodded her head.

They went outside into the passage, and Esther ran upstairs for her hat and jacket, but would not put them on until she had been in to look at Bobbie and Lilla once more.

"There's a good boy, Bobbie; help Lilla build a house, and then, when I come back, I'll give you some sweeties," said Esther.

The boy paid very little attention to the promise just now, so intent was he upon his bricks.

And Esther crept out, put on her hat and jacket, and ran down the street with Mary as fast as she could go. She did not intend to stay many minutes, but there was to be a school concert the next week, and she and Mary Coppinger were to sing a duet together.

There were not many opportunities for practice, and of course the teacher did not know that Mrs. Wright had gone out and left the children in charge of Esther, and the girls took care not to tell her. So she kept them singing piece after piece, until Esther grew quite anxious. But she was afraid to say a word about it, for fear her teacher should ask some inconvenient questions.

As soon as they were released, she bade a hasty good-bye to Mary, and flew home as fast as her feet would carry her. The street door was wide open, instead of being ajar, as she had left it. But this did not cause her much uneasiness. She shut it, and ran into the sitting-room, calling, "Bobbie, Bobbie," as she went.

There lay the bricks scattered under the table and chairs, but the children were nowhere to be seen.

"Tiresome little things! Why couldn't they stay here until I get back?" muttered Esther. "Bobbie, Bobbie!" she called again, rushing into the kitchen and searching every nook and corner as she called.

She looked into the scullery, and then ran upstairs, growing vaguely alarmed, but hoping she should find them at some mischief in Tom's room. But Tom's door was shut, and the key turned, for Master Bobbie had been busy there more than once lately, to the great detriment of his elder brother's belongings.

Esther ran on, to her own room and her mother's, but she saw nothing of the children. The back door was locked; they could not get into the garden, so they must have gone into the street, and wandered off somewhere.

She went to the door, and looked up and down the street, feeling miserably anxious now, for it was growing dusk, and her father would be home soon. She knocked at the next door—the only neighbours her mother ever spoke to—knocked two or three times, but got no answer, so that it was clear they could not be there, if Mrs. Forbes was not at home.

Then she drew the street door close to, and ran down the street and along the main road towards the town; for Bobbie had sometimes gone as far as this to meet Tom.

On and on she ran, stopping people occasionally to ask if they had seen two children answering the description of Bobbie and Lilla—a little boy four years old, and a girl two and a half.

No one had seen them in this direction, and at last Esther turned homewards again, hoping they had found their way back by this time. She pushed the door open, and called "Bobbie, Bobbie," looked into the sitting-room and kitchen, and found they were as empty as she had left them. And so she went off again in another direction, for she suddenly remembered that Bobbie knew his way to Mary Coppinger's, and had perhaps gone there in search of her.

In her fright and dismay over the loss of the children, she forgot all about the fires in the sitting-room and kitchen, and by the time Mr. Wright and Tom got home to tea, they were quite out.

Tom was the first to arrive, and finding the door ajar, pushed it open and walked in.

"Polly Coppinger again, for a penny," he muttered, creeping along the passage, with the intention of giving his sister a fright.

But when he got to the sitting-room, he found it empty and cold. He stumbled over the children's toys that lay scattered on the floor, which proved that it had not long been vacated, and he wondered what it could mean.

"Esther, Esther," he called, as he made his way to the kitchen, and stood at the door in blank surprise.

The fire was out there too, and there was not the least preparation for tea.

"Well! This is a pretty go," muttered Tom, staring round the empty room.

Just then he heard the key grate in the lock of the street door, and turned to meet his father.

"There's nobody at home, no fire, and no tea," said Tom, complainingly.

"'Nobody at home!' Where's Esther and the children?" exclaimed Mr. Wright, pushing past Tom and entering the sitting-room, where he nearly fell over one of Bobbie's stray bricks. "Get a light, Tom. There must be something amiss; the children have been playing here." And as he spoke, he took a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light, while Tom groped for a lamp.

The light revealed nothing but the scattered toys and the dead cinders in the fire-place.

"She's gone out to tea, and taken the children with her; that's what it is," said Tom.

"Who? Your mother? She's gone to Mrs. Grant's, I know, but she did not mean to take the children, for the old lady is ill."

Tom was busy lighting the kitchen fire by this time, and as he came in with the coals, he said,—

"I was talking about Esther, father; she's gone off somewhere and forgotten all about our tea. It's just like her; she never thinks of anybody but herself, and a nice row I shall get into when I go back, for taking such a long tea-time."

"Well, sit down now, and I'll cut you some bread and butter; and we'll soon have the kettle boiling. It is thoughtless of Esther to go off like this, when she knew your mother was out."

"'Thoughtless'? Esther's getting the most selfish girl I ever heard of," grumbled Tom, as he dug the knife into the loaf, and attempted to saw off a piece of bread, while his father got out some more of the tea-things. "It just makes me sick to hear that girl singing hymns as she does, and yet grumbling or pouting every time mother asks her to nurse the baby or do the least thing for her."

"There, get your tea, Tom," said his father.

It was a comfortless meal for both of them, as such meals generally are.

"How did you get in?" suddenly asked Mr. Wright, as he sat thinking over the matter.

"Just pushed the door and walked in; and anybody else might have done the same."

"Do you mean to say the street door was open?"

"It was only just ajar. I only had to push it, and any one else could have done the same," said Tom, in the same injured tone.

"It's very strange that she should have gone off like that. I can't understand it at all. Toys about, and the street door open; it hardly looks as though she could have gone out to tea."

CHAPTER II.

RHODA MORRIS.

"OH, my gracious! What a miserable fire you have got, mother!"

The exclamation came from Rhoda Morris, as she rushed in from school, bringing with her a draught of cold air that made her mother shiver. She sat at needlework between the fire-place and the window, stitching away at a fine shirt. There was no comfortable dinner being prepared here, such as awaited her schoolfellow, Esther Wright, but this did not damp the girl's spirits in the least.

"I'm hungry enough to eat dry bread and enjoy it, so it will be a waste to use butter to-day, mother," said Rhoda, as she hung up her hat. "Now, let's see to the fire."

And as she spoke, she made a dash at the poker, but her mother reached it first.

"No, no, Rhoda, you leave the fire alone, or there won't be a bit left in the grate, and I've no more firing to make it up again."

Rhoda looked blank. "But it's so cold, mother," she said.

"Never mind, dear, I've nearly finished the last of these shirts, and you can take them home this afternoon, and then, as you come back, you can order some coals—that is, if you get the money," added Mrs. Morris.

Rhoda stood staring at the handful of exhausted cinders burning in the grate, then she suddenly exclaimed, "Mother, they're felling some of the trees on the other side of the common. Let me go and pick up some of the chips; you must be so cold," added the girl.

Mrs. Morris had not much hope of the chips, but she agreed to let Rhoda take a bag and go to see what she could find.

"Don't touch them, Rhoda, if the men have gone to their dinner, but if they are there, ask if you may pick up what are lying about."

"All right, mother. May I cut a bit of bread for my dinner, and eat it as I go along?"

While Rhoda stood with the loaf and knife in her hand, the street door opened again, and in bounded her brother.

"Oh, mother! I've heard of a place, and almost got it too!" he exclaimed in eager, excited tones, his eyes dancing as he spoke.

Rhoda dropped the knife and bread, and came forward to question him.

"Where—where is it, Frank?" she asked, seizing his hands in her excitement.

"At Mortimer's, that nice bookseller's in High Street. I shall be in the printing office too, sometimes, so that I may have a chance of learning a little of the business."

"Oh, ain't you lucky to have a chance of helping mother like that!" exclaimed Rhoda, with something like envy in her tone.

Mrs. Morris was a widow, earning a scanty living for herself and children by doing plain needlework for one of the shops in the town. They had come to live here on purpose, for there was no such opportunity of employing her needle in their old home. She had made neither friends nor acquaintances since she had been here. Rents were low at this half-built-upon, wholly desolate suburb of the town, and here she had settled, having neither time nor inclination to become acquainted with her neighbours. Her boy and girl were friends enough for her, and although they were poor, and the pinch of poverty was often keenly felt, the little family were very happy together, in spite of a frequent dinner of dry bread, and short commons in the way of coals.

The widow had thought her boy scarcely old enough yet to help her in the struggle of life. But Frank knew how hard his mother had to work, and when on his way to school, he saw a card in the bookseller's window, "Boy wanted," he went in and offered himself, telling such a straightforward story when asked for references, that Mr. Mortimer had a great mind to conclude the bargain there and then, he liked the look of the lad so much. But remembering that his apprentice, Tom Wright, lived in the same neighbourhood as the address given by this boy, he told his foreman to make some inquiries of Tom, and bade Frank come in again in the afternoon for his answer about the place.

"Five shillings a week, mother, and my tea every day," exclaimed Frank triumphantly, when he had explained how he came to apply for the situation.

"Oh, my goodness! What a lot of money boys do get!" exclaimed Rhoda. "If I got a place to nurse a baby all day, I should only get about half as much."

"Ah! Boys is boys, and gals is only gals," said Frank laughing.