Chapter XXI

AUNT ESTHER'S TROUBLE.—THE LAMP IN THE WINDOW.

AUNT ESTHER was troubled. Evening was falling, and the dwarf had not returned. A score of times had she peered anxiously from the cabin window, a score of times donned sun-bonnet with assumed carelessness, and repaired to the gentle eminence beyond the stable, and shading her eyes with her neat hand, scanned the landscape.

She had hoped he would not have so far to go but that he would be back by dark, at the farthest. She blamed herself bitterly for consenting to so ventursome a project. What if Simmons should chance to detect the pursuit, the dwarf fall sick, or be torn by prowling beasts, or get lost! The last thought sent a deathly pallor to her cheeks.

And now the family were wondering at his absence. How would they regard her when it transpired that she was secretly a party to it?

A clandestine enterprise, even when entirely defensible, indeed praiseworthy, if it lacks success, is apt to react against those concerned in it. That aunt Esther's motives were every way what they should be, in fitting off the dwarf, is entirely apparent. But would Mrs. Willard appreciate them?—Especially if the dwarf met with misfortune in his singular and hazardous undertaking? And a woman will rarely excuse it if not counted in, in a secret where her husband or children are involved.

True, it was necessary—or appeared so—that the confiding Mrs. Willard should remain ignorant of the proceedings against Mr. Simmons; for if she were informed, she would most certainly inform him and what then? A knave would have them at his fingers' ends. Nevertheless, Mrs. Willard could not see this, for she trusted Mr. Simmons. What defence, then, could poor aunt Esther offer, should the lad miscarry in his schemes?

"Where can Frankie be!" the mother repeated.

The exclamation set aunt Esther trembling.

Supper was eaten, the dishes washed,—save the absent one's unsoiled plate and cup,—the candle lighted, and no Frankie.

Aunt Esther, unable to bear the tumult in her own breast, walked about on the moon-lit grass, longing, O, so much, that the distorted, though ever dear form of the Hunchback would appear, and she be spared the pain of telling his mother the cause of his tarrying.

But there was no alternative, and ever resolute in duty, she went in, and laying her hand in her sister's, she said,—

"I must tell you all. Frankie, I fear, will not be here to-night—he mentioned that he 'might' not when he went away."

"Went away!" repeated Mrs. Willard, dropping the sock she was darning. "Went away! Where?"

She related all the circumstances.

"You and Frankie are both crazy!" exclaimed the mother, deeply agitated. "That poor, weak, wee thing following a person of Mr. Simmons's strength across the pathless prairies! You've lost your wits, Esther! And keeping it hidden from his mother, too! It's wicked for a child not to confide in its mother. He had no right to leave, and not let me know it. You have encouraged him to deceive the best friend and the safest counsellor he has in the world; and what will come of it God alone can foresee. How could you be so foolish and cruel, Esther?"

Esther sobbed as the mother wept.

What could she say? She intended it nobly, heroically, at serious cost to her own affections. She deemed it a resistless necessity. But now that Frankie did not return, and while witnessing the parent's grief, and listening to her arguments and accusations, so sharp-edged, touching, and vehement, she forgot the real reasons for her partnership in the affair, and came to view herself as heartless, weak, and sinful in the extreme.

Besides, she was instinctively aware that this new sorrow had unsealed anew that other; and that the bereaved wife and mother now mourned a double loss.

Mrs. Willard arose, lighted a second candle, and placed it in the window. And that night, aunt Esther saw her frequently rise and trim it that the blaze might be steady and strong. And each succeeding night, the flame of that friendly lamp, kept bright by the vigilant watcher, shone on the velvet grass, and gleamed far over the unbeaten waste.

"He may come home, belated," said she.

When Frank had been gone four days, there was one evening, a welcome arrival at the Willard cabin. A clerical-looking gentleman rode up, and introduced himself as Mr. Parsons, the missionary at L—. He apologized for calling at that hour, by mentioning that young Jones had informed him about the family, and desired that their whereabouts might be ascertained; but he had had some difficulty in finding them.

Besides, he said, he had a little errand to do for Mr. Cowles, on behalf of a Mr. Swallow.

"It appears," explained the missionary, "that the latter had a horse stolen from him, and our storekeeper, having reasons to suspect that the missing animal is about your premises, has commissioned me, if I find the beast, to take him along with me."

Then drawing Mr. Swallow's advertisement from his pocket, he read it aloud.

"Why," cried Georgie, in amazement, "Mr. Simmons's horse is exactly like that!"

Ferdie ran to the stable, and with marvellous quickness rode the horse to the door, and the Willards, with their reverend caller, carefully compared the animal with the printed description. The clergyman was satisfied that it was the stolen horse.

"What is your opinion, ladies? And yours, my lads?"

"It must be the one," gasped astonished Mrs. Willard.

"It is, and no mistake," echoed the brothers.

"Mr. Swallow has authorized Mr. Cowles to pay the person recovering the animal," observed the minister, "the amount offered as reward. The money is in my charge. Where is the lad who brought the information to Mr. Cowles?"

"Do you mean Frankie?" eagerly asked aunt Esther.

"He was somewhat deformed, the grocer said, but he didn't learn his name."

"It is—it is Frankie. Can you tell me, sir, where he is?" cried the mother.

"Is he not here?" counting the bills into Mrs. Willard's hand. "He left our village next day, promising to bring the horse on Thursday. And as he did not come, and Mr. Swallow was in a hurry to reclaim the animal, I hunted you up, as you perceive."

"Then Frankie has perished on the prairies," exclaimed the mother, sinking into a seat, faint and trembling.

"My good woman," gently exhorted the minister, "do not too hastily abandon hope. Persons frequently go astray on the prairies, and long afterwards return alive and well. Some out of the way cabin may have given shelter to your boy. I will rouse the settlers, and diligent search shall be instituted.

"And now, if you can stow me away in a corner—no matter where—till morning, I will not try to go home in the darkness."

Mr. Parson's visit was timely and comforting.

"I cannot infer," said he to Mrs. Willard, "that your Frankie is hopelessly lost. It was an eminently worthy and courageous deed that he left you to accomplish, and I have lived long enough to know that a kind Providence is intimately concerned in the interests of such heroic and self-denying persons. And his bodily infirmity would serve to attract to him the special care of God. How is it with yourself, madam? Is your 'afflicted' son less dear than the two well-formed boys before me? Do not the weakness and deformity of the other elicit from you a peculiar tenderness? And is Frankie's heavenly Parent less loving and considerate than you?"

"Frankie was very brave and disinterested in undertaking such an enterprise," observed aunt Esther.

"Nobly so," answered the minister, "and that fact gives me a pleasing assurance of his ultimate success. When the young engage in such services, they usually come out splendidly."

"Did you do such things when you were a boy?" asked Georgie.

"I did not live on the prairie then," he smilingly replied, "and therefore had no occasion, like your brother, to chase a scoundrel across one. I dwelt in a crowded city, and had no call to such a peculiar mission."

At this point, Mrs. Willard handed a Bible to her visitor, and reading a cheerful Psalm of trust, he knelt down, and fervently prayed for the little household, not forgetting the two mysteriously missing members. His words were like "apples of old in pictures of silver" to the afflicted household.

And as Mrs. Willard bade him good night, her radiant face reflected her inward peace.