The lessons went on, and the interest on both sides knew no flagging. Dallas had begun by way of experiment, and he was quite contented with his success. In his room, over Latin and botany, at her own home, over history and the boxes of coins, he and Esther daily spent a good deal of time together. They were pleasant enough hours to him; but to her they were sources of life-giving nourishment and delight. The girl had been leading a forlorn existence; mentally in a desert and alone; and, added to that, with an unappeased longing for her departed mother, and silent, quiet, wearing grief for the loss of her. Even now, her features often settled into the dulness which had so struck Dallas; but gradually there was a lightening and lifting of the cloud: when studying she was wholly intent on her business, and when talking or reciting or examining flowers there was a play of life and thought and feeling in her face which was a constant study to her young teacher, as well as pleasure, for the change was his work. He read indications of strong capacity; he saw the tokens of rare sensitiveness and delicacy; he saw there was a power of feeling as well as a capacity for suffering covered by the quiet composure and reserve of manner and habit which, he knew, were rather signs of the depth of that which they covered. Esther interested him. And then, she was so simply upright and honest, and so noble in all her thoughts, so high-bred by nature as well as education, that her young teacher's estimation constantly grew, and to interest was soon added liking. He had half expected that when the novelty was off the pleasure of study would be found to falter; but it was no such matter. Esther studied as honestly as if she had been a fifth form boy at a good school; with a delight in it which boys at school, in any form, rarely bring to their work. She studied absorbedly, eagerly, persistently; whatever pleasure she might get by the way, she was plainly bent on learning; and she learned of course fast. And in the botanical studies they carried on together, and in the historical studies which had the coins for an illumination, the child showed as keen enjoyment as other girls of her age are wont to feel in a story-book or in games and plays. Of games and plays Esther knew nothing; she had no young companions, and never had known any; her intercourse had been almost solely with father and mother, and now only the father was left to her. She would have been in danger of growing morbid in her sorrow and loneliness, and her whole nature might have been permanently and without remedy dwarfed, if at this time of her life she had been left to grow like the wild things in the woods, without sympathy or care. For some human plants need a good deal of both to develop them to their full richness and fragrance; and Esther was one of these. The loss of her mother had threatened to be an irreparable injury to her. Colonel Gainsborough was a tenderly affectionate father: still, like a good many men, he did not understand child nature, could not adapt himself to it, had no sort of notion of its wants, and no comprehension that it either needed or could receive and return his sympathy. So he did not give sympathy to his child, nor dreamed that she was in danger of starving for want of it. Indeed, he had never in his life given much sympathy to anybody, except his wife; and in the loss of his wife, Colonel Gainsborough thought so much of himself was lost that the remainder probably would not last long. He thought himself wounded to death. That it might be desirable, and that it might be duty to live for his daughter's sake, was an idea that had never entered his very masculine heart. Yet Colonel Gainsborough was a good man, and even had the power of being a tender one; he had been that towards his wife; but when she died he felt that life had gone from him.
All this, more or less, young Dallas came to discern and understand in the course of his associations with the father and daughter. And now it was with a little pardonable pride and a good deal of growing tenderness for the child, that he saw the change going on in Esther. She was always, now as before, quiet as a mouse in her father's presence; truly she was quiet as a mouse everywhere; but under the outward quiet Dallas could see now the impulse and throb of the strong and sensitive life within; the stir of interest and purpose and hope; the waking up of the whole nature; and he saw that it was a nature of great power and beauty. It was no wonder that the face through which this nature shone was one of rare power and beauty too. Others could see that, besides him.
'What a handsome little girl that is!' remarked the elder Dallas one evening. Esther had just left the house, and his son come into the room.
'It seems to me she is here a great deal,' Mrs. Dallas said, after a pause. The remark about Esther's good looks called forth no response. 'I see her coming and going pretty nearly every day.'
'Quite every day,' her son answered.
'And you go there every day!'
'I do. About that.'
'Very warm intercourse!'
'I don't know; not necessarily,' said young Dallas. 'The classics are rather cool—and Numismatics refreshing and composing.'
'Numismatics! You are not teaching that child Numismatics, I suppose?'
'She is teaching me.'
Mrs. Dallas was silent now, with a dissatisfied expression. Her husband repeated his former remark.
'She's a handsome little maid. Are you teaching her, Pitt?'
'A little, sir.'
'What, pray? if I may ask.'
'Teaching her to support existence. It about comes to that.'
'I do not understand you, I confess. You are oracular.'
'I did not understandher, until lately. It is what nobody else does, by the way.'
'Why should not anybody else understand her?' Mrs. Dallas asked.
'Should,—but they do not. That's a common case, you know, mother.'
'She has her father; what's the matter with him?'
'He thinks a good deal is the matter with him.'
'Regularly hipped,' said the elder Dallas. 'He has never held up his head since his wife died. He fancies he is going after her as fast as he can go. Perhaps he is; such fancies are often fatal.'
'It would do him good to look after his child,' Mrs. Dallas said.
'I wish you would put that in his head, mother.'
'Does henotlook after her?'
'In a sort of way. He knows where she is and where she goes; he has a sort of outward care of her, and so far it is very particular care; but there it stops.'
'She ought to be sent to school.'
'There is no school here fit for her.'
'Then she should be sent away, where thereisa school fit for her.'
'Tell the colonel so.'
'I shall not meddle in Colonel Gainsborough's affairs,' said Mrs. Dallas, bridling a little; 'he is able to manage them himself; or he thinks he is, which comes to the same thing. But I should say, that child might better be in any other hands than his.'
'Well, she is not shut up to them,' said young Dallas, 'since I have taken her in hand.'
He strolled out of the room as he spoke, and the two elder people were left together. Silence reigned between them till the sound of his steps had quite ceased to be heard.
Mrs. Dallas was working at some wool embroidery, and taking her stitches with a thoughtful brow; her husband in his easy-chair was carelessly turning over the pages of a newspaper. They were a contrast. She had a tall, commanding figure, a gracious but dignified manner, and a very handsome, stately face. There was nothing commanding, and nothing gracious, about Mr. Dallas. His figure was rather small, and his manner insignificant. He was not a handsome man, either, although he may be said to have but just missed it, for his features were certainly good; but he did miss it. Nobody spoke in praise of Mr. Dallas's appearance. Yet his face showed sense; his eyes were shrewd, if they were also cold; and the mouth was good; but the man's whole air was unsympathetic. It was courteous enough; and he was careful and particular in his dress. Indeed, Mr. Dallas was careful of all that belonged to him. He wore long English whiskers of sandy hair, the head crop being very thin and kept very close.
'Hildebrand,' said Mrs. Dallas when the sound of her son's footsteps had died away, 'when are you going to send Pitt to college?'
Mr. Dallas turned another page of his newspaper, and did not hurry his answer.
'Why?'
'Andwhereare you going to send him?'
'Really,' said Mr. Dallas, without ceasing his contemplation of the page before him, 'I do not know. I have not considered the matter lately.'
'Do you remember he is eighteen?'
'I thought you were not ready to let him go yet?'
Mrs. Dallas stopped her embroidery and sighed.
'But he must go, husband.'
Mr. Dallas made no answer. He seemed not to find the question pressing.Mrs. Dallas sat looking at him now, neglecting her work.
'You have got to make up your mind to it, and so have I,' she went on presently. 'He is ready for college. All this pottering over the classics with Colonel Gainsborough doesn't amount to anything. It keeps him out of idleness,—if Pitt ever could be idle,—but he has got to go to college after all, sooner or later. He must go!' she repeated with another sigh.
'No special hurry, that I see.'
'What's gained by delay? He's eighteen. That's long enough for him to have lived in a place like this. If I had my way, Hildebrand, I should send him to England.'
'England!' Mr. Dallas put down his paper now and looked at his wife.What had got into her head?
'Oxford is better than the things they call colleges in this country.'
'Yes; but it is farther off.'
'That's not a bad thing, in some respects. Hildebrand, you don't want Pitt to be formed upon the model of things in this country. You would not have him get radical ideas, or Puritanical.'
'Not much danger!'
'I don't know.'
'Who's to put them in his head? Gainsborough is not a bit of a radical.'
'He is not one of us,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'And Pitt is very independent, and takes his own views from nobody or from anybody. See his educating this girl, now.'
'Educating her!'
'Yes, he is with her and her father a great piece of every day; reading and talking and walking and drying flowers and giving lessons. I don't know what all they are doing. But in my opinion Pitt might be better employed.'
'That won't last,' said the father with a half laugh.
'What ought not to last, had better not be begun,' Mrs. Dallas said sententiously.
There was a pause.
'What are you afraid of, wife?'
'I am afraid of Pitt's wasting his time.'
'You have never been willing to have him go until now. I thought you stood in the way.'
'He was not wasting his time until lately. He was as well at home. But there must come an end to that,' the mother said, with another slight sigh. She was not a woman given to sighing; it meant much from her.
'But England?' said Mr. Dallas. 'What's your notion about England?Oxford is very well, but the ocean lies between.'
'Where wouldyousend him?'
'I'd send him to the best there is on this side.'
'That's not Oxford. I believe it would be good for him to be out of this country for a while; forget some of his American notions, and get right English ones. Pitt is a little too independent.'
The elder Dallas caressed his whiskers and pondered. If the truth were told, he had been about as unwilling to let his son go away from home as ever his mother could be. Pitt was simply the delight and pride of both their hearts; the one thing they lived for; the centre of all hopes, and the end of all undertakings. No doubt he must go to college; but the evil day had been pushed far off, as far as possible. Pitt was a son for parents to be proud of. He had the good qualities of both father and mother, with some added of his own which they did not share, and which perhaps therefore increased their interest in him.
'I expect he will have a word to say about the matter himself,' the father remarked. 'Oh, well! there's no raging hurry, wife.'
'Husband, it would be a good thing for him to see the English Church as it is in England, before he gets much older.'
'What then?'
'He would learn to value it. The cathedrals, and the noble services in them, and the bishops; and the feeling that everybody around him goes the same way; there's a great deal of power in that. Pitt would be impressed by it.'
'By the feeling that everybody around him goes that way? Not he. That's quite as likely to stir him up to go another way.'
'It don't work so, Hildebrand.'
'You think he's a likely fellow to be talked over into anything?'
'No; but he would be influenced. Nobody would try to talk him over, and without knowing it he would feel the influence. He couldn't help it. All the influence at Oxford would be the right way.'
'Afraid of the colonel? I don't think you need. He hasn't spirit enough left in him for proselyting.'
'I am not speaking of anybody in particular. I am afraid of the air here.'
Mr. Dallas laughed a little, but his face took a shade of gravity it had not worn. Must he send his son away? What would the house be without him?
Whatever thoughts were harboured in the elder heads, nothing was spoken openly, and no steps were taken for some time. All through the summer the pleasant intercourse went on, and the lessons, and the botanizing, and the study of coins. And much real work was done; but for Esther one invaluable and abiding effect of a more general character was gained. She was lifted out of her dull despondency, which had threatened to become stagnation, and restored to her natural life and energy and the fresh spring of youthful spirits. So, when her friend really went away to college in the fall, Esther did not slip back to the condition from which he had delivered her.
But the loss of him was a dreadful loss to the child, although Pitt was not going over the sea, and would be home at Christmas. He tried to comfort her with this prospect. Esther took no comfort. She sat silent, tearless, pale, in a kind of despair. Pitt looked at her, half amused, half deeply concerned.
'And you must go on with all your studies, Esther, you know,' he was saying. 'I will show you what to do, and when I come home I shall go into a very searching examination to see whether you have done it all thoroughly.'
'Will you?' she said, lifting her eyes to him with a gleam of sudden hope.
'Certainly! I shall give you lessons just as usual whenever I come home; indeed, I expect I shall do it all your life. I think I shall always be teaching and you always be learning. Don't you think that is how it will be, Queen Esther?' he said kindly.
'You cannot give me lessons when you are away.'
'But when I come back!'
There was a very faint yet distinct lightening of the gloom in her face. Yet it was plain Esther was not cheated out of her perception of the truth. She was going to lose her friend; and his absence would be very different from his presence; and the bits of vacation time would not help, or help only by anticipation, the long stretches of months in which there would be neither sight nor sound of him. Esther's looks had brightened for a moment, but then her countenance fell again and her face grew visibly pale. Pitt saw it with dismay.
'But Esther!' he said, 'this is nothing. Every man must go to college, you know, just as he must learn swimming and boating; and so I must go; but it will not last for ever.'
'How long?' said she, lifting her eyes to him again, heavy with their burden of sorrow.
'Well, perhaps three years; unless I enter Junior, and then it would be only two. That isn't much.'
'What will you do then?'
'Then? I don't know. Look after you, at any rate. Let us see. How old will you be in two years?'
'Almost fourteen.'
'Fourteen. Well, you see you will have a great deal to do before you can afford to be fourteen years old; so much that you will not have time to miss me.'
Esther made no answer.
'I'll be back at Christmas anyhow, you know; and that's only three months away, or a little more.'
'For how long?'
'Never mind; we will make a little do the work of a great deal. It will seem a long time, it will be so good.'
'No,' said Esther; 'that will make it only the shorter.'
'Why, Esther,' said he, half laughing, 'I didn't know you cared so much about me. I don't deserve all that.'
'I am not crying,' said the girl, rising with a sort of childish dignity; 'but I shall be alone.'
They had been sitting on a rock, resting and talking, and now set out again to go home. Esther spoke no more; and Pitt was silent, not knowing what to say; but he watched her, and saw that if she had not been crying at the time she had made that declaration, the tears had taken their revenge and were coming now. Yet only in a calm, repressed way; now and then he saw a drop fall, or caught a motion of Esther's hand which could only have been made to prevent a drop from falling. She walked along steadily, turning neither to the right hand nor the left; she who ordinarily watched every hedgerow and ran to explore every group of plants in the corner of a field, and was keen to see everything that was to be seen in earth or heaven. Pitt walked along silently too. He was at a careless age, but he was a generous-minded fellow; and to a mind of that sort there is something exceedingly attractive and an influence exceedingly powerful in the fact of being trusted and depended on.
'Mother,' he said when he got home, 'I wish you would look after that little girl now and then.'
'What little girl?'
'You must know whom I mean; the colonel's daughter.'
'The colonel is sufficient for that, I should say.'
'But you know what sort of a man he is. And she has no mother, nor anybody else, except servants.'
'Isn't he fond of her?'
'Very fond; but then he isn't well, and he is a reserved, silent man; the child is left to herself in a way that is bad for her.'
'What do you suppose I can do?'
'A great deal; if you once knew her and got fond of her, mother.'
Mrs. Dallas made no promise; however, she did go to see Esther. It was about a week after Pitt's departure. She found father and daughter very much as her son had found them the day he was introduced to the box of coins. Esther was on the floor, beside the same box, and the colonel was on his sofa. Mrs. Dallas did take the effect of the picture for that moment before the colonel sprang up to receive her. Then she had to do with a somewhat formal but courtly host, and the picture was lost. The lady sat there, stately in her silks and laces, carrying on a stiff conversation; for she and Colonel Gainsborough had few points of sympathy or mutual understanding; and for a while she forgot Esther. Then her eye again fell upon the child in her corner, sitting by her box with a sad, uninterested air.
'And how is Esther?' she said, turning herself a little towards that end of the room. 'Really I came to see Esther, colonel. How does she do?'
'She is much obliged to you, and quite well, madam, I believe.'
'But she must want playmates, colonel. Why don't you send her to school?'
'I would, if there were a good school at hand.'
'There are schools at New Haven, and Hartford, and Boston,—plenty of schools that would suit you.'
'Only that, as you observe, they are at New Haven, and Hartford, andBoston; out of my reach.'
'You couldn't do without her for a while?'
'I hardly think it; nor she without me. We are all, each of us, that the other has.'
'Pitt used to give you lessons, didn't he?' the lady went on, turning more decidedly to Esther. Esther rose and came near.
'Yes, ma'am.'
'What did he teach you?'
Now Esther felt no more congeniality than her father did with this handsome, stately, commanding woman. Yet it would have been impossible to the girl to say why she had an instant unwillingness to answer this simple question. She did not answer it, except under protest.
'It began with the coins,' she said vaguely. 'He said we would study history with them.'
'And did you?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'How did you manage it? or how did he? He has original ways of doing things.'
'Yes, ma'am. We used to take only one or two of the coins at once, and then Pitt told me what to read.'
'What did he tell you to read?'
'A great many different books, at different times.'
'But tell Mrs. Dallas what books, Esther,' her father put in.
'There were so many, papa. Gibbon's History, and Plutarch's Lives, andRollin, and Vertot and Hume, and I—forget some of them.'
'How much of all these did you really read, Esther?'
'I don't know, ma'am. I read what he told me.'
The lady turned to Colonel Gainsborough with a peculiar smile. 'Sounds rather heterogeneous!' she said.
It was on Esther's lips to justify her teacher, and say how far from heterogeneous, how connected, and how thorough, and how methodical, the reading and the study had been; and how enriched with talk and explanations and descriptions and discussions. How delightful those conversations were, both to herself and Pitt; how living the truth had been made; how had names and facts taken on them the shape and colouring of nature and reality. It rushed back upon Esther, and her lips opened; and then, an inexplicable feeling of something like caution came down upon her, and she shut her lips again.
'It was harmless amusement,' remarked the colonel carelessly.
Whether the mother thought that, may be questioned. She looked again at the child standing before her; a child truly, with childlike innocence and ignorance in her large eyes and pure lips. But the eyes were eyes of beauty; and the lips would soon and readily take to themselves the sweetness and the consciousness of womanhood, and a new bloom would come upon the cheek. The colonel had never yet looked forward to all that; but the wise eyes of the matron saw it as well as if already before her. This little girl might well by and by be dangerous. If Mrs. Dallas had come as a friend, she went away, in a sort, as an enemy, in so far, at least, as Esther's further and future relations with her son were concerned.
The colonel went back to his sofa. Esther sat down again by the coins. She was not quite old enough to reflect much upon the developments of human nature as they came before her; but she was conscious of a disagreeable, troubled sensation left by this visit of Mrs. Dallas. It had not been pleasant. It ought to have been pleasant: she was Pitt's mother; she came on a kind errand; but Esther felt at once repelled and put at a distance.
The child had not gone back to the dull despondency of the time before Pitt busied himself with her; she was striving to fulfil all his wishes, and working hard in order to accomplish more than he expected of her. With the cherished secret hope of doing this, Esther was driving at her books early and late. She went from the coins to the histories Pitt had told her would illustrate them; she fagged away at the dry details of her Latin grammar; she even tried to push her knowledge of plants and see further into their relations with each other, though in this department she felt the want of her teacher particularly. From day to day it was the one pressing desire and purpose in Esther's mind, to do more, and if possible much more, than Pitt wanted her to do; so that she might surprise him and win his respect and approbation. She thought, too, that she was in a fair way to do this, for she was gaining knowledge fast, she knew; and it was a great help towards keeping up spirit and hope and healthy action in her mind. Nevertheless, she missed her companion and friend, with an intense longing want of him which nobody even guessed. All the more keen it was, perhaps, because she could speak of it to nobody. It consumed the girl in secret, and was only saved from being disastrous to her by the transformation of it into working energy, which transformation daily went on anew. It did not help her much, or she thought so, to remember that Pitt was coming home at the end of December. He would not stay; and Esther was one of those thoughtful natures that look all round a subject, and are not deceived by a first fair show. He could not stay; and what would his coming and the delight of it do, after all, but renew this terrible sense of want and make it worse than ever? When he went away again, it would be for a long, long time,—an absence of months; how was it going to be borne?
The problem of life was beginning early for Esther. And the child was alone. Nobody knew what went on in her; she had nobody to whom she could open her heart and tell her trouble; and the troubles we can tell to nobody else somehow weigh very heavy, especially in young years. The colonel loved his child with all of his heart that was not buried in his wife's grave; still, he was a man, and like most men had little understanding of the workings of a child's mind, above all of a girl's. He saw Esther pale, thoughtful, silent, grave, for ever busy with her books; and it never crossed his thoughts that such is not the natural condition and wholesome manner of life for twelve years old. He knew nothing for himself so good as books; why should not the same be true for Esther? She was a studious child; he was glad to see her so sensible.
As for Pitt, he had fallen upon a new world, and was busily finding his feet, as it were. Finding his own place, among all these other aspirants for human distinction; testing his own strength, among the combatants in this wrestling school of human life; earning his laurels in the race for learning; making good his standing and trying his power amid the waves and currents of human influence. Pitt found his standing good, and his strength quite equal to the call for it, and his power dominating. At least it would have been dominating, if he had cared to rule; all he cared for, as it happened, in that line, was to be independent and keep his own course. He had done that always at home, and he found no difficulty in doing it at college. For the rest, his abilities were unquestioned, and put him at once at the head of his fellows.
Without being at all an unfaithful friend, it must be confessed Pitt's mind during this time was full of the things pertaining to his own new life, and he thought little of Esther. He thought little of anybody; he was not at a sentimental age, nor at all of a sentimental disposition, and he had enough else to occupy him. It was not till he had put the college behind him, and was on his journey home, that Esther's image rose before his mental vision; the first time perhaps for months. It smote him then with a little feeling of compunction. He recollected the child's sensitive nature, her clinging to him, her lonely condition; and the grave, sad eyes seemed to reproach him with having forgotten her. He had not forgotten her; he had only not remembered. He might have taken time to write her one little letter; but he had not thought of it. Had she ceased to think ofhimin any corresponding way? Pitt was very sure she had not. Somehow his fancy was very busy with Esther during this journey home. He was making amends for months of neglect. Her delicate, tender, faithful image seemed to stand before him;—forgetfulness would never be charged upon Esther, nor carelessness of anything she ought to care for;—of that he was sure. He was quite ashamed of himself, that he had sent her never a little token of remembrance in all this time. He recalled the girl's eagerness in study, her delight in learning, her modest, well-bred manner; her evident though unconscious loving devotion to himself, and her profound grief at his going away. There were very noble qualities in that young girl that would develop—into what might they develop? and how would those beautiful thoughtful eyes look from a woman's soul by and by? Had his mother complied with his request and shown any kindness to the child? Pitt had no special encouragement to think so. And what a life it must be for such a creature, at twelve years old, to be alone with that taciturn, reserved, hypochondriac colonel?
It was near evening when the stage-coach brought Pitt to his native village and set him down at home. There was no snow on the ground yet, and his steps rang on the hard frozen path as he went up to the door, giving clear intimation of his approach. Within there was waiting. The mother and father were sitting at the two sides of the fireplace, busy with keeping up the fire to an unmaintainable standard of brilliancy, and looking at the clock; now and then exchanging a remark about the weather, the way, the distance, and the proper time of the expected arrival,—till that sharp sound of a step on the gravel came to their ears, and both parents started up and rushed to the door. There was a general confusion of kisses and hand-clasps and embraces, from which Pitt at last emerged.
'Oh, my boy, how late you are!'
'Not at all, mother; just right.'
'A tedious, cold ride, hadn't you?'
'No, mother; not at all. Roads in capital order; smooth as a plank floor; came along splendidly; but there'll be snow to-morrow.'
'Oh, I hope not, till you get the greens!'
'Oh, I'll get the greens, never fear; and put them up, too.'
Wherewith they entered the brilliantly-lighted room, where the supper table stood ready, and all eyes could meet eyes, and read tokens each of the other's condition.
'He looks well,' said Mrs. Dallas, regarding her son.
'Why shouldn't I look well?'
'Hard work,' suggested the mother.
'Work is good for a fellow. I never got hard work enough yet. But home is jolly, mother. That's the use of going away, I suppose,' said the young man, drawing a chair comfortably in front of the fire; while Mrs. Dallas rang for supper and gave orders, and then sat down to gaze at him with those mother's eyes that are like nothing else in the world. Searching, fond, proud, tender, devoted,—Pitt met them and smiled.
'I am all right,' he said.
'Looks so,' said the father contentedly. 'Hold your own, Pitt?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Ahead of everybody?'
'Yes, sir,' said the young man, a little more reservedly.
'I knew it!' said the elder man, rubbing his hands; 'I thought I knew it. I made sure you would.'
'He hasn't worked too hard either,' said the mother, with a careful eye of examination. 'He looks as he ought to look.'
A bright glance of the eye came to her. 'I tell you I never had enough to do yet,' he said.
'And, Pitt, do you like it?'
'Like what, mother?'
'The place, and the work, and the people?—the students and the professors?'
'That's what I should call a comprehensive question! You expect one yes or no to cover all that?'
'Well, how do you like the people?'
'Mother, when you get a community like that of a college town, you have something of a variety of material, don't you see? The people are all sorts. But the faculty are very well, and some of them capital fellows.'
'Have you gone into society much?'
'No, mother. Had something else to do.'
'Time enough for that,' said the elder Dallas contentedly. 'When a man has the money you'll have, my boy, he may pretty much command society.'
'Some sorts,' said Pitt.
'All sorts.'
'Must be a poor kind of society, I should say, that makes money the first thing.'
'It's the best sort you can get in this world,' said the elder man, chuckling. 'There's nothing but money that will buy bread and butter; and they all want bread and butter. You'll find they all want bread and butter, whatever else they want,—or have.'
'Of course they want it; but what has that to do with society?'
'You'll find out,' said the other, with an unctuous kind of complacency.
'But there's no society in this country,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'Now, Pitt, turn your chair round,—here's the supper,—if you want to sit by the fire, that is.'
The supper was a royal one, for Mrs. Dallas was a good housekeeper; and the tone of it was festive, for the spirits of them all were in a very gay and Christmas mood. So it was with a good deal of surprise as well as chagrin that Mrs. Dallas, after supper, saw her son handling his greatcoat in the hall.
'Pitt, you are not going out?'
'Yes, mother, for a little while.'
'Where can you be going?'
'I want to run over to Colonel Gainsborough's for a minute or two.'
'Colonel Gainsborough! You don't want to see him to-night?'
'Neither to-night nor any time—at least I can live without it; but there's somebody else there that would like to see me. I'll be back soon, mother.'
'But, Pitt, that is quite absurd! That child can wait till morning, surely; and I want you myself. I think I have a better claim.'
'You have had me a good while already, and shall have me again,' said Pitt, laughing. 'I am just going to steal a little bit of the evening, mother. Be generous!'
And he opened the hall door and was off, and the door closed behind him. Mrs. Dallas went back to the supper room with a very discomfited face.
'Hildebrand,' she said, in a tone that made her husband look up, 'there is no help for it! We shall have to send him to England.'
'What now?'
'Just what I told you. He's off to see that child. Off like the North wind!—and no more to be held.'
'That's nothing new. He never could be held. Pity we didn't name himBoreas.'
'But do you see what he is doing?'
'No.'
'He is off to see that child.'
'That child to-day, and another to-morrow. He's a boy yet.'
'Hildebrand, I tell you there is danger.'
'Danger of what?'
'Of what you would not like.'
'My dear, young men do not fall dangerously in love with children. And that little girl is a child yet.'
'You forget how soon she will be not a child. And she is going to be a very remarkable-looking girl, I can tell you. And you must not forget another thing, husband; that Pitt is as persistent as he is wilful.'
'He's got a head, I think,' said Mr. Dallas, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.
'Thatwon't save him. It never saved anybody. Men with heads are just as much fools, in certain circumstances, as men without them.'
'He might fancy some other child in England, if we sent him there, you know.'
'Yes; but at least she would be a Churchwoman,' said Mrs. Dallas, with her handsome face all cloudy and disturbed.
Meanwhile her son had rushed along the village street, or road rather, through the cold and darkness, the quarter of a mile to Colonel Gainsborough's house. There he was told that the colonel had a bad headache and was already gone to his room.
'Is Miss Esther up?'
'Oh yes, sir,' said Mrs. Barker doubtfully, but she did not invite the visitor in.
'Can I see her for a moment?'
'I haven't no orders, but I suppose you can come in, Mr. Dallas. It isMr. Dallas, ain't it?'
'Yes, it's I, Mrs. Barker,' said Pitt, coming in and beginning at once to throw off his greatcoat. 'In the usual room? Is the colonel less well than common?'
'Well, no, sir, not to call less well, as I knows on. It's the time o' year, sir, I make bold to imagine. He has a headache bad, that he has, and he's gone off to bed; but Miss Esther's well—so as she can be.'
Pitt got out of his greatcoat and gloves, and waited for no more. He had a certain vague expectation of the delight his appearance would give, and was a little eager to see it. So he went in with a bright face to surprise Esther.
The girl was sitting by the table reading a book she had laid close under the lamp; reading with a very grave face, Pitt saw too, and it a little sobered the brightness of his own. It was not the dulness of stagnation or of sorrow this time; at least Esther was certainly busily reading; but it was sober, steady business, not the absorption of happy interest or excitement. She looked up carelessly as the door opened, then half incredulously as she saw the entering figure, then she shut her book and rose to meet him. But then she did not show the lively pleasure he had expected; her face flushed a little, she hardly smiled, she met him as if he were more or less a stranger,—with much more dignity and less eagerness than he was accustomed to from her. Pitt was astonished, and piqued, and curious. However, he followed her lead, in a measure.
'How do you do, Queen Esther?' he said, holding out his hand.
'How do you do, Pitt?' she answered, taking it; but with the oddest mingling of reserve and doubt in her manner; and the great grave eyes were lifted to his face for a moment, with, it seemed to him, something of inquiry or questioning in them.
'Are you not glad to see me?'
'Yes,' she said, with another glance.
'Thenwhyare you not glad to see me?' he asked impetuously.
'I am glad to see you, of course,' she said. 'Won't you sit down?'
'This won't do, you know,' said the young man, half-vexed and half-laughing, but wholly determined not to be kept at a distance in this manner. 'I am not going to sit down, if you are going to treat me like that.'
'Treat you how?'
'Why, as if I were a stranger, that you didn't care a pin about. What's the matter, Queen Esther?'
Esther was silent. Pitt was half-indignant; and then he caught the shimmer of something like moisture in the eyes, which were looking away from him to the fire, and his mood changed.
'What is it, Esther?' he said kindly. 'Take a seat, your majesty, andI'll do the same. I see there is some talking to be done here.'
He took the girl's hand and put her in her chair, and himself drew up another near. 'Now what's the matter, Esther? Have you forgotten me?'
'No,' she said. 'But I thought—perhaps—you had forgotten me.'
'What made you think that?'
'You were gone away,' she said, hesitating; 'you were busy; papa said'—
'What did he say?'
'He said, probably I would never see you much more.'
But here the tears came to view undeniably; welled up, and filled the eyes, and rolled over. Esther brushed them hastily away.
'And I hadn't the decency to write to you? Had that something to do with it?'
'I thought—if youhadremembered me, you would perhaps have written, just a little word,' Esther confessed, with some hesitation and difficulty. Pitt was more touched and sorry than he would have supposed before that such a matter could make him.
'Look here, Esther,' he said. 'There are two or three things I want you to take note of. The first is, that you must never judge by appearances.'
'Why not?' asked Esther, considering him and this statement together.
'Because they are deceptive. They mislead.'
'Do they?'
'Very frequently.'
'What is one to judge by, then?'
'Depends. In this case, by your knowledge of the person concerned.'
Esther looked at him, and a warmer shine came into her eye.
'Yes,' she said, 'I thought it was not like you to forget. But then, papa said I would not be likely to see much more of you—ever'—(Esther got the words out with some difficulty, without, however, breaking down)—'and I thought, I had to get accustomed to doing without you—and I had better do it.'
'Whyshould you not see much more of me?' Pitt demanded energetically.
'You would be going away.'
'And coming back again!'
'But going to England, perhaps.'
'Who said that?'
'I don't know. I think Mrs. Dallas told papa.'
'Well, now look here, Queen Esther,' Pitt said, more moderately: 'I told you, in the first place, you are not to judge by appearances. Do you see that you have been mistaken in judging me?'
She looked at him, a look that moved him a good deal, there was so much wistfulness in it; so much desire revealed to find him what she had found him in times past, along with the dawning hope that she might.
'Yes,' said he, nodding, 'you have been mistaken, and I did not expect it of you, Queen Esther. I don't think I am changeable; but anyhow, I haven't changed towards you. I have but just got home this evening; and I ran away from home and my mother as soon as we had done supper, that I might come and see you.'
Esther smiled: she was pleased, he saw.
'And in the next place, as to that crotchet of your not seeing much more of me, I can't imagine how it ever got up; but it isn't true, anyhow. I expect you'll see an immense deal of me. I may go some time to England; about that I can't tell; but if I go, I shall come back again, supposing I am alive. And now, do you see that it would be very foolish of you to try to get accustomed to doing without me? for I shall not let you do it.'
'I don't want to do it,' said Esther confidingly; 'for you know I have nobody else except you and papa.'
'What put such an absurd notion in your head! You a Stoic, QueenEsther! You look like it!'
'What is a Stoic?'
'The sort of people that bite a nail in two, and smile as if it were a stick of peppermint candy.'
'I didn't know there were any such people.'
'No, naturally. So it won't do for you to try to imitate them.'
'But I was not trying anything like that.'
'What were you trying to do, then?'
Esther hesitated.
'I thought—I must do without you; and so—I thought I had better not think about you.'
'Did you succeed?'
'Not very well. But—I suppose I could, in time.'
'See you don't! What do you think in that caseIshould do?'
'Oh, you!' said Esther; 'that is different. I thought you would not care.'
'Did you! You did me honour. Now, Queen Esther, let us understand this matter. I do care, and I am going to care, and I shall always care. Do you believe it?'
'I always believe what you say,' said the girl, with a happy change in her face, which touched Pitt again curiously. Somehow, the contrast between his own strong, varied, rich, and active life, with its abundance of resources and enjoyments, careless and satisfied,—and this little girl alone at home with her cranky father, and no variety or change or outlook or help, struck him painfully. It would hardly have struck most young men; but Pitt, with all his rollicking waywardness and self-pleasing, had a fine fibre in him which could feel things. Then Esther's nature, he knew, was one rich in possibilities; to which life was likely to bring great joy or great sorrow; more probably both.
'What book have you got there?' he asked suddenly.
'Book?—Oh, the Bible.'
'The Bible! That's something beyond your comprehension, isn't it?'
'No,' said Esther. 'What made you think it was?'
'Always heard it wasn't the thing for children. What set you at that,Queen Esther? Reading about your namesake?'
'I have read about her. I wasn't reading about her to-night.'
'What were you after, then?'
'It's mamma's Bible,' said Esther rather slowly; 'and she used to say it was the best place to go for comfort.'
'Comfort! What do you want comfort for, Esther?'
'Nothing, now,' she said, with a smile. 'I am so glad you are come!'
'Whatdidyou want comfort for, then?' said he, taking her hand, and holding it while he looked into her eyes.
'I don't know—papa had gone to bed, and I was alone—and somehow it seemed lonesome.'
'Will you go with me to-morrow after Christmas greens?'
'Oh, may I?' cried the girl, with such a flush of delight coming into eyes and cheeks and lips, that Pitt was almost startled.
'I don't think I could enjoy it unless you came. And then you will help me dress the rooms.'
'What rooms?'
'Our rooms at home. And now, what have you been doing since I have been away?'
All shadows were got rid of; and there followed a half-hour of most eager intercourse, questions and answers coming thick upon one another. Esther was curious to hear all that Pitt would tell her about his life and doings at college; and, nothing loath, Pitt gave it her. It interested him to watch the play of thought and interest in the child's features as he talked. She comprehended him, and she seemed to take in without difficulty the strange nature and conditions of his college world.
'Do you have to study hard?' she asked.
'That's as I please. One must study hard to be distinguished.'
'And you will be distinguished, won't you?'
'What do you think? Do you care about it?'
'Yes, I care,' said Esther slowly.
'You were not anxious about me?'
'No,' she said, smiling. 'Papa said you would be sure to distinguish yourself.'
'Did he? I am very much obliged to Colonel Gainsborough.'
'What for?'
'Why, for his good opinion.'
'But he couldn't help his opinion,' said Esther.
'Queen Esther,' said Pitt, laughing, 'I don't know about that. People sometimes hold opinions they have no business to hold, and that they would not hold, if they were not perverse-minded.'
Esther's face had all changed since he came in. The premature gravity and sadness was entirely dispersed; the eyes were full of beautiful light, the mouth taking a great many curves corresponding to as many alternations and shades of sympathy, and a slight colour of interest and pleasure had risen in the cheeks. If Pitt had vanity to gratify, it was gratified; but he had something better, he had a genuine kindness and liking for the little girl, which had suffered absolute pain, when he saw how his absence and silence had worked. Now the two were in full enjoyment of the old relations and the old intercourse, when the door opened, and Mrs. Barker's head appeared.
'Miss Esther, it's your time.'
'Time for what?' asked Pitt.
'It's my time for going to bed,' said Esther, rising. 'I'll come, Mrs.Barker.'
'Queen Esther, does that woman say what you are to do and not do?' saidPitt, in some indignation.
'Oh no; but papa. He likes me not to be up later than nine o'clock.'
'What has Barker to do with it? I think she wants putting in her place.'
'She always goes with me and attends to me. Yes, I must go,' saidEsther.
'But the colonel is not here to be disturbed.'
'He would be disturbed, if I didn't go at the right time. Good-night,Pitt.'
'Well, till to-morrow,' said the young man, taking Esther's hand and kissing it. 'But this is what I call a very summary proceeding. Queen Esther, does your majesty always do what you are expected to do, and take orders from everybody!'
'No; only from papa and you. Good-night, Pitt. Yes, I'll be ready to-morrow.'
Pitt walked home, half amused at himself that he should take so much pains about this little girl, at the same time very firmly resolved that nothing should hinder him. Perhaps his liking for her was deeper than he knew; it was certainly real; while his kindly and generous temper responded promptly to every appeal that her affection and confidence made upon him. Affection and confidence are very winning things, even if not given by a beautiful girl who will soon be a beautiful woman; but looking out from Esther's innocent eyes, they went down into the bottom of young Dallas's heart. And besides, his nature was not only kind and noble; it was obstinate. Opposition, to him, in a thing he thought good to pursue, was like blows of a hammer on a nail; drove the purpose farther in.
So he made himself, it is true, very pleasant indeed to his parents at home, that night and the next morning; but then he went with Esther after cedar and hemlock branches. It may be asked, what opposition had he hitherto found to his intercourse with the colonel's daughter? And it must be answered, none. Nevertheless, Pitt felt it in the air, and it had the effect on him that the north wind and cold are said to have upon timber.
It was a day of days for Esther. First the delightful roving walk, and cutting the greens, which were bestowed in a cart that attended them; then the wonderful novelty of dressing the house. Esther had never seen anything of the kind before, which did not hinder her, however, from giving very good help. The hall, the sitting-room, the drawing-room, and even Pitt's particular, out-of-the-way work-room, all were wreathed and adorned and dressed up, each after its manner. For Pitt would not have one place a repetition of another. The bright berries of the winterberry and bittersweet were mingled with the dark shade of the evergreens in many ingenious ways; but the crowning triumph of art, perhaps, to Esther's eyes, was a motto in green letters, picked out with brilliant partridge berries, over the end of the sitting-room,—'Peace on earth.' Esther stood in delighted admiration before it, also pondering.
'Pitt,' she said at last, 'those partridge berries ought not to be in it.'
'Why not?' said Pitt, in astonishment. 'I think they set it off capitally.'
'Oh, so they do. I didn't mean that. They are beautiful, very. But you know what you said about them.'
'What did I say?'
'You said they were poison.'
'Poison! What then, Queen Esther? they won't hurt anybody up there. No partridge will get at them.'
'Oh no, it isn't that, Pitt; but I was thinking—Poison shouldn't be in that message of the angels.'
Pitt's face lighted up.
'Queen Esther,' said he solemnly, 'are you going to bethatsort of person?'
'What sort of person?'
'One of those whose spirits are attuned to finer issues than their neighbours? They are the stuff that poets are made of. You are not a poet, are you?'
'No, indeed!' said Esther, laughing.
'Don't! I think it must be uncomfortable to have to do with a poet. You may notice, that in nature the dwellers on the earth have nothing to do with the dwellers in the air.'
'Except to be food for them,' said Esther.
'Ah! Well,—leaving that,—I should never have thought about the partridge berries in that motto, and my mother would never have thought of it. For all that, you are right. What shall we do? take 'em down?'
'Oh, no, they look so pretty. And besides, I suppose, Pitt, by and by, poison itself will turn to peace.'
'What?' said Pitt. 'What is that? What can you mean, Queen Esther?'
'Only,' said Esther a little doubtfully, 'I was thinking. You know, when the time comes there will be nothing to hurt or destroy in all the earth; the wild beasts will not be wild, and so I suppose poison will not be poison.'
'The wild beasts will not be wild? Whatwillthey be, then?'
'Tame.'
'Where did you get that idea?'
'It is in the Bible. It is not an idea.'
'Are you sure?'
'Certainly. Mamma used to read it to me and tell me about it.'
'Well, you shall showmethe place some time. How do you like it, mother?'
This question being addressed to Mrs. Dallas, who appeared in the doorway. She gave great approval.
'Do you like the effect of the partridge berries?' Pitt asked.
'It is excellent, I think. They brighten it up finely.'
'What would you say if you knew they were poison?'
'That would not make any difference. They do no hurt unless you swallow them, I suppose.'
'Esther finds in them an emblem of the time when the message of peace shall have neutralized all the hurtful things in the world, and made them harmless.'
Mrs. Dallas's eye fell coldly upon Esther. 'I do not think the Church knows of any such time,' she answered, as she turned away. Pitt whistled for some time thereafter in silence.
The decorations were finished, and most lovely to Esther's eyes; then, when they were all done, she went home to tea. For getting the greens and putting them up had taken both the morning and the afternoon to accomplish. She went home gaily, with a brisk step and a merry heart, at the same time thinking busily.
Home, in its dull uniformity and stillness, was a contrast after the stir and freshness and prettiness of life in the Dallases's house. It struck Esther rather painfully. The room where she and her father took their supper was pleasant and homely indeed; a bright fire burned on the hearth, or in the grate, rather, and a bright lamp shone on the table; Barker had brought in the tea urn, and the business of preparing tea for her father was one that Esther always liked. But, nevertheless, the place approached too nearly a picture of still life. The urn hissed and bubbled, a comfortable sound; and now and then there was a falling coal or a jet of gas flame in the fire; but I think these things perhaps made the stillness more intense and more noticeable. The colonel sat on his sofa, breaking dry toast into his tea and thoughtfully swallowing it; he said nothing, unless to demand another cup; and Esther, though she had a healthy young appetite, could not quite stay the mental longing with the material supply. Besides, she was pondering something curiously.
'Papa,' she said at last, 'are you busy? May I ask you something?'
'Yes, my dear. What is it?'
'Papa, what is Christmas?'
The colonel looked up.
'What is Christmas?' he repeated. 'It is nothing, Esther; nothing at all. A name—nothing more.'
'Then, why do people think so much of Christmas?'
'They do not. Sensible people do not think anything of it. Christmas is nothing to me.'
'But, papa, why then does anybody make much of it? Mrs. Dallas has her house all dressed up with greens.'
'You had better keep away from Mrs. Dallas's.'
'But it looks so pretty, papa! Is there any harm in it?'
'Harm in what?'
'Dressing the house so? It is all hemlock wreaths, and cedar branches, and bright red berries here and there; and Pitt has put them up so beautifully! You can't think how pretty it all is. Is there any harm in that, papa?'
'Decidedly; in my judgment.'
'Why do they do it then, papa?'
'My dear, they have a foolish fancy that it is the time when Christ was born; and so in Romish times a special Popish mass was said on that day; and from that the twenty-fifth of December got its present name—Christ-mass; that is what it is.'
'Then He was not born the twenty-fifth of December?'
'No, nor in December at all. Nothing is plainer than that spring was the time of our Lord's coming into the world. The shepherds were watching their flocks by night; that could not have been in the depth of winter; it must have been in the spring.'
'Then why don't they have Christmas in springtime?'
'Don't askme, my dear; I don't know. The thing began in the ages of ignorance, I suppose; and as all it means now is a time of feasting and jollity, the dead of winter will do as well as another time. But it is a Popish observance, my child; it is a Popish observance.'
'There's no harm in it, papa, is there? if it means only feasting and jollity, as you say.'
'There is always harm in superstition. This is no more the time of Christ's birth than any other day that you could choose; but there is a superstition about it; and I object to giving a superstitious reverence to what is nothing at all. Reverence the Bible as much as you please; you cannot too much; but do not put any ordinance of man, whether it be of the Popish church or any other, on a level with what the Bible commands.'
The colonel had finished his toast, and was turning to his book again.
'Pitt has been telling me of the way they keep Christmas in England,' Esther went on. 'The Yule log, and the games, and the songs, and the plays.'
'Godless ways,' said the colonel, settling himself to his reading,—'godless ways! It is a great deal better in this country, where they make nothing of Christmas. No good comes of those things.'
Esther would disturb her father no more by her words, but she went on pondering, unsatisfied. In any question which put Mrs. Dallas and her father on opposite sides, she had no doubt whatever that her father must be in the right; but it was a pity, for surely in the present case Mrs. Dallas's house had the advantage. The Christmas decorations had been so pretty! the look of them was so bright and festive! the walls she had round her at home were bare and stiff and cold. No doubt her father must be right, but it was a pity!
The next day was Christmas day. Pitt being in attendance on his father and mother, busied with the religious and other observances of the festival, Esther did not see him till the afternoon. Late in the day, however, he came, and brought in his hands a large bouquet of hothouse flowers. If the two had been alone, Esther would have greeted him and them with very lively demonstrations; as it was, it amused the young man to see the sparkle in her eye, and the lips half opened for a cry of joy, and the sudden flush on her cheek, and at the same time the quiet, unexcited demeanour she maintained. Esther rose indeed, but then stood silent and motionless and said not a word; while Pitt paid his compliments to her father. A new fire flashed from her eye when at last he approached her and offered her the flowers.
'Oh, Pitt! Oh, Pitt!' was all Esther with bated breath could say. The colonel eyed the bouquet a moment and then turned to his book. He was on his sofa, and seemingly gave no further heed to the young people.
'Oh, Pitt, wherecouldyou get these?' The girl's breath was almost taken away.
'Only one place where I could get them. Don't you know old Macpherson's greenhouse?'
'But he don't let people in, I thought, in winter?'
'He letmein.'
'Oh, Pitt, how wonderful! What is this? Now you must tell me all the names. This beautiful white geranium with purple lines?'
'It's aPelargonium;belongs to the Geraniaceae; this one they call Mecranthon. It's a beauty, isn't it? This little white blossom is myrtle; don't you know myrtle?'
'And this geranium—this purple one?'
'That is Napoleon, and this Louise, and this Belle. This red magnificence is aMetrosideros;this white flower, is—I forget its name; butthis, this sweet one, is Daphne. Then here are two heaths; then this thick leaf isLaurustinus, and this other, with the red bud,Camellia japonica.'
'Oh, how perfectly beautiful!' exclaimed the delighted child. 'Oh, how perfectly beautiful! And this yellow flower?'
'Coronilla.'
'And this, is it aredwallflower?'
'A red wallflower; you are right.'
'How lovely! and how sweet! And these blue?'
'These little blue flowers areLobelia;they are cousins of the cardinal flower;thatisLobelia cardinalis;these areLobelia erinusandLobelia gracilis.'
He watched the girl, for under the surprise and pleasure of his gift her face was itself but a nobler flower, all glowing and flashing and fragrant. With eyes dewy with delight she hung over the bouquet, almost trembling in her eagerness of joy. She set the flowers carefully in a vase, with tender circumspection, lest a leaf might be wronged by chance crowding or inadvertent handling. Pitt watched and read it all. He felt a great compassion for Esther. This creature, full of life and sensibility, receptive to every influence, at twelve years old shut up to the company of a taciturn and melancholy father and an empty house! What would ever become of her? There was the colonel now, on the sofa, attending only to his book; caring nothing for what was so moving his child. Nobody cared, or was anywhere to sympathize with her. And if she grew up so, shut up to herself, every feeling and desire repressed for want of expression or of somebody to express it to, how would her nature ever develop? would it not grow stunted and poor, compared with what it might be? He was sorry for his little playmate and friend; and it did the young fellow credit, I think, for at his age boys are not wont to be tenderly sympathetic towards anything, unless it be a beloved mother or sister. Pitt silently watched the putting the flowers in water, speculating upon the very unhopeful condition of this little human plant, and revolving schemes in his mind.