It cost the colonel a strange amount of trouble to get to that talk. For an old soldier and man of the world to ask a little innocent girl about her meaning of words she had written, would seem a simple matter enough; but there was something about it that tied the colonel's tongue. He could not bring himself to broach the subject at breakfast, with the clear homely daylight streaming upon the breakfast table, and Esther moving about and attending to her usual morning duties; all he could do was to watch her furtively. This creature was growing up out of his knowledge; he looked to see what outward signs of change might be visible. He saw a fair, slim girl, no longer a little girl certainly, with a face that still was his child's face, he thought. And yet, as he looked, he slowly came to the conviction that it was the face of something more than a child. The old simplicity and the old purity were there indeed; but now there was a blessed calm upon the brow, and the calmness had a certain lofty quality; and the sweetness, which was more than ever, was refined and deep. It was not the sweetness of hilarious childhood, but something that had a more distant source than childhood draws from. The colonel ate his breakfast without knowing what he was eating; however, he could not talk to Esther at that time. He waited till evening had come round again, and the lamp was lit, and he was taking his toast and tea, with Esther ministering to him in her wonted course.
'How old are you, Esther?' he began suddenly.
'Near fifteen, papa.'
'Fifteen! Humph!'
'Why, papa? Had you forgotten?'
'At the moment.' Then he began again. 'I sent your letter off.'
'Thank you, papa.'
'It was sealed up. Why did you seal it? Did you mean me not to read it?'
Esther's eyes opened. 'I never thought about it, papa. I didn't know you would care to read it. I thought it must be sealed, and I sealed it.'
'I did care to read it, so I opened it. Had you any objection?'
'No, papa!' said Esther, wondering.
'And having opened it, I read it. I did not quite understand it,Esther.'
Esther made no reply.
'What do you wantcomfortso much for, my child? I thought you were happy—as happy as other children.'
'Iamhappy now, papa; more happy than other children.'
'But you were not?'
'No, papa; for a while I was not.'
'Why? What did you want, that you had not?—except your mother,' the colonel added, with a sigh of consciousness that there might be a missing something there.
'I was not thinking of her, papa,' Esther said slowly.
'Of what, then?' The colonel was intensely curious.
'I was very happy, as long as Pitt was at home.'
'William Dallas! But what is he to you? he's a collegian, and you are a little girl.'
'Papa, the collegian was very kind to the little girl,' Esther said, with a smile that was very bright, and also merry with a certain sense of humour.
'I grant it; still—it is unreasonable And was it because he was gone, that you wanted comfort?'
'I didn't want it, or I didn't know that I wanted it, while he was here.'
'People that don't know they need comfort, donotneed it, I fancy. You draw fine distinctions. Well, go on, Esther. You have found it, your letter says.'
'Oh yes, papa.'
'My dear, I do not understand you; and I should like to understand. Can you tell me what you mean?'
As he raised his eyes to her, he saw a look come over her face that he could as little comprehend as he could comprehend her letter; a look of surprise at him, mingled with a sudden shine of some inner light. She was moving about the tea-table; she came round and stood in front of her father, full in view.
'Papa, I thought my letter explained it. I mean, that now I have come to know the Lord Jesus.'
'Now?My dear, I was under the impression that you had been taught and had known the truths of the gospel all your life?'
'Oh, yes, papa; so I was. The difference'—
'Well?'
'The difference, papa, is, that now I knowHim.'
'Him? Whom?'
'I mean Jesus, papa.'
'How do you know Him? Do you mean that lately you have begun to think about Him?'
'No, papa, I had been thinking a great while.'
'And now?'—
'Now I have come to know Him.'
That Esther knew what she meant was evident; it was equally plain that the colonel did not. He was puzzled, and did not like to show it too fully. The one face was shining with clearness and gladness; the other was dissatisfied and perplexed.
'My dear, I do not understand you,' the colonel said, after a pause. 'Have you been reading mystical books? I did not know there were any in the house.'
'I have been reading only the Bible, papa; andthatis not mystical.'
'Your language sounds so.'
'Why, no, papa! I do not mean anything mystical.'
'Will you explain yourself?'
Esther paused, thinking how she should do this. When one has used the simplest words in one's vocabulary, and is called upon to expound them by the use of others less simple, the task is somewhat critical. The colonel watched with a sort of disturbed pleasure the thoughtful, clear brow, the grave eyes which had become so sweet. The intelligence at work there, he saw, was no longer that of a child; the sweetness was no longer the blank of unconscious ignorance, but the wisdom of some blessed knowledge. What did she know that was hidden from his experience?
'Papa, it is very difficult to tell you,' Esther began. 'I used to know about the things in the Bible, and I had learned whole chapters by heart; but that was all. I did not know much more than the name of Christ,—and His history, of course, and His words.'
'What more could you know?' inquired the colonel, in increasing astonishment.
'That's just it, papa; I did not know Himself. You know what you mean when you say you don't know somebody. I mean just that.'
'But, Esther, that sounds to me very like—very like—an improper use of language,' said the colonel, stammering. 'How can youknow Him, as you speak?'
'I can't tell you, papa. I think He showed Himself to me.'
'Showed Himself! Do you mean in a vision?'
'Oh no, papa!' said Esther, smiling. 'I have not seen His face, not literally. But He has somehow showed me how good He is, and how glorious; and has made me understand how He loves me, and how He is with me; so that I do not feel alone any more. I don't think I ever shall feel alone again.'
Was this extravagance? The colonel pondered. It seemed to him a thing to be rebuked or repressed; he knew nothing of this kind in his own religious experience; he feared it was visionary and fanciful. But when he looked at Esther's face, the words died on his tongue which he would have spoken. Those happy eyes were so strong in their wistfulness, so grave in their happiness, that they forbade the charge of folly or fancifulness; nay, they were looking at something which the colonel wished he could himself see, if the sight brought such contentment. They stopped his mouth. He could not say what he thought to say, and his own eyes oddly fell before them.
'What does William Dallas know about all this?' he asked.
'Nothing, papa. I don't think he knows it at all.'
'Why did you write about it to him, then?'
'I was sure he would be glad for me, papa. Once, a good while ago, I asked Pitt what could be the meaning of a verse in the Bible; that beautiful verse in Numbers; and he could not tell me, though what he said gave me a great help. So I knew he would remember, and he would be glad. And I want him to know Jesus too.'
The colonel felt a little twinge of jealousy here; but Esther did not know, he reflected, that her own father was in equal destitution of that knowledge. Or was it all visionary that she had been saying, and his view of religion the right one after all? Itmustbe the right one. Yet his religion had never given his face the expression that shone in Esther's now. It almost hurt him.
'And now you have comfort?' he said, after a moment's pause.
'Yes, papa. More than comfort.'
'Because you think that God looks upon you with favour.'
'Because I love Him, papa. I know Him and I love Him. And I know He loves me, and will do everything for me.'
'How do you know it?' asked the colonel almost harshly. 'That sounds to me rather presuming. You may hope it; but how can you know it?'
'He has made me know it, papa. And He has said it in the Bible. I just believe what He says.'
Colonel Gainsborough gave up the argument. Before Esther's face of quiet confidence he felt himself baffled. If she were wrong, he could not prove her wrong. Uneasy and worsted, he gave up the discussion; but thought he would not have any more letters go to William Dallas.
And as the days went on, he watched furtively his daughter. He had not been mistaken in his observations that evening. A steadfastness of sweet happiness was about her, beautifying and elevating all she did and all she was. Fair quiet on the brow, loving gladness on the lips, and hands of ready ministry. She had always been a dutiful child, faithful in her ministering; but now the service was not of duty, but of love, and gracious accordingly, as the service of duty can never be. The colonel watched, and saw something of the difference, without being able, however, to come at a satisfactory understanding of it. He saw how, under this influence of love and gladness, his child was becoming the rarest of servants to him; and more still, how under it she was developing into a most exquisite personal beauty. He watched her, as if by watching he might catch something of the secret mental charm by virtue of which these changes were wrought. But 'the secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him;' and it cannot be communicated from one to another.
As has been mentioned, Pitt's letters after he got to work at Oxford became much fewer and scantier. It was only at very rare intervals that one came to Colonel Gainsborough; and Esther made no proposition of writing to England again. On that subject the colonel ceased to take any thought. It was otherwise with Pitt's family.
Mrs. Dallas sat one evening pondering over the last letter received from her son. It was early autumn; a little fire burning in the chimney, towards which the master of the house stretched out his legs, lying very much at his ease in an old-fashioned chaise lounge, and turning over an English newspaper. His attitude bespoke the comfortable ease and carelessness of his mind, on which certainly nothing lay heavy. His wife was in all things a contrast. Her handsome, stately figure was yielding at the moment to no blandishments of comfort or luxury; she sat upright, with Pitt's letter in her hand, and on her brow there was an expression of troubled consideration.
'Husband,' she said at length, 'do you notice how Pitt speaks of the colonel and his daughter?'
'No,' came slowly and indifferently from the lips of Mr. Dallas, as he turned the pages of his newspaper.
'Don't you notice how he asks after them in every letter, and wants me to go and see them?'
'Natural enough. Pitt is thinking of home, and he thinks of them;—part of the picture.'
'That boy don't forget!'
'Give him time,' suggested Mr. Dallas, with a careless yawn.
'He has had some time,—a year and a half, and in Europe; and distractions enough. But don't you know Pitt? He sticks to a thing even closer than you do.'
'If he cares enough about it.'
'That's what troubles me, Hildebrand. I am afraid he does care. If he comes home next summer and finds that girl— Do you know how she is growing up?'
'That is the worst of children,' said Mr. Dallas, in the same lazy way; 'they will grow up.'
'By next summer she will be—well, I don't know how old, but quite old enough to take the fancy of a boy like Pitt.'
'I know Pitt's age. He will be twenty-two. Old enough to know better.He isn't such a fool.'
'Such a fool as what?' asked Mrs. Dallas sharply. 'That girl is going to be handsome enough to take any man's fancy, and hold it too. She is uncommonly striking. Don't you see it?'
'Humph! yes, I see it.'
'Hildebrand, I do not want him to marry the daughter of a dissenting colonel, with not money enough to dress her.'
'I do not mean he shall.'
'Then think how you are going to prevent it. Next summer, I warn you, it may be too late.'
In consequence, perhaps, of this conversation, though it is by no means certain that Mr. Dallas needed its suggestions, he strolled over after tea to Colonel Gainsborough's. The colonel was in his usual place and position; Esther sitting at the table with her books. Mr. Dallas eyed her as she rose to receive him, noticed the gracious, quiet manner, the fair and noble face, the easy movement and fine bearing; and turned to her father with a strengthened purpose to do what he had come to do. He had to wait a while. He told the news of Pitt's last letter; intimated that he meant to keep him in England till his studies were all ended; and then went into a discussion of politics, deep and dry. When Esther at last left the room, he made a sudden break in the discussion.
'Colonel, what are you going to do with that girl of yours?'
'What am I going to do with her?' repeated the colonel, a little drily.
'Yes. Forgive me; I have known her all her life, you know, nearly. I am concerned about Esther.'
'In what way?'
'Well, don't take it ill of me; but I do not like to see her growing up so without any advantages. She is such a beautiful creature.'
Colonel Gainsborough was silent.
'I take the interest of a friend,' Mr. Dallas went on. 'I have a right to so much. I have watched her growing up. She will be something uncommon, you know. She ought really to have everything that can help to make humanity perfect.'
'What would you have me do?' the colonel asked, half conscious and half impatient.
'I would give her all the advantages that a girl of her birth and breeding would have in the old country.'
'How is that possible, at Seaforth?'
'It is not possible at Seaforth. There is nothing here. But elsewhere it is possible.'
'I shall never leave Seaforth,' said the colonel doggedly.
'But for Esther's sake? Why, she ought to be at school now, colonel.'
'I shall never quit Seaforth,' the other repeated. 'I do not expect to live long anywhere; when I die, I will lie by my wife's side, here.'
'You are not failing in health,' Mr. Dallas persisted. 'You are improving, colonel; every time I come to see you I am convinced of it. We shall have you a long while among us yet; you may depend on it.'
'I have no particular reason to wish you may be right. And I see myself no signs that you are.'
'You have your daughter to live for.'
'She will be taken care of. I have little fear.'
There was a somewhat grim set of Mr. Dallas's mouth in answer to this speech; his words however were 'smoother than butter.'
'You need have no fear,' he said. 'Miss Gainsborough, with her birth and beauty and breeding, will do—what you must wish her to do,—marry some one well able to take care of her; but—you are not doing her justice, colonel, in not giving her the education that should go with her birth and breeding. I speak as a friend; I trust you will not take it ill of me.'
'I cannot send her to England.'
'You do not need. There are excellent institutions of learning in this country now.'
'I do not know where.'
'My wife can tell you. She has some knowledge of such things, through friends who have daughters at school. She could tell you of several good schools for girls.'
'Where are they?'
'I believe in or near New York.'
'I do not wish to leave Seaforth,' said the colonel gloomily.
'And I am sure we do not wish to have you leave it,' said the other, rising. 'It would be a terrible loss to us. Perhaps, after all, I have been officious; and you are giving Esther an education more than equal to what she could get at school.'
'I cannot quit Seaforth,' the colonel repeated. 'All that I care for in the world lies here. When I have done with the world, I wish to lie here too; and till then I will wait.'
Mr. Dallas took his leave; and the set of his mouth was grim again as he walked home.
Mr. Dallas's visits became frequent. He talked of a great variety of things, but never failed to bring the colonel's mind to the subject of Esther's want of education. Indirectly or directly, somehow, he presented to the colonel's mind that one idea: that his daughter was going without the advantages she needed and ought to have. It was true, and the colonel could not easily dispose of the thought which his friend so persistently held up before him. Waters wear away stones, as we know to a proverb; and so it befell in this case, and Mr. Dallas knew it must. The colonel began to grow uneasy. He often reasserted that he would never leave Seaforth; he began to think about it, nevertheless.
'What should I do with this place?' he asked one evening when the subject was up.
'What do you wish to do with it?'
'I wish to live in it as long as I live anywhere,' said the colonel, sighing; 'but you say—and perhaps you are right—that I ought to be somewhere else for my child's sake. In that case, what could I do with my place here?'
'I ask again, what do you wish to do with it? Would you let it?'
'No,' said the colonel, sighing again; 'if I go I must sell. My means will not allow me to do otherwise.'
'I will buy it of you, if you wish to sell.'
'You! What would you do with the property?'
'Keep it for you, against a time when you may wish to buy it back. But indeed it would come very conveniently for me. I should like to have it, for my own purposes. I will give you its utmost value.'
The colonel pondered, not glad, perhaps, to have difficulties cleared out of his way. Mr. Dallas waited, too keen to press his point unduly.
'I should have to go and reconnoitre,' the former said presently. 'I must not give up one home till I have another ready. I never thought to leave Seaforth. Where do you say this place is that Mrs. Dallas recommends?'
'In New York. The school is said to be particularly good and thorough, and conducted by an English lady; which would be a recommendation to me, as I suppose it is to you.'
'I should have to find a house in the neighbourhood,' said the colonel, musing.
Mr. Dallas said no more, and waited.
'I must go and see what I can find,' the colonel repeated. 'Perhaps Mrs. Dallas will be so good as to give me the address of the school in question.'
Mrs. Dallas did more than that. She gave letters to friends, and addresses of more than one school teacher: and the end was, Colonel Gainsborough set off on a search. The search was successful. He was satisfied with the testimonials he received respecting one of the institutions and respecting its head; he was directed by some of Mr. Dallas's business friends to various houses that might suit him for a residence; and among them made his choice, and even made his bargain, and came home with the business settled.
Esther had spent the days of his absence in a very doubtful mood, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry, to hope or to fear. Seaforth was the only home she had ever known; she did not like the thought of leaving it; but she knew by this time as well as Mr. Dallas knew that she needed more advantages of education than Seaforth could give her. On the whole, she hoped.
The colonel was absent several days. There was no telegraphing in those times, and so the day of his return could not be notified; but when a week had passed, Esther began to look for him. It was the first time he had ever been away from her, and so, of course, it was the first coming home. Esther felt it deserved some sort of celebration. The stage arrived towards evening, she knew.
'I think maybe he will be here to-night, Barker,' she said. 'What is there we could have for supper that papa likes particularly?'
'Indeed, Miss Esther, the colonel favours nothing more than another, asI know. His toast and tea, that is all he cares for nights, mostly.'
'Toast and tea!' said Esther disparagingly.
'It's the most he cares for, as I know,' the housekeeper repeated. 'There's them quails Mr. Dallas sent over; they's nice and fat, and to be sure quails had ought to be eaten immediate. I can roast two or three of 'em, if you're pleased to order it; but the colonel, it's my opinion he won't care what you have. The gentlemen learns it so in the army, I'm thinkin'. The colonel never did give himself no care about what he had for dinner, nor for no other time.'
Esther knew that; however, she ordered the quails, and watched eagerly for her father. He came, too, that same evening. But the quails hardly got their deserts, nor Esther neither, for that matter. The colonel seemed to be unregardful of the one as much as of the other. He gave his child a sufficiently kind greeting, indeed, when he first came in; but then he took his usual seat on the sofa, without his usual book, and sat as if lost in thought. Tea was served immediately, and I suppose the colonel had had a thin dinner, for he consumed a quail and a half; yet satisfactory as this was in itself, Esther could not see that her father knew what he was eating. And after tea he still neglected his book, and sat brooding, with his head leaning on his hand. He had not said one word to his daughter concerning the success or non-success of his mission; and eager as she was, it was not in accordance with the way she had been brought up that she should question him. She asked him nothing further than about his own health and condition, and the length and character of his journey; which questions were shortly disposed of, and then the colonel sat there with his head in his hand, doing nothing that he was wont to do. Esther feared something was troubling him, and could not bear to leave him to himself. She came near softly, and very softly let her finger-tips touch her father's brow and temples, and stroke back the hair from them. She ventured no more.
Perhaps Colonel Gainsborough could not bear so much. Perhaps he was reminded of the only other fingers which had had a right since his boyhood to touch him so. Yet he would not repel the gentle hand, and to avoid doing that he did another very uncommon thing; he drew Esther down into his arms and put her on his knee, leaning his head against her shoulder. It was exceeding pleasant to the girl, as a touch of sympathy and confidence; however, for that night the confidence went no further; the colonel said nothing at all. He was in truth overcome with the sadness of leaving his home and his habits and the place of his wife's grave. As he re-entered Seaforth and entered his house, this sadness had come over him; he could not shake it off; indeed, he did not try; he gave him self up to it, and forgot Esther, or rather forgot what he owed her. And Esther, who had done what she could, sat still on her father's knee till she was weary, and wished he would release her. Yet perhaps, she thought, it was a pleasure to him to have her there, and she would not move or speak. So they remained until it was past Esther's bedtime.
'I think I will go now, papa,' she said. 'It is getting late.'
He kissed her and let her go.
But next morning the colonel was himself again,—himself as if he had never been away, only he had his news to tell; and he told it in orderly business fashion.
'I have taken a house, Esther,' he said; 'and now I wish to get moved as soon as possible. You must tell Barker, and help her.'
'Certainly, papa. Whereabouts is the house you have taken?'
'On York Island. It is about a mile out of the city, on the bank of the river; a very pretty situation.'
'Which river, papa?'
'The Hudson.'
'And am I to go to school?'
'Of course. That is the purpose of the movement. You are to enter Miss Fairbairn's school in New York. It is the best there, by all I can gather.'
'Thank you, papa. Then it is not near our new house?'
'No. You will have to drive there and back. I have made arrangements for that.'
'Won't that cost a good deal, papa?'
'Not so much as to live in the city would cost. And we are accustomed to the country; it will be pleasanter.'
'Oh, much pleasanter! What will be done with this house, papa?'
'Mr. Dallas takes it and the place off my hands.'
Esther did not like that; why, she could not possibly have told. For, to be sure, what could be better?
'Will he buy it?'
'Yes, he buys it.'
Again a little pause. Then—'What will become of the furniture and everything, papa?'
'That must be packed to go. The house I have taken is empty. We shall want all we have got.'
Esther's eye went round the room. Everything to be packed! She stood like a young general, surveying her battlefield.
'Then, papa, you never mean to come back to Seaforth again?'
The colonel sighed. 'Yes, when I die, Esther. I wish my bones to be laid here.'
He said no more. Having made his communications, he took up his book; his manner evidently saying to Esther that in what came next he had no particular share. But could it be that he was leaving it all to her inexperience? Was it to be her work, and depend on her wisdom?
'Papa, you said we were to move soon; do you wish me to arrange withBarker about it?'
'Yes, my dear, yes; tell her, and arrange with her. I wish to make the change as early as possible, before the weather becomes unfavourable; and I wish you to get to school immediately. It cannot be too soon, tell Barker.'
So he was going to leave it all to her! On ordinary occasions he was wont to consider Esther a child still; now it was convenient to suppose her a woman. He did not put it so to himself; it is some men's way. Esther went slowly to the kitchen, and informed Barker of what was before her.
'An' it's mor'n the middle of October,' was the housekeeper's comment.
'That's very good time,' said Esther.
'You're right, Miss Esther, and so it is, if we was all ready this minute. All ain't done when you are moved, Miss Esther; there's the other house to settle; and it'll take a good bit o' work before we get so far as to that.'
'Papa wants us to be as quick as we can.'
'We'll be as quick as two pair o' hands is able for, I'll warrant; but that ain't as if we was a dozen. There's every indiwiddle thing to put up, Miss Esther, from our chairs to our beds; and books, and china, and all I'll go at the china fust of all, and to-day.'
'And what can I do, Barker?'
'I don' know, Miss Esther. You hain't no experience; and experience is somethin' you can't buy in the shops—even if there was any shops here to speak of. But Christopher and me, we'll manage it, I'll warrant. The colonel's quite right. This ain't no place for you no longer. We'll see and get moved as quick as we can, Miss Esther.'
Without experience, however, it was found that Esther's share of the next weeks of work was a very important one. She packed up the clothes and the books; and she did it 'real uncommon,' the housekeeper said; but that was the least part. She kept her father comfortable, letting none of the confusion and as little as possible of the dust come into the room where he was. She stood in the gap when Barker was in the thick of some job, and herself prepared her father's soup or got his tea. Thoughtful, quiet, diligent, her head, young as it was, proved often a very useful help to Barker's experience; and something about her smooth composure was a stay to the tired nerves of her subordinates. Though Christopher Bounder really had no nerves, yet he felt the influence I speak of.
'Ain't our Miss Esther growed to be a stunner, though!' he remarked more than once.
'I'm sure I don't rightly know what you mean, Christopher,' his sister answered.
'Well, I tell you she's an uncommon handsome young lady, Sarah. An' she has the real way with her; the real thing, she has.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'I'll wager a cucumber you can tell,' said Christopher, shutting up his eyes slyly. 'There ain't no flesh and blood round in these parts like that;—no mor'n a cabbage ain't like a camellia. An'thatdon't tell it. She's that dainty and sweet as a camellia never was—not as ever I see; and she has that fine, soft way with her, that is like the touch of a feather, and yet ain't soft neither if you come to go agin it. I tell you what, Sarah, that shows blood, that does,' concluded Christopher with a competent air. 'Our young lady, she's the real thing. You and me, now, we couldn't be like that if we was to die for it. That's blood, that is.'
'I don't know,' said the housekeeper. 'Sheissweet, uncommon; and she is gentle enough, and she has a will of her own, too; but I don't know—she didn't use for to be just so.'
''Cause she's growin' up to years,' said the gardener. 'La, Sally, folks is like vegetables, uncommon; you must let 'em drop their rough leaves, before you can see what they're goin' to be.'
'There warn't never no rough leaves nor rough anything about MissEsther. I can't say as I knows what you mean, Christopher.'
'A woman needn't to know everything,' responded her brother with superiority; 'and the natural world, to be sure, ain't your department, Sarah. You're good for a great deal where you be.'
The packing and sending off of boxes was ended at last; and the bare, empty, echoing, forlorn house seemed of itself to eject its inhabitants. When it came to that, everybody was ready to go. Mrs. Barker lamented that she could not go on before the rest of the family, to prepare the place a bit for them; but that was impossible; they must all go together.
It was the middle of November when at last the family made their flitting. They had no dear friends to leave, and nothing particular to regret, except that one low mound in the churchyard; yet Esther felt sober as they drove away. The only tangible reason for this on which her thoughts could fix, was the fact that she was going away from the place where Pitt Dallas was at home, and to which he would come when he returned from England. She would then be afar off. Yet there would be nothing to hinder his coming to see them in their new home; so the feeling did not seem well justified. Besides that, Esther also had a somewhat vague sense that she was leaving the domain of childhood and entering upon the work and sphere of a woman. She was just going to school! But perhaps the time of confusion she had been passing through might have revealed to her that she had already a woman's life-work on her hands. And the confusion was not over, and the work only begun. She had perhaps a dim sense of this. However, she was young; and the soberness was certainly mixed with gladness. For was she not going to school, and so, on the way to do something of the work Pitt was doing, in mental furnishing and improvement? I think, gladness had the upper hand.
It took two days of stage travelling to get them to their destination. They were days full of interest and novelty for Esther; eager anticipation and hope; but the end of the second day found her well tired. Indeed, it was the case with them all. Mrs. Barker had lamented that she and Christopher were not allowed to go off some time before 'the family,' so as to have things in a certain degree of readiness for them; the colonel had said it was impossible: they could not be spared from Seaforth until the last minute. And now here they were 'all in a heap,' as Mrs Barker expressed it, 'to be tumbled into the house at once.' She begged that the colonel would stay the night over in the city, and give her at least a few hours to prepare for him. The colonel would not hear of it, however, but at once procured vehicles to take the whole party and their boxes out to the place that was to be their new home. It was then already evening; the short November day had closed in.
'He's that simple,' Mrs. Barker confided to her brother, 'he expects to find a fire made and a room ready for him! It's like all the gentlemen. They never takes no a 'Thinks the furniture 'll hop out o' the boxes, like, 'count of how things is done, if it ain'ttheirthings.' and stan' round,' echoed Christopher. 'I'm afeard they won't be so obligin'.'
The drive was somewhat slower in the dark than it would have been otherwise, and the stars were out and looking down brilliantly upon the little party as they finally dismounted at their door. The shadow of the house rising before them, a cool air from the river, the sparkling stars above, the vague darkness around; Esther never forgot that home-coming.
They had stopped at a neighbour's house to get the key; and now, the front door being unlocked, made their way in, one after another. Esther was confronted first by a great packing-case in the narrow hall, which blocked up the way. Going carefully round this, which there was just room to do, she stumbled over a smaller box on the floor.
'Oh, papa, take care!' she cried to her father, who was following her; 'the house is all full of things, and it is so dark. Oh, Barker, can't you open the back door and let in a gleam of light?'
This was done, and also in due time a lantern was brought upon the scene. It revealed a state of things almost as hopeless as the world appeared to Noah's dove the first time she was sent out of the ark. If there was rest for the soles of their feet, it was all that could be said. There was no promise of a place to sit down; and as forlyingdown and getting their natural rest, the idea was Utopian.
'Now look here,' said a voice suddenly out of the darkness outside: 'you're all fagged out, ain't ye? and there ain't nothin' on arth ye kin du to-night; there's no use o' your tryin'. Jes' come over to my house and hev some supper. Ye must want it bad. Ben travellin' all day, ain't ye? Jes' come over to me; I've got some hot supper for ye. Lands sakes! ye kin't do nothin' here to-night. Itisa kind of a turn-up, ain't it? La, a movin's wuss'n a weddin', for puttin' everybody out.'
The voice, sounding at first from the outside, had been gradually drawing nearer and nearer, till with the last words the speaker also entered the back room, where Esther and her father were standing. They were standing in the midst of packing-cases, of every size and shape, between which the shadows lay dark, while the faint lantern light just served to show the rough edges and angles of the boxes and the hopeless condition of things generally. It served also now to let the new-comer be dimly seen. Esther and her father, looking towards the door, perceived a stout little figure, with her two hands rolled up in her shawl, head bare, and with hair in neat order, for it glanced in the lantern shine as only smooth things can. The features of the face were not discernible.
'It's the cunnel himself, ain't it?' she said. 'They said he was a tall man, and I seethisis a tall un. Is it the cunnel himself? I couldn't somehow make out the name—I never kin; and I kin'tseenothin', as the light is.'
'At your service, madam,' said the person addressed. 'ColonelGainsborough.'
The visitor dropped a little dot of a curtsey, which seemed to Esther inexpressibly funny, and went on.
'Beg pardon for not knowin'. Wall, cunnel, I'm sure you're tired and hungry,—you and your darter, is it?—and I've got a hot supper for you over to my house. I allays think there's nothin' like hevin' things hot,—cold comfort ain't no comfort, for me,—and I've got everythin' hot for you—hot and nice; and now, will you come over and eat it? You see, you kin't do nothin' here to-night. I don't see how ever you're to sleep, in this world; there ain't nothin' here but the floor and the boxes, and if you'll take beds with me, I'm sure you're welcome.'
'I thank you, madam; you are very kind; but I do not think we need trouble you,' the colonel said, with civil formality. Esther was amused, but also a little eager that her father should accept the invitation. What else would become of him? she thought. The prospect was desolation. Truly they had some cooked provisions; but that was only cold comfort, as their visitor had said; doubtful if the term could be applied at all.
'Now you'd jes' best come right over!' the fluent but kind voice said persuasively. 'It's all spilin' to be eat. An' what kin you do? There ain't no fire here to warm you, and it'll take a bit of a while before you kin get one; an' you're all tired out. Jes' come over and hev a cup o' hot coffee, and get heartened up a bit, and then you'll know what to do next. I allays think, one thing at a time.'
'Papa,' said Esther a little timidly, 'hadn't you better do it? There's nothing but confusion here; it will be a long time before we can get you even a cup of tea.'
'It's all ready,' their visitor went on,—'ready and spilin'; an' I got it for you o' purpose. Now don't stan' thinkin' about it, but jes' come right over; I'll be as glad to hev you as if you was new apples.'
'How far is it, ma'am?' Esther asked.
'Jes' two steps—down the other side o' the field; it's the very next house to your'n. Oh, I've lived there a matter o' ten year; and I was main glad to hear there was somebody comin' in here agin; it's so sort o' lonesome to see the winders allays shut up; and your light looks real cheery, if it is only a lantern light. I knowed when you was a comin', and says I, they'll be real tired out when they gits there, says I; and I'll hev a hot supper ready for 'em, it's all I kin du; but I'm sure, if you'll sleep, you're welcome.'
'If you please, sir,' put in Mrs. Barker, 'it would be the most advisedest thing you could do; for there ain't no prospect here, and if you and Miss Esther was away for a bit, mebbe me and Christopher would come to see daylight after a while; which it is what I don't do at present.'
The good woman's voice sounded so thoroughly perturbed, and expressed such an undoubted earnest desire, that the colonel, contrary to all his traditions, gave in. He and Esther followed their new friend, ''cross the field,' as she said, but they hardly knew where, till the light and warmth of her hospitable house received them.
How strange it was! The short walk in the starlight; then the homely hospitable room, with its spread table—the pumpkin pie, and the sausage, and the pickles, and the cheese, and the cake! The very coarse tablecloth; the little two-pronged forks, and knives which might have been cut out of sheet iron, and singular ware which did service for china. The extreme homeliness of it all would almost have hindered Esther from eating, though she was very hungry. But there was good bread and butter; and coffee that was hot, and not bad otherwise, although assuredly it never saw the land of Arabia; certainly it seemed very good to Esther that night, even taken from a pewter spoon. And the tablecloth was clean, and everything upon it. So, with doubtful hesitation at first, Esther found the supper good, and learned her first lesson in the broadness of humanity and the wide variety in the ways of human life.
Their hostess, seen by the light of her dip candles, was in perfect harmony with her entertainment. A round little woman, very neat, and terribly plain, with a full oval face, which had no other characteristic of beauty; insignificant features, and a pale skin, covered with freckles. Out of this face, however, looked a pair of small, shrewd, and kind grey eyes; their owner could be no fool.
Esther was surprised to see that her father, who was, to be sure, an old campaigner, made a very fair supper.
'In the darkness I could hardly see where we went,' he remarked. 'But I suppose your husband is the owner of the neat gardens I observed formerly near our house?'
'Wall, he would be if he was alive,' was the answer, 'but that's what he hain't ben this five year.'
'Then, doyoumanage them?'
'Wall, cunnel, I manage 'em better'n he did. Mr. Blumenfeld was an easy kind o' man; easy to live with, tu; but when you hev other folks to see to, it don't du no ways to let 'em hev their own head too much. An' that's what he did. He was a fust-rate gardener and no mistake; he knowed his business; but the thing hedidn'tknow was folks. So they cheated him. La, folks ain't like flowers, not 'zactly; or if they be, as he used to say, there's thorns among 'em now and then and a weed or two!'
'Blumenfeld?' repeated the colonel. 'You are not German, surely?'
'Wall, I guess I ain't,' said the little woman, 'Not if I know myself. I ain't sayin' nothin' agin whathewas; but la, there's different naturs in the world, and I'm different. Folks doos say, his folks is great for gittin' along; buthewarn't; that's all I hev to say. He learned me the garden work, though; that much he did.'
'And now you manage the business?'
'I do so. Won't you hev another cup, cunnel?'
They went back to their disordered house, resisting all further offers of hospitality. And in time, beds were got out and prepared; how, Esther could hardly remember afterwards, the confusion was so great; but it was done, and she lost every other feeling in the joy of repose.
At Esther's age nature does her work of recuperation well and fast. It was early yet, and the dawn just breaking into day, when she woke; and, calling to mind her purposes formed last night, she immediately got up. The business of the toilet performed as speedily as possible, she stole down-stairs and roused Mrs. Barker; and while waiting for her to be ready, went to the back door and opened it. A fresh cool air blew in her face; clouds were chasing over the sky before a brisk wind, and below her rolled the broad Hudson, its surface all in commotion; while the early light lay bright on the pretty Jersey shore. Esther stood in a spell of pleasure. This was a change indeed from her Seaforth view, where the eye could go little further than the garden and the road. Here was a new scene opening, and a new chapter in life beginning; Esther's heart swelled. There was a glad mental impulse towards growth and developement, which readily connected itself with this outward change, and with this outward stir also. The movement of wind and water met a movement of the animal spirits, which consorted well with it; the cool air breathed vigour into her resolves; she turned to Mrs. Barker with a very bright face.
'Oh, Barker, how lovely it is!'
'If you please, which is it, Miss Esther?'
'Look at that beautiful river. And the light. And the air, Barker. It is delicious!'
'I can't see it, mum. All I can see is that there ain't an indiwiddle cheer standin' on its own legs in all the house; and whatever'll the colonel do when he comes down? and what to begin at first, I'm sure I don't know.'
'We'll arrange all that. Where is Christopher? We want him to open the boxes. We'll get one room in some sort of order first, and then papa can stay in it. Where is Christopher?'
They had to wait a few minutes for Christopher, and meanwhile Esther took a rapid review of the rooms; decided which should be the dining-room, and which the one where her father should have his sofa and all his belongings. Then she surveyed the packing-cases, to be certain which was which, and what ought to be opened first; examining her ground with the eye of a young general. Then, when the lagging Mr. Bounder made his appearance, there was a systematic course of action entered upon, in which packing-cases were knocked apart and cleared away; chairs, and a table or two, were released from durance and set on their legs; a rug was found and spread down before the fireplace; the colonel's sofa was got at, and unboxed, and brought into position; and finally a fire was made. Esther stood still to take a moment's complacent review of her morning's work.
'It looks quite comfortable,' she said, 'now the fire is burning up. We have done pretty well, Barker, for a beginning?'
'Never see a better two hours' job,' said Christopher. ''Tain't much more. That's Miss Esther. Sarah there, she wouldn't ha' knowed which was her head and which was her heels, and other things according, if she hadn't another head to help her. What o'clock is it now, Miss Esther?'
'It is some time after eight. Papa may be down any minute. Now, Barker, the next thing is breakfast.'
'Breakfast, Miss Esther?' said the housekeeper, standing still to look at her.
'Yes. Aren't you hungry? I think we must all want it.'
'And how are we goin' to get it? The kitchen's all cluttered full o' boxes and baggage and that; and I don' know where an indiwiddle thing is, this minute.'
'I saw the tea-kettle down-stairs.'
'Yes 'm, but that's the sole solitary article. I don' know where there's a pan, nor a gridiron; and there's no fire, Miss Esther; and it'll take patience to get that grate agoin'.'
The housekeeper, usually so efficient, now looked helpless. It was true, the system by means of which so much had been done that morning, had proceeded from Esther's head solely. She was not daunted now.
'I know the barrel in which the cooking things were packed stands there; in the hall, I think. Christopher, will you unpack it? But first, fill the kettle and bring it here.'
'Here, Miss Esther?' cried the housekeeper.
'Yes; it will soon boil here. And, Barker, the hampers with the china are in the other room; if you will unpack them, I think you can find the tea-pot and some cups.'
'They'll all want washin', Miss Esther.'
'Very well; we shall have warm water here by that time. And then I can give papa his tea and toast, and boil some eggs, and that will do very well; everything else we want is in the basket, and plenty, as we did not eat it last night.'
It was all done,—it took time, to be sure, but it was done; and when Colonel Gainsborough came down, hesitating and somewhat forlorn, he found a fire burning in the grate, Mrs. Barker watching over a skillet in one corner, and Esther over a tea-kettle in the other. The room was filled with the morning light, which certainly showed the bare floor and the packing-boxes standing around; but also shone upon an unpacked table, cups, plates, bread and butter. Esther had thought it was very comfortable. Her father seemed not to take that view.
'What are you doing there?' he said. 'Is this to be the kitchen?'
'Only for this morning, papa,' said Esther cheerfully. 'This is just the kettle for your tea, and Barker is boiling an egg for you; at least she will as soon as the water boils.'
'All this should have been done elsewhere, my dear.'
'It was not possible, papa. The kitchen is absolutely full of boxes—it will take a while to clear it; and I wanted first to get a corner for you to be comfortable in. We will get things in order as fast as we can. Now the kettle boils, Barker, don't it? You may put in the eggs.'
'My dear, I do not think this is the place for the sofa.'
'Oh no, papa, I do not mean it; the room looking towards the water is the prettiest, and will be the pleasantest; that will be the sitting-room, I think; but we could only do one thing at a time. Now, you shall have your tea and toast in two minutes.'
'There is no doing anything well without system,' said the colonel. 'Arrange your work always, and then take it in order, the first thing first, and so on. Now I should have said, thefirstthing here was the kitchen fire.'
Esther knew it was not, and that her doings had been with admirable system; she was a little disappointed that they met with no recognition. She had counted upon her father's being pleased, and even a little surprised that so much had been done. Silently she made his tea, and toasted him with much difficulty a slice of bread. Mrs. Barker disappeared with her skillet. But the colonel was in the state of mind that comes over many ease-loving men when their ease is temporarily disturbed.
'How long is it going to take two people to get these things unboxed and in their places?' he inquired, as his eye roved disconsolately over the room and its packing-cases. 'This is pretty uncomfortable!'
'Threepeople, papa. I shall do the very best I can. You would like the sitting-room put in order first, where your sofa and you can be quiet?'
'You are going to school.'
'Oh, papa! but I must see to the house first. Barker cannot get along without me.'
'It is her business,' said the colonel. 'You are going to school.'
'But, papa, please, let me wait a few days. After I once begin to go to school I shall be so busy with study.'
'Time you were. That's what we are come here for. The season is late now.'
'But your comfort, and the house, papa?'
'My comfort must take its chance. I wish you to go to Miss Fairbairn onMonday. Then Barker and Christopher can take the house between them.'
There was no gainsaying her father when once an order was given, Esther knew; and she was terribly disappointed. Her heart was quite set on this business of righting and arranging the new home; nobody could do it as it should be done, she knew, except by her order; and her own hand longed to be in the work. A sudden cloud came over the brightness of her spirit. She had been very bright through all the strain and rush of the morning; now she suddenly felt tired and dispirited.
'What is Christopher doing?'
'Papa, I do not know; he has been opening boxes.'
'Let him put the kitchen in order.'
'Yes, papa.' Esther knew it was impossible, however.
'And let Barker get the rooms up-stairs arranged.'
'Papa, don't you want your sitting-room prepared first?—just so that you may have a corner of comfort?'
'I do not expect to see comfort, my dear, for many a day—to judge by what I have around me.'
Esther swallowed a choking feeling in her throat, commanded back some tears which had a mind to force their way, and presided over the rest of the meal with a manner of sweet womanly dignity, which had a lovely unconscious charm. The colonel did even become a little conscious of it.
'You are doing the best you know, my dear,' he condescended kindly. 'I do not grudge any loss of comfort for your sake.'
'Papa, I think you shall not lose any,' Esther said eagerly; but then she confined her energies to doing. And with nerves all strung up again, she went after breakfast at the work of bringing order out of disorder.
'The first thing for you to do, Barker,' she said, 'is to get papa's sleeping-room comfortable. He will have the one looking to the west, I think; that is the prettiest. The blue carpet, that was on his room at Seaforth, will just do. Christopher will undo the roll of carpet for you.'
'Miss Esther, I can't do nothing till I get the kitchen free. There'll be the dinner.'
'Christopher will manage the kitchen.'
'He can't, mum. He don't know one thing that's to be done, no more'n one of his spades. It's just not possible, Miss Esther.'
'I will oversee what he does. Trust me. I will not make any bad mistakes, Barker. You put papa's room in order. He wishes it.'
What the colonel desired had to be done, Barker knew; so with a wondering look at Esther's sweet, determined face, she gave in. And that day and the next day, and the third, were days very full of business, and in which a vast deal was accomplished. The house was really very pretty, as Esther soon saw; and before Saturday night closed in, those parts of it at least which the colonel had most to do with were stroked into order, and afforded him all his wonted ease and luxury. Esther had worked every hour of those days, to the admiration of her subordinates; the informing spirit and regulating will of every step that was taken. She never lost her head, or her patience, or her sweet quiet; though she was herself as busy as a bee and at the same time constantly directing the activity of the others. Wise, and quick-witted, and quick to remember, her presence of mind and readiness of resource seemed unfailing. So, as I said, before Saturday night came, an immense deal of work was accomplished, and done in a style that needed not to be done over again. All which, however, was not finished without some trace of the strain to which the human instrument had been put.
The sun had just set, and Esther was standing at the window of her father's room, looking out to the west. She had been unpacking his clothes and laying them in the drawers of his bureau and press.
'Miss Esther, you're tired, bad!' said the housekeeper wistfully, coming up beside her. 'There's all black rings under your eyes; and your cheeks is pale. You have worked too hard, indeed.'
'Never mind,' said Esther cheerfully; 'that will pass. How pretty it is, Barker! Look out at that sky.'
'Yes 'm, it's just the colour from that sky that keeps your cheeks from showin' how white they be. Miss Esther, you've just done too much.'
'Never mind,' said the girl again. 'I wanted to have papa comfortable before I went to school. I am going to school Monday morning, Barker. Now I think he'll do very nicely.' She looked round the room, which was a pattern of neatness and of comfort that was both simple and elegant. But the housekeeper's face was grave with disapproval and puckered with lines of care. The wistful expression of anxiety upon it touched Esther.
'Barker,' she said kindly, 'you do not look happy.'
'Me! No, Miss Esther, it is which I do not expect to look.'
'Why not?'
'Mum, things is not accordin' in this world.'
'I think you are mistaken. Do you know who the happy people are?'
'Indeed, Miss Esther, I think they're the blessed ones that has gone clean away from the earth.'
'Oh no! I mean, people that are happy now and happy here, Barker.'
'I am sure and I don't know, Miss Esther; if it wouldn't be little children,—which is, them that is too young to know what the world is like. I do suppose they are happy.'
'Don't you know, the Bible says some other people are happy?'
'The Bible!'
Mrs. Barker stared, open-mouthed, at the face before her. Esther had sat down by the window, where the glow from the west was upon it, like a glory round the head of a young saint; and the evening sky was not more serene, nor reflected more surely a hidden light than did the beautiful eyes. Mrs. Barker gazed, and could not bring out another word.
'You read your Bible, don't you?'
'Yes 'm, in course; which it isn't very often; but in course I reads it.'
'Don't you know what it says about happy people?'
'In Paradise,' gasped the housekeeper.
'No, not in Paradise. Listen; let me tell you. "Blessed is the man whose iniquities are forgiven, whose sins are covered."'
Mrs. Barker met the look in Esther's eyes, and was absolutely dumb.
'Don't you know that?'
'I've heerd it, mum.'
'Well, you understand it?'
'If you please, Miss Esther, I think a body could be that knowed it; that same, I mean.'
'How can anybody be happy that doesnotknow it?'
'True enough, mum; but how is anybody to know it for sure, Miss Esther?'
'Iknow it, Barker.'
'You, Miss Esther! Yes, mum, that's easy, when you never did nothin' wrong in your life. 'Tain't the way with the likes o' us.'
'It is not the way with anybody. Nothing but the blood of Christ can make any one clean. But that will. And don't you see, Barker,thatis being happy?'
There was indeed no dissent in the good woman's eyes, but she said nothing. Esther presently went on.
'Now I will tell you another word. Listen. "Blessed is the man whose strength the Lord is." Don't you think so, Barker? Don't you see? Hecan never be weak.'
'Miss Esther, you do speak beautiful!' came out at last the housekeeper.
'Don't you think that is being happy?'
'It do sound so, mum.'
'I can tell you it feels so, Barker. "Blessed are all they that put their trust in Him." And that is, they are happy. And I trust in Him; and I love Him; and I know my sins are forgiven and covered; and my strength is in Him—all my strength. But that makes me strong.'
She went away with that from the window and the room, leaving the housekeeper exceedingly confounded; much as if a passing angel's wings had thrown down a white light upon her brown pathway. And from this time, it may be said Mrs. Barker regarded her young lady with something like secret worship. She had always been careful and tender of her charge; now in spirit she bowed down before her to the ground. For a while after Esther had left the room she stood very still, like one upon whom a spell had fallen. She was comparing things; remembering the look Mrs. Gainsborough had used to wear—sweet, dignified, but shadowed; then the face that at one time was Esther's face, also sweet and dignified, but uneasy and troubled and dark; and now—what was her countenance like? The housekeeper was no poet, nor in any way fanciful; otherwise she might have likened it to some of the fairest things in nature; and still the comparison would have fallen short. Sweet as a white rose; untroubled as the stars; full of hope as the flush of the morning. Only, in the human creature there was the added element oflife, which in all these dead things was wanting. Mrs. Barker probably thought of none of these images for her young mistress; nevertheless, the truth that is in them came down upon her very heart; and from that time she was Esther's devoted slave. There was no open demonstration of feeling; but Esther's wishes were laws to her, and Esther's welfare lay nearest her heart of all things in the world.