He went into the breakfast-room when he got home, which was also the common sitting-room and where he found, as he expected, his mother alone. She looked anxious; which was not a usual thing with Mrs. Dallas.
'Pitt, my dear!—out all this time? Are you not very hot?'
'I do not know, mother; I think not. I have not thought about the heat,I believe.'
He had kept the honeysuckle sprays in his hand all this while, and he now went forward to stick them in the huge jar which occupied the fireplace, and which was full of green branches. Turning when he had done this, he did not draw up a chair, but threw himself down upon the rug at his mother's feet, so that he could lay back his head upon her knees. Presently he put up his two hands behind him and found her hands, which he gently drew down and laid on each side of his head, holding them there in caressing fashion. Caresses were never the order of the day in this family; rarely exchanged even between mother and son, who yet were devoted faithfully to each other. The action moved Mrs. Dallas greatly; she bent down over him and kissed her son's brow, and then loosening one of her hands thrust it fondly among the thick brown wavy locks of hair that were such a pride to her. She admired him unqualifiedly, with that blissful delight in him which a good mother gives to her son, if his bodily and mental properties will anyway allow of it. Mrs. Dallas's pride in this son had always been satisfied and unalloyed; all the more now was the chagrin she felt at the first jar to this satisfaction. Her face showed both feelings, the pride and the trouble, but for a time she kept silence. She was burning to discuss further with him the subject of the morning; devoured with restless curiosity as to how it could ever have got such a lodgment in Pitt's mind; at the same time she did not know how to touch it, and was afraid of touching it wrong. Her husband's counsel,not to talk, she did not indeed forget; but Mrs. Dallas had her own views of things, and did not always take her husband's advice. She was not minded to follow it now, but she was uncertain how best to begin. Pitt was busy with his own thoughts.
'I have invited somebody to come and make your holiday pass pleasantly,' Mrs. Dallas said at last, beginning far away from the burden of her thoughts.
'Somebody?—whom?' asked Pitt a little eagerly, but without changing his attitude.
'Miss Betty Frere.'
'Who is she, that she should put her hand on my holiday? I do not want any hands but yours, mother. How often I have wanted them!'
'But Miss Frerewillmake your time pass more pleasantly, my boy. Miss Frere is one of the most admired women who have appeared in Washington this year. She is a sort of cousin of your father's, too; distant, but enough to make a connection. You will see for yourself what she is.'
'Where did you find her out?'
'In Washington, last winter.'
'And she is coming?'
'She said she would come. I asked her to come and help me make the time pass pleasantly for you.'
'Which means, that I must help you make the time pass pleasantly for her.'
'That will be easy.'
'I don't know; andyoudo not know. When is she coming?'
'In a few days, I expect her.'
'Young, of course. Well, mother, I really do not want anybody but you; but we'll do the best we can.'
'She is handsome, and quick, and has excellent manners. She would have made a good match last winter, at once,—if she had not been poor.'
'Are men such cads as that on this side the water too?'
'Cads, my dear!'
'I call that being cads. Don't you?'
'My boy, everybody cannot afford to marry a poor wife.'
'Anybody that has two hands can. Or a head.'
'It brings trouble, Pitt.'
'Does not the other thing bring trouble? It would with me! If I knew a woman had married me for money, or if I knew I had marriedherfor money, there would be no peace in my house.'
Mrs. Dallas laughed a little. 'You will have no need to do the latter thing,' she said.
'Mother, nobody has any need to do it.'
'You, at any rate, can please yourself. Only'—
'Only what?' said Pitt, now laughing in his turn, and twisting his head round to look up into her face. 'Go on, mother.'
'I am sure your father would never object to a girl because she was poor, if you liked her. But there are other things'—
'Well, what other things?'
'Pitt, a woman has great influence over her husband, if he loves her, and that you will be sure to do to any woman whom you make your wife. I should not like to have you marry out of your own Church.'
Pitt's head went round, and he laughed again.
'In good time!' he said. 'I assure you, mother, you are in no danger yet.'
'I thought this morning,' said his mother, hesitating,—'I was afraid, from what you said, that some Methodist, or some other Dissenter, might have got hold of you.'
Pitt was silent. The word struck him, and jarred a little. Was his mother not grazing the truth? And a vague notion rose in his mind, without actually taking shape, which just now he had not time to attend to, but which cast a shadow, like a young cloud. He was silent, and his mother after a little pause went on.
'Methodists and Dissenters are not much in Mr. Strahan's way, I am sure; and you would hardly be troubled by them at Oxford. How was it, Pitt? Where did you get these new notions?'
'Do they sound like Dissent, mother?'
'I do not know what they sound like. Not like you. I want to know what they mean, and how you came by them?'
He did not immediately answer.
'I have been thinking on this subject a good while,' he said slowly,—'a good while. You know, Mr. Strahan is a great antiquary, and very full of knowledge about London. He has taken pleasure in going about with me, and instructing me, and he is capital company; but at last I learned enough to go by myself sometimes, without him; and I used to ramble about through the places where he had taken me, to review and examine and ponder things at my leisure. I grew very fond of London. It is like an immense illustrated book of history.
'One day I was wandering in one of the busy parts of the city, and turned aside out of the roar and the bustle into a little chapel, lying close to the roar but separate from it. I had been there before, and knew there were some fine marbles in the place; one especially, that I wanted to see again. I was alone that day, and could take my time; and I went in. It is the tomb of some old dignitary who lived several centuries ago. I do not know what he was in life; but in death, as this effigy represents him, it is something beautiful to look upon. I forget at this minute the name of the sculptor; his work I shall never forget. It is wonderfully fine. The gravity, and the sweetness, and the ineffable repose of the figure, are beyond praise. I stood looking, studying, thinking, I cannot tell for how long—or rather feeling than thinking, at the moment. When I left the chapel and came out again into the glare and the rush and the confusion, then I began to think, mother. I went off to another quiet place, by the bank of the river, and sat down and thought. I can hardly tell you how. The image of that infinite repose I carried with me, and the rush of human life filled the streets I had just come through behind me, and I looked at the contrast of things. There, for ages already, that quiet; here, for a day or two, this driving and struggling. Even suppose it be successful struggling, what does it amount to?'
'It amounts to a good deal while you live,' said Mrs. Dallas.
'And after?'—
'And after too. A man's name, if he has struggled successfully, is held in remembrance—in honour.'
'What is that to him after he is gone?'
'My dear, you would not advocate a lazy life?—a life without effort?'
'No, mother. The question is, what shall the effort be for?'
Mrs. Dallas was in the greatest perplexity how to carry on this conversation. She looked down on the figure before her,—Pitt was still sitting at her feet, holding her two hands on either side of his head; and she could admire at her leisure the well-knit, energetic frame, every line of which showed power and life, and every motion of which indicated also the life and vigour of the spirit moving it. He was the very man to fight the battle of life with distinguished success—she had looked forward to his doing it, counted upon it, built her pride upon it; what did he mean now? Was all that power and energy and ability to be thrown away? Would he decline to fill the place in the world which she had hoped to see him fill, and which he could so well fill? Young people do have foolish fancies, and they pass over; but a fancy of this sort, just at Pitt's age, might be fatal. She was glad it washerselfand not his father who was his confidant, for Pitt, she well knew, was one neither to be bullied nor cajoled. But what should she say to him?
'My dear, I think it is duty,' she ventured at last. 'Everybody must be put here to do something.'
'What is he put here to do, mamma? That is the very question.'
Pitt was not excited, he showed no heat; he spoke in the quiet, calm tones of a person long familiar with the thoughts to which he gave utterance; indeed, alarmingly suggestive that he had made up his mind about them.
'Pitt, why do you not speak to a clergyman? He could set you right better than I can.'
'I have, mamma.'
'To what clergyman?'
'To Dr. Calcott of Oxford, and to Dr. Plympton, the rector of the church to which Uncle Strahan goes.'
'What did they say?'
'Dr. Calcott said I had been studying too hard, and wanted a little distraction; he thought I was morbid, and warned me against possible listening to Methodists. Said I was a good fellow, only it was a mistake to try to betoogood; the consequence would be a break-down. Whether physical or moral, he did not say; I was left to apprehend both.'
'That is very much as I think myself, only not the fear of break-downs. I see no signs of that in you, my boy. What did the other, Dr.—whom did you say?—what did he tell you?'
'Dr. Plympton. He said he did not understand what I would be at.'
'I agree with him too,' said Mrs. Dallas, laughing a little. Pitt did not laugh.
'I quoted some words to him out of the Bible, and he said he did not know what they meant.'
'I should think he ought to know.'
'So I thought. But he said it was for the Church to decide what they meant.'
Mrs. Dallas was greatly at a loss, and growing more and more uneasy. Pitt went on in such a quiet, meditative way, not asking help of her, and, she fancied, not intending to ask it of anybody. Suddenly, however, he lifted his head and turned himself far enough round to enable him to look in her face.
'Mother,' said he, 'what do you think those words mean in one of the psalms,—"Thou hast made me exceeding glad with thy countenance"?'
'Are they in the Psalms? I do not know.'
'You have read them a thousand times! In the psalter translation the wording is a little different, but it comes to the same thing.'
'I never knew what they meant, my boy. There are a great many things in the Bible that we cannot understand.'
'But is this one of them? "Exceeding glad—with thy countenance."David knew what he meant.'
'The Psalmist was inspired. Of course he understood a great many things which we do not.'
'We ought to understand some things that he did not, I should think. But this is a bit of personal experience—not abstruse teaching. David was "exceeding glad"—and what made him glad? that I want to know.'
Pitt's thoughts were busy with the innocent letter he had once received, in which a young and unlearned girl had given precisely the same testimony as the inspired royal singer. Precisely the same. And surely what Esther had found, another could find, and he might find. But while he was musing, Mrs. Dallas grew more and more uneasy. She knew better than to try the force of persuasion upon her son. It would not avail; and Mrs. Dallas was a proud woman, too proud to ask what would not be granted, or to resist forcefully what she might not resist successfully. She never withstood her husband's plans, or asked him to change them, except in cases when she knew her opposition could be made effective; so it did not at all follow that she was pleased where she made no effort to hinder. It was the same in the case of her son, though rarely proved until now. In the consciousness of her want of power she was tempted to be a little vexed.
'My dear,' she said, 'what you say sounds to me very like Methodist talk! They say the Methodists are spreading dreadfully.'
Pitt was silent, and then made a departure.
'How often I have wanted just the touch of these hands!' he said, giving those he held a little squeeze. 'Mother, there is nothing in all the world like them.'
It was not till the little family were seated at the dinner-table, thatPitt alluded to the object of his morning ramble.
'I went to see Colonel Gainsborough this morning,' he began; 'and to my astonishment found the house shut up. What has become of him?'
'Gone away,' said his father shortly.
'Yes, that is plain; but where is he gone to?'
'New York.'
'New York! What took him away?'
'I believe a desire to put his daughter at school. A very sensible desire.'
'To New York!' Pitt repeated. 'Why did you never mention it, mamma?'
'It never occurred to me to mention it. I did not suppose that the matter was of any great interest to you.'
Mrs. Dallas had said just a word too much. Her last sentence set Pitt to thinking.
'How long have they been gone?' he asked, after a short pause.
'Not long,' said Mr. Dallas carelessly. 'A few months, I believe.'
'A man told me you had bought the place?'
'Yes; it suited me to have it. The land is good, what there is of it.'
'But the house stands empty. What will you do with it?'
'Let it—as soon as anybody wants it.'
'Not much prospect of that, is there?'
'Not just now,' Mr. Dallas said drily.
There was a little pause again, and then Pitt asked,—
'Have you Colonel Gainsborough's address, sir?'
'No.'
'I suppose they have it at the post office.'
'They have not. Colonel Gainsborough was to have sent me his address, when he knew himself what it would be, but he has never done so.'
'Is he living in the city, or out of it.'
'I have explained to you why I am unable to answer that question.'
'Why do you want to know, Pitt?' his mother imprudently asked.
'Because I have got to look them up, mother; and knowing whereabouts they are would be rather a help, you see.'
'You have not got to look them up!' said his father gruffly. 'What business is it of yours? If they were here, it would be all very well for you to pay your respects to the colonel; it would be due; but as it is, there is no obligation.'
'No obligation of civility. There is another, however.'
'What, then?'
'Of friendship, sir.'
'Nonsense. Friendship ought to keep you at home. There is no friendship like that of a man's father and mother. Do you know what a piece of time it would take for you to go to New York to look up a man who lives you do not know where?—what a piece of your vacation?'
'More than I like to think of,' said Pitt; 'but it will have to be done.'
'It will take you two days to get there, and two more days to get back, merely for the journey; and how many do you want to spend in New York?'
'Must have two or three, at least. It will swallow up a week.'
'Out of your little vacation!' said his mother reproachfully. She was angry and hurt, as near tears as she often came; but Mrs. Dallas was not wont to show her discomfiture in that way.
'Yes, mother; I am very sorry.'
'Why do you care about seeing them?—care so much, I mean,' his father inquired, with a keen side-glance at his son.
'I have made a promise, sir. I am bound to keep it.'
'What promise?' both parents demanded at once.
'To look after the daughter, in case of the father's death.'
'But he is not dead. He is well enough; as likely to live as I am.'
'How can I be sure of that? You have not heard from him for months, you say.'
'I should have heard, if anything had happened to him.'
'That is not certain, either,' said Pitt, thinking that Esther's applying to his father and mother in case of distress was more than doubtful.
'How can you look after the daughter in the event of her father's death?Youare not the person to do it,' said his mother.
'I am the person who have promised to do it,' said Pitt quietly. 'Never mind, mother; you see I must go, and the sooner the better. I will take the stage to-morrow morning.'
'You might wait and try first what a letter might do,' suggested his father.
'Yes, sir; but you remember Colonel Gainsborough had very little to do with the post office. He never received letters, and he had ceased taking the LondonTimes. My letter might lie weeks unclaimed. I must go myself.'
And he went, and stayed a week away. It was a busy week; at least the days in the city were busily filled. Pitt inquired at the post office; but, as he more than half expected, nobody knew anything of Colonel Gainsborough's address. One official had an impression he had heard the name; that was all. Pitt beleaguered the post office, that is, he sat down before it, figuratively, for really he sat down in it, and let nobody go out or come in without his knowledge. It availed nothing. Either Christopher did not at all make his appearance at the post office during those days, or he came at some moment when Pitt was gone to get a bit of luncheon; if he came, a stupid clerk did not heed him, or a busy clerk overlooked him; all that is certain is, that Pitt saw and heard nothing which led to the object of his quest. He made inquiries elsewhere, wherever he could think it might be useful; but the end was, he heard nothing. He stayed three days; he could stay no longer, for his holiday was very exactly and narrowly measured out, and he felt it not right to take any more of it from his father and mother.
The rest of the time they had him wholly to themselves, for Miss Frere was hindered by some domestic event from keeping her promise to Mrs. Dallas. She did not come. Pitt was glad of it; and, seeing they were now free from the danger of Esther, his father and mother were glad of it too. The days were untroubled by either fear or anxiety, while their son made the sunshine of the house for them; and when he went away he left them without a wish concerning him, but that they were going too. For it was to be another two years before he would come again.
The record of those same summer months in the house on the bank of the Hudson was somewhat different. Esther had her vacation too, which gave her opportunity to finish everything in the arrangements at home for which time had hitherto been lacking. The girl went softly round the house, putting a touch of grace and prettiness upon every room. It excited Mrs. Barker's honest admiration. Here it was a curtain; there it was a set of toilet furniture; in another place a fresh chintz cover; in a fourth, a rug that matched the carpet and hid an ugly darn in it. Esther made all these things and did all these things herself; they cost her father nothing, or next to nothing, and they did not even ask for Mrs. Barker's time, and they were little things, but the effect of them was not so. They gave the house that finished, comfortable, home-like air, which nothing does give but the graceful touch of a woman's fingers. Mrs. Barker admired; the colonel did not see what was done; but Esther did not work for admiration. She was satisfying the demand of her own nature, which in all things she had to do with called for finish, fitness, and grace; her fingers were charmed fingers, because the soul that governed them had itself such a charm, and worked by its own standard, as a honey bee makes her cell. Indeed, the simile of the honey bee would fit in more points than one; for the cell of the little winged worker is not fuller of sweetness than the girl made all her own particular domicile. If the whole truth must be told, however, there was another thought stirring in her, as she hung her curtains and laid her rugs; a half recognised thought, which gave a zest to every additional touch of comfort or prettiness which she bestowed on the house. She thought Pitt would be there, and she wanted the impression made upon him to be the pleasantest possible. He would surely be there; he was coming home; he would never let the vacation go by without trying to find his old friends. It was a constant spring of pleasure to Esther, that secret hope. She said nothing about it; her father, she knew, did not care so much for Pitt Dallas as she did; but privately she counted the days and measured the time, and went into countless calculations for which she possessed no sufficient data. She knew that, yet she could not help calculating. The whole summer was sweetened and enlivened by these calculations, although indeed they were a little like some of those sweets which bite the tongue.
But the summer went by, as we know, and nothing was seen of the expected visitor. September came, and Esther almost counted the hours, waking up in the morning with a beat of the heart, thinking, to-day he may come! and lying down at night with a despairing sense that the time was slipping away, and her only consolation that there was some yet left. She said nothing about it; she watched the days of the vacation all out, and went to school again towards the end of the month with a heart very disappointed, and troubled besides by that feeling of unknown and therefore unreachable hindrances, which is so tormenting. Something the matter, and you do not know what and therefore you cannot act to mend matters. Esther was sadly disappointed. Three years now, and she had grown and he had changed,—must have changed,—and if the old friendship were at all to be preserved, the friends ought to see each other before the gap grew too wide, and before too many things rushed in to fill it which might work separation and not union. Esther's feelings were of the most innocent and childlike, but very warm. Pitt had been very good to her; he had been like an elder brother, and in that light she remembered him and wished for him. The fact that she was a child no longer did not change all this. Esther had lived alone with her father, and kept her simplicity.
Going to school might have damaged the simplicity, but somehow it did not. Several reasons prevented. For one thing, she made no intimate friends. She was kind to everybody, nobody was taken into her confidence. Her nature was apart from theirs; one of those rare and few whose fate it is for the most part to stand alone in the world; too fine for the coarseness, too delicate for the rudeness, too noble for the pettiness of those around them, even though they be not more coarse or rude or small-minded than the generality of mankind. Sympathy is broken, and full communion impossible. It is the penalty of eminence to put its possessor apart. I have seen a lily stand so in a bed of other flowers; a perfect specimen; in form and colouring and grace of carriage distinguished by a faultless beauty; carrying its elegant head a little bent, modest, but yet lofty above all the rest of the flower bed. Not with the loftiness of inches, however, for it was of lower stature than many around it; the elevation of which I speak was moral and spiritual. And so it was alone. The rest of the flowers were more or less fellows; this one in its apart elegance owned no social communion with them. Esther was a little like that among her school friends; and though invariably gracious and pleasant in her manners, she was instinctively felt to be different from the rest. Only Esther was a white lily; the one I tried to describe, or did not try to describe, was a red one.
Besides this element of separateness, Esther was very much absorbed in her work. Not seeking, like most of the others, to pass a good examination, but studying in the love of learning, and with a far-off ideal of attainment in her mind with which she hoped one day to meet Pitt, and satisfy if not equal him. I think she hardly knew this motive at work; however, itwasat work, and a powerful motive too.
And lastly, Esther was a 'favourite.' No help for it; she was certainly a favourite, the girls pronounced, and some of them had the candour to add that they did not see how she could help it, or how Miss Fairbairn could help it either.
'Girls, she has every right to be a favourite,' one of them set forth.
'Nobody has a right to be a favourite!' was the counter cry.
'But think, she never does anything wrong.'
'Stupid!'
'Well, she never breaks rules, does she?'
'No.'
'And she always has her lessons perfect as perfect can be.'
'So do some other people.'
'And her drawings are capital.'
'That's her nature; she has a talent for drawing; she cannot help it.She justcannot helpit, Sarah Simpson. That's no credit.'
'Then she is the best Bible scholar in the house, except Miss Fairbairn herself.'
'Ah! There you've got it. That's just it. She is one of Miss Fairbairn's kind. But everybody can't be like that!' cried the objector. 'I, for instance. I don't care so much for the Bible, you see; andyoudon't if you'll tell the truth; and most of us don't. It's an awful bore, that's what it is, all this eternal Bible work! and I don't think it's fair. It isn't whatIcame here for, I know. My father didn't think he was sending me to a Sunday school.'
'Miss Fairbairn takes care you should learn something else besidesBible, Belle Linders, to do her justice.'
'Well, she's like all the rest, she has favourites, and Esther Gainsborough is one of 'em, and there ought to be no favourites. I tell you, she puts me out, that's what she does. If I am sent out of the room on an errand, I am sure to hit my foot against something, just becauseshenever stumbles; and the door falls out of my hand and makes a noise, just because I am thinking how it behaves for her. She just puts me out, I give you my word. It confuses me in my recitations, to know thatshehas the answer ready, if I miss; and as for drawing, it's no use to try, because she will be sure to do it better. There ought to be no such thing as favourites!'
There was some laughter at this harangue, but no contradiction of its statements. Perhaps Esther was more highly gifted than any of her fellows; beyond question she worked harder. She had motives that wrought upon none of them; the idea of equalling or at least of satisfying Pitt, and the feeling that her father was sacrificing a great deal for her sake, and that she must do her very utmost by way of honouring and rewarding his kindness. Besides still another and loftier feeling, that she was the Lord's servant, and that less than the very best she could do was not service good enough for him.
'Papa,' she said one evening in October, 'don't you think Pitt must have come and gone before now?'
'William Dallas? If he has come, he is gone, certainly.'
'Papa, do you think hecanhave come?'
'Why not?'
'Because he has not been to see us.'
'My dear, that is nothing; there is no special reason why he should come to see us.'
'Oh, papa!' cried Esther, dismayed.
'My dear, you have put too much water in my tea; I wish you would think what you are about.'
Now Estherhadthought what she was about, and the tea was as nearly as possible just as usual.
'Shall I mend it, papa?'
'You cannot mend it. Tea must be made right at first, if it is ever to be right. And if it isnotright, it is not fit to be drunk.'
'I am very sorry, papa. I will try and have it perfect next time.'
It was plain her father did not share her anxiety about Pitt; he cared nothing about the matter, whether he came or no. He did not think of it. And Esther had been thinking of it every day for months, and many times a day. She was hurt, and it made her feel alone. Esther had that feeling rather often, for a girl of her age and sound health in every respect, bodily and mental. The feeling was quite in accordance with the facts of the case; only many girls at seventeen would not have found it out. She was in school and in the midst of numbers for five and a half days in the week; yet even there, as has been explained, she was in a degree solitary; and both in school and at home Esther knew the fact. At home the loneliness was intensified. Colonel Gainsborough was always busy with his books; even at meal times he hardly came out of them; and never, either at Seaforth or here, had he made himself the companion of his daughter. He desired to know how she stood in her school, and kept himself informed of what she was doing; what she might befeelinghe never inquired. It was all right, he thought; everything was going right, except that he was such an invalid and so left to himself. If asked bywhomhe was left to himself, he would have said, by his family and his country and the world generally. His family and his country might probably have charged that the neglect was mutual, and the world at large could hardly be blamed for not taking up the old soldier whom it did not know, and making much of him. The care which was failing from all three he got from his daughter in full measure, but she got little from him. It was not strange that her thoughts went fondly to Pitt, whohadtaken care of her and helped her and been good to her. Was it all over? and no more such kindly ministry and delightful sympathy to be ever hoped for any more? Had Pitt forgotten her? It gave Esther pain, that nobody guessed, to be obliged to moot this question; and it busied her a good deal. Sometimes her thoughts went longingly back beyond Pitt Dallas to another face that had always been loving to her; soft eyes and a tender hand that were ever sure to bring sympathy and help. She could not much bear to think of it.Thatwas all gone, and could not be called back again; was her one other earthly friend gone too? Pitt had been so good to her! and such a delightful teacher and helper and confidant. She thought it strange that her father did not miss him; but after the one great loss of his life, Colonel Gainsborough missed nobody any more.
One afternoon in the end of October, Esther, who had just come home from school was laid hold of by Mrs. Barker with a face of grave calculation.
'Miss Esther, will ye approve that I send Christopher over to that market woman's to get a head o' lettuce for the colonel's supper? There's nought in the house but a bit o' cold green tongue, savin', of course, the morrow's dinner. I thought he might fancy a salad.'
'Tongue?' said Esther. 'Haven't you a quail, or a sweetbread, or something of that sort?'
'I haven't it, Miss Esther; and that's the truth.'
'Forgotten?' said Esther, smiling.
'Mum, I couldn't forget the likes o' that,' Barker said solemnly. 'Which I mean, as I haven't that to own up to. No, mum, I didn't forget.'
'What's the matter, then? some carelessness of Christopher's. Yes, have a salad; that will do very well.'
'Then, mum,' said Barker still more constrainedly, 'could you perhaps let me have a sixpence? I don't like to send and ask a stranger like that to wait for what's no more'n twopence at home.'
'Wait?' repeated Esther. 'Didn't papa give you money for the housekeeping this week?'
'Miss Esther, he did; but—I haven't a cent.'
'Why? He did not give you as much as usual?'
The housekeeper hesitated, with a troubled face.
'Miss Esther, he did give me as much as usual,—I would say, as much as he uses to give me nowadays; but that ain't the old sum, and it ain't possible to do the same things wi' it.' And Mrs. Barker looked anxiously and doubtfully at her young mistress. 'I wouldn't like to tell ye, mum; but in course ye must know, or ye'd maybe be doubtful o'me.'
'Of course I should know!' repeated Esther. 'Papa must have forgotten. I will see about it. Give me a basket, Barker, and I will go over to the garden myself and get a head of lettuce,—now, before I take my things off. I would like to go.'
Seeing that she spoke truth, Mrs. Barker's scruples gave way. She furnished the basket, and Esther set forth. There was but a field or two to cross, intervening between her own ground and the slopes where the beds of the market garden lay trim and neat in the sun. Or, rather, to-day, in the warm, hazy, soft October light; the sun's rays could not rightly get through the haze. It was one of the delicious times of October weather, which the unlearned are wont to call Indian summer, but which is not that, and differs from it essentially. The glory of the Indian summer is wholly ethereal; it belongs to the light and the air; and is a striking image and eloquent testimony of how far spirit can overmaster matter. The earth is brown, the trees are bare; the drapery and the colours of summer are all gone; and then comes the Indian summer, and makes one forget that the foregoing summer had its glories at all, so much greater is the glory now. There is no sense of bareness any longer, and no missing of gay tints, nor of the song of birds, nor of anything else in which June revelled and August showed its rich maturity; only the light and the air, filling the world with such unearthly loveliness that the looker-on holds his breath, and the splendour of June is forgotten. This October day was not after such a fashion; it was steeped in colour. Trees near at hand showed yellow and purple and red; the distant Jersey shore was a strip of warm, sunburnt tints, merged into one; over the river lay a sunny haze that was, as it were, threaded with gold; as if the sun had gone to sleep there and was in a dream; and mosses, and bushes, and lingering asters and golden-rod, on rocks or at the edges of the fields near at hand, gave the eye a welcome wherever it turned. Not a breath of air was stirring; the landscape rested under a spell of peace.
Esther walked slowly, every step was so full of pleasure. The steps were few, however, and her pleasure was mingled with an odd questioning in her mind, what all this about money could mean? A little footpath worn in the grass led her over the intervening fields to Mrs. Blumenfeld's garden. Christopher must have worn that path, going and coming; for the family had been supplied through the summer with milk from the dairy of the gardener's wife. Mrs. Blumenfeld was out among her beds of vegetables, Esther saw as she drew near; she climbed over the fence, and in a few minutes was beside her.
'Wall, ef you ain't what I call a stranger!' said the woman good-humouredly. 'I don't see you no more'n the angels, for all you're so near!'
'I am going to school, Mrs. Blumenfeld; and that keeps me away from home almost all the week. How do you do?'
'Dear me, I dursn't be anything but well,' said the gardener's widow. 'Ef I ain't at both ends o' everything, there ain't no middle to 'em. There ain't a soul to be trusted, 'thout it's yourself. It's kind o' tedious. I get to the wrong end o' my patience once in a while. Jest look at them rospberry canes! and I set a man only yesterday to tie 'em up. They ain't done nohow!'
'But your garden always looks beautiful.'
'Kin you see it from your windows? I want to know!'
'Not very much of it; but it always looks so bright and trim. It does now.'
'Wall, you see,' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, 'a garden ain't nothin' ef it ain't in order. I do despise shiftless ways! Now jes' see them rospberry canes!'
'What's the matter with them?'
'I don't suppose you'd know ef I showed you,' said the good woman, checking herself with a half laugh; 'and there ain't no need, as I know, why I should bother you with my bothers. But it's human natur', ain't it?'
'Iswhathuman nature?'
'Jes' that same. Or don't you never want to tell no one your troubles?Maybe ye don't hev none?' she added, with an inquiring look intoEsther's face. 'Young folks!—the time for trouble hain't come yet.'
'Oh yes,' said Esther. 'I have known what trouble is.'
'Hev ye?' said the woman with another inquisitive look into the fair face. 'Mebbe. There is folks that don't show what they goes through. I guess I'm one o' that sort myself.'
'Are you?' said Esther, smiling. 'Certainly, to look at you, I never should think your life had been very crooked or very rough. You always seem bright and peaceful.'
It was true. Mrs. Blumenfeld had a quiet steady way with her, and both face and voice partook of the same calm; though energy and activity were at the same time as plainly manifested in every word and movement. Esther looked at her now, as she went among her beds, stooping here and there to remove a weed or pull off a decayed leaf, talking and using her eyes at the same time. Her yellow hair was combed smooth and flat at both sides of her head and knotted up firmly in a tight little business knot behind. She wore a faded print dress and a shawl, also faded, wrapped round her, and tied by the ends at the back; but both shawl and gown were clean and whole, and gave her a thoroughly respectable appearance. At Esther's last remark she raised herself up and stood a moment silent.
'Wall,' she said, 'that's as fur as you kin see. It's ben both crookedandrough. I mayn't look it,—where's the use? And I don't talk of it, for I've nobody to talk to; but, as I said, human natur' 'd like to, ef it had a chance. I hain't a soul in the world to speak to; and sometimes I feel as ef I'd give all I've got in the world to talk. Then, mostly, I go into the garden and rout out the weeds. I tell you they has to fly, those times!—But I believe folks was made to hev company.'
'Have you no children?'
'Five of 'em, over there,' the woman said, pointing away, Esther could only guess where, as it was not to the house. She was sorry she had asked, and stood silent.
'Five of 'em,' Mrs. Blumenfeld repeated slowly. 'I had 'em,—and I haven't 'em. And now, there is times when the world seems to me that solitary that I'm a'most scared at myself.'
Esther stood still, with mute sympathy, afraid to speak.
'I s'pose, to you now, the world is all full o' friends?' the other went on more lightly, turning from her own troubles, as it were.
'No,' said Esther gently; 'not at all. I am very much alone, and always have been.'
'Mebbe you like it?'
'No, I do not like it. I sometimes wish very much for one or two friends who are not here.'
There came a sigh from the bosom of the other woman, unwonted, and tale-telling, and heavy.
'My marriage warn't happy,' she said, lower than her usual tone. 'I kin manage the garden alone; and I'd jes' as lieve. Two minds about a thing makes unpeace; and I set a great deal by peace. But it's awful lonely, life is, now and then!'
'It is not that to me,' said Esther sympathizingly; she was eager to speak, and yet doubtful just what to say. She fell back upon what perhaps is the safest of all, her own experience. 'Lifeusedto be like that to me—at one time,' she went on after a little pause. 'I was very lonely and sad, and didn't know how I could live without comfort. And then I got it; and as I got it, I think so may you.'
The woman looked at her, not in the least understanding what she would be at, yet fascinated by the sympathy—which she read plainly enough—and held by the beauty. By something besides beauty, too, which she saw without being able to fathom it. For in Esther's eyes there was the intense look of love and the fire of joy, and on her lips the loveliest lines of tenderness were trembling. Mrs. Blumenfeld gazed at her, but would almost as soon have addressed an angel, if one had stood beside her with wings that proclaimed his heavenly descent.
'I'll tell you how I got comfort,' Esther went on, keeping carefully away from anything that might seem like preaching. 'I was, as I tell you, dark and miserable and hopeless. Then I came to know the Lord Jesus; and it was just as if the sun had risen and filled all my life with sunlight.'
The woman did not remove her eyes from Esther's face. 'I want to know!' she said at last. 'I've heerd tell o' sich things;—but I never see no one afore that hed the knowledge of 'em, like you seem to hev. I've heerd parson talk.'
'This is not parson talk.'
'I see 'tain't. But what is it then? You see, I'm as stupid as a bumble bee; I don't understand nothin' without it's druv into me—unless it's my garden. Ef you ask me about cabbages, or early corn, I kin tell you. But I don't know no more'n the dead what you are talkin' of.'
Esther's eyes filled with tender tears. 'I want you to know,' she said.'I wish you could know!'
'How am I goin' to?'
'Do what I did. I prayed the Lord Jesus to let me know Him; I prayed and prayed; and at last He came, and gave me what I asked for. And now, I tell you, my life is all sunlight, because He is in it. Don't you know, the Bible calls Him the Sun of righteousness! You only want to see Him.'
'See Him!' echoed the woman. 'There's only one sun I kin see; and that's the one that rises over in the east there and sets where he is goin' to set now,—over the Jersey shore, across the river.'
'But when this other Sun rises in the heart, He never sets any more; and we have nothing to do with darkness any more, when once we know Him.'
'Know Him?' Mrs. Blumenfeld again repeated Esther's words. 'Why, you're speaking of God, ain't you? You kin know a human critter like yourself; but how kin you know Him?'
'I cannot tell,' said Esther; 'but He will come into your heart and make you know Him. And when once you know Him, then, Mrs. Blumenfeld, you'll not be alone any more, and life will not be dark any more; and you will just grow happier and happier from day to day. And then comes heaven.'
Mrs. Blumenfeld still gazed at her.
'I never heerd no sich talk in all my life!' she said. 'An' that's the way you live now?'
Esther nodded.
'An' all you did was to ask for it?'
'Yes. But of course I studied the Bible, to find out what the Lord says of Himself, and to find out what He tells me to do and to be. For of course I must do His will, if I want Him to hear my prayers. You see that.'
'I expect that means a good deal, don't it?'
'Yes.'
'Mebbe somethin' I wouldn't like to do.'
'You will like to do it, when once you know Him,' Esther said eagerly. 'That makes all the difference. You know, we always love to please anybody that we love.'
The gardener's wife had become very thoughtful. She went along her garden bed, stooping here to strip a decayed leaf from a cabbage, and there to pick up a dry bean that had fallen out of its pod, or to pull out a little weed from among her lettuces.
'I'm much obliged to you,' she said suddenly.
'You see,' said Esther, 'it is as free to you as to me. And why shouldn't we be happy if we can?'
'But there's those commandments! that's what skeers me. You see, I'm a kind o' self-willed woman.'
'It is nothing but joy, when once you know Him.'
'But you say I mustbeginwith doin' what's set down?'
'Certainly; as far as you know; or the Lord will not hear our prayers.'
'Wouldn't it doafter?' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, raising herself up, and again looking Esther in the face. There was an odd mixture in the expression of her own, half serious, half keenly comic.
'It is not the Lord's way,' said Esther gravely. 'Seek Him and obey Him, and you shall know. But if you cannot trust the Lord's word for so much, there is no doing anything. Without faith it is impossible to please Him.'
'I don't suppose you come here jes' fur to tell me all this,' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, after again a pause, 'but I'm real obleeged to ye. What's to go in that basket?'
'I brought it to see if you could let us have a head of lettuce. I see you have some.'
'Yes; and crisp, and cool, and nice they be—just right. Wall, I guess we kin. See here, that basket won't hold no more'n a bite for a bird; mayn't I get you a bigger one?'
As Esther refused this, Mrs. Blumenfeld looked out her prettiest head of lettuce, skillfully detached it from the soil, and insinuated it into the little basket. But to the enquiry, how much was to pay, Mrs. Blumenfeld returned a slight shake of the head.
'I should like to see myself takin' a cent from you! Jes' you send over—or come! that's better—whenever you'd like a leaf o' salad, or anythin' else; and if it's here, you shall hev it, and glad.'
'You are very kind!'
'Wall, no; I don't think that's my character. They'll all tell you I'm honest. Wall, good-bye. An' come agin!' she cried after Esther. 'It's more 'n likely I'll want some more talkin' to.'
Esther went home slowly and musing. The beauty around her, which she had but half noticed at first coming out, now filled her with a great delight. Or, rather, her heart was so full of gladness that it flowed over upon all surrounding things. Sunny haze, and sweet smells of dry leaves and moss, and a mass of all rich neutral tints in browns and purples, just touched here and there for a painter's eye with a spot of clear colour, a bit of gold, or a flare of flame—it all seemed to work its way into Esther's heart and make it swell with pleasure. She stood still to look across the river, which lay smooth like a misty mirror, and gave only a rich, soft, indeterminate reflection of the other shore. But the thoughts in Esther's mind were clear and distinct. Lonely? Had she ever been lonely? What folly! How could any one be lonely who had the knowledge of Christ and His presence? What sufficient delight it was to know Him, and to love Him, and to be always with Him, and always doing His will! If poor Mrs. Blumenfeld only knew!
Esther walked slowly home, delivered her basket to Barker, and went to her father. After the usual kiss and inquiry about how the week had been, he relapsed into his book; and she had to wait for a time to talk of anything else. Esther sat down with a piece of fancy work, and held her tongue till tea-time. The house was as still as if nobody lived in it. The colonel occasionally turned a leaf; now and then a puff of gas or a sudden jet of flame in the Liverpool coal fire gave a sort of silent sound, rebuking the humanity that lived there. No noise was heard from below stairs; the middle-aged and well-trained servants did their work with the regularity and almost with the smoothness of machines. It occurred to Esther anew that her life was excessively quiet; and a thought of Pitt, and how good it would have been to see him, arose again, as it had risen so many times. And then came the thoughts of the afternoon. With Christ,—was not that enough? Doing His will and having it—could she want anything more? Esther smiled to herself. She wanted nothing more.
Barker came in with the tea-kettle, and the cold tongue and the salad made the supper-table look very comfortable. She made the tea, and the colonel put down his book.
'Do you never get tired of reading, papa?'
'Yes, my dear. One gets tired of everything!'
This was said with a discouraging half breath of a sigh.
'Then you might talk a little, for a change, papa.'
'Humph! Whom should I talk to?'
'Me, papa, for want of somebody else.'
This suggestion fell dead. The colonel took his toast and tried the salad.
'Is it good, papa?' Esther asked, in despair at the silence.
'Yes, my dear, it is good. Vegetable salads are a little cold at this time of year.'
'Papa, we were driven to it. Barker had not money enough this week to get you a partridge. And she says it has happened several times lately that you have forgotten to give her the usual amount for the week's housekeeping.'
'Then she says wrong.'
'She told me, several times she has not had enough, sir.'
'In that she may be right.'
Esther paused, questioning what this might mean. She must know.
'Papa, do you mean you gave her insufficient money and knew it at the time?'
'I knew it at the time.'
There was another interval, of greater length. Esther felt a little chill creeping over her. Yet she must come to an understanding with her father; that was quite indispensable.
'Papa, do you mean that it was inadvertence? Or was it necessity?'
'How could it be inadvertence, when I tell you I knew what I did?'
'But, papa'— Esther's breath almost failed her. 'Papa, we are living just as we always have lived?'
'Are we?'—somewhat drily.
'There is my schooling, of course'—
'And rent, and a horse to keep, and a different scale of market prices from that which we had in Seaforth. Everything costs more here.'
'There was the money for the sale of the place,' said Esther vaguely.
'That was not a great deal, after all. It was a fair price, perhaps, but less than the house and ground were worth. The interest of that does not cover the greater outlay here.'
This was very dismayful, all the more because Colonel Gainsborough did not come out frankly with the whole truth. Esther was left to guess it,—to fear it,—to fancy it more than it was, perhaps. She felt that she could not have things left in this in indeterminate way.
'Papa, I think it would be good that I should know just what the difference is; so that I might know how to bring in our expenses within the necessary limits.'
'I have not cyphered it out in figures. I cannot tell you precisely how much my income is smaller than it used to be.'
'Can you tell me how much we ought to spend in a week, papa?—and then we will spend no more.'
'Barker will know when I give it to her.'
The colonel had finished his tea and toast, which this evening he certainly did not enjoy; and went back to his book and his sofa. Though, indeed, he had not left his sofa, he went back to a reclining position, and Esther moved the table away from him. She was bewildered. She forgot to ring for Barker; she sat thinking how to bring the expenses of the family within narrower limits. Possible things alternated with impossible in her mind. She mused a good while.
'Papa,' she said, breaking the silence at last, 'do you think the air suits you here?'
'No, I do not. I have no cause.'
'You were better at Seaforth?'
'Decidedly. My chest always feels here a certain oppression. I suppose there is too much sea air.'
'Was not the sea quite as near them at Seaforth, and salt air quite as much at hand?' Esther thought. However, as she did not put entire faith in the truth of her father's conclusions, it was no use to question his premises.
'Papa,' she said suddenly, 'suppose we go back to Seaforth?'
'Suppose nonsense!'
'No, sir; but I do not mean it as nonsense. I have had one year's schooling—that will be invaluable to me; now with books I can go on by myself. I can, indeed, papa, and will. You shall not need to be ashamed of me.'
'You are talking foolishly, Esther.'
'I do not mean it foolishly, papa. If we have not the means to live here, and if the Seaforth air is so much better for you, then there is nothing to keep us here but my schooling; and that, as I tell you, I can manage without. And I can manage right well, papa; I have got so far that I can go on alone now. I am seventeen; I am not a child any longer.'
There was a few minutes' silence, but probably that fact, that Esther was a child no longer, impelled the colonel to show her a little more consideration.
'Where would you go?' he asked, a trifle drily.
'Surely we could find a place, papa. Couldn't you, perhaps, buy back the old house—the dear old house!—as Mr. Dallas took it to accommodate you? I guess he would give it up again.'
'My dear, do not say "guess" in that very provincial fashion! I shall not ask Mr. Dallas to play at buying and selling in such a way. It would be trifling with him. I should be ashamed to do it. Besides, I have no intention of going back to Sea forth till your education is ended; and by that time—if I live to see that time—I shall have so little of life left that it will not matter where I spend it.'
Esther did not know how to go on.
'Papa, could we not do without Buonaparte? I could get to school some other way?'
'How?'
Esther pondered. 'Could I not arrange to go in Mrs. Blumenfeld's waggon, when it goes in Monday morning?'
'Who is Mrs. Blumenfeld?'
'Why, papa, she is the woman that has the market garden over here. You know.'
'Do I understand you aright?' said the colonel, laying his book down for the moment and looking over at his daughter. 'Are you proposing to go into town with the cabbages?'
'Papa, I do not mind. I would not mind at all, if it would be a relief to you. Mrs. Blumenfeld's waggon is very neat.'
'My dear, I am surprised at you!'
'Papa, I would doanything, rather than give you trouble. And, after all, I should be just as much myself, if I did go with the cabbages.'
'We will say no more about it, if you please,' said the colonel, taking up his book again.
'One moment, papa! one word more. Papa, I am so afraid of doing something I ought not. Can you not give me a hint, what sort of proportion our expenditures ought to bear to our old ways?'
'There is the rent, and the keeping of the horse, to be made good. Those are additions to our expenses; and there are no additions to my income. You know now as much as I can tell you.'
The discussion was ended, and left Esther chilled and depressed. The fact itself could be borne, she thought, if it were looked square in the face, and met in the right spirit. As it was, she felt involved in a mesh of uncertainty. The rent,—she knew how much that was,—no such great matter; how much Buonaparte's keep amounted to she had no idea. She would find out. But how to save even a very few hundred dollars, even one or two hundred, by retrenchment of the daily expenses, Esther did not see. Better, she thought, make some great change, cut off some larger item of the household living, and so cover the deficit at once, than spare a partridge here and a pound of meat there. That was a kind of petty and vexing care which revolted her. Far better dispense with Buonaparte at once, and go into town with the cabbages. It will be seen that Esther as yet was not possessed of that which we call knowledge of the world. It did not occur to her that the neighbourhood of the cabbages would hurt her, though it might hurt her fastidious taste. It would not hurther, Esther thought; and what did the rest matter? Anything but this pinching and sparing penny by penny. But if she drove into town with the cabbages, that would only dispose of Buonaparte; the other item—the rent—would remain unaccounted for. How should that be made up?
Esther pondered, brooded, tired herself with thinking. She could not talk to Barker about it, and there was no one else. Once more she felt a little lonely and a good deal helpless, though energies were strong within her to act, if she had known how to act. She mounted the stairs to her room with an unusual slow step, and shut her door, but she had brought her trouble in with her. Esther went to her window to look out, as we all are so apt to do when some trouble seems too big for the house to hold. There is a vague counsel-taking with nature, to which one is impelled at such times; or is it sympathy-seeking? The sweet October afternoon had passed into as sweet an evening, the hazy stillness was unchanged, and through the haze the silver rays of a half moon high in the heavens came with the tenderest touch and the most gracious softness upon all earthly things. There was a vapourous glitter on the water of the broad river, a dewy or hazy veil on the land; the scene could not be imagined more witching fair or more removed from any sort of discordance. Esther stood looking, and her heart calmed down. She had been feeling distressed under the question of ways and means; now it occurred to her, 'Take no thought for the morrow, what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink; your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.' And as the words came, Esther shook off the trouble they condemn; shook it off her shoulders, as it were, and left it lying. Still she felt alone, she wished for Pitt Dallas, or forsomebody;she had no one but her father in all the world, nor the hope of any one. And happy as she really was, yet the human instinct would stir in Esther—the instinct that longs for intercourse, sympathy, affection; somebody to talk to, to counsel with, to share in her joys and sorrows and experiences generally. It is a perfectly natural and justifiable desire; stronger, perhaps, in the young than in the old, for the old know better how much and how little society amounts to, and are not apt to have such violent longings in general for anything. But also to the old, loving companionship is inexpressibly precious; the best thing by far that this world contains or this life knows. And Esther longed for it now, even till tears rose and dimmed her sight, and made all the moonshiny landscape swim and melt and be lost in the watery veil. But then, as the veil cleared and the moonlight came into view again, came also other words into Esther's mind,—'Be content with such things as ye have; for He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'
She cleared away her tears and smiled to herself, in happy assurance and wonder that she should have forgotten. And with that, other words still came to her; words that had never seemed so exceeding sweet before.
'None of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.'—That is a sure promise. 'Fear not, Abraham;Iam thy shield, and thine exceeding great reward.'—Probably, when this word was given, the father of the faithful was labouring under the very same temptation, to think himself alone and lonely. And the answer to his fears must be sufficient, or He who spoke it would never have spoken it to him just at that time.
Esther stood a while at her window, thinking over these things, with a rest and comfort of heart indescribable; and finally laid herself down to rest with the last shadow gone from her spirit.
It could not be, however, but that the question returned the next day, what was to be done? Expenses must not outrun incomings; that was a fixed principle in Esther's mind, resting as well on honour as honesty. Evidently, when the latter do not cover the former, one of two things must be done; expenses must be lessened, or income increased. How to manage the first, Esther had failed to find; and she hated the idea, besides, of a penny-ha'penny economy. Could their incomings be added to? By teaching! It flashed into Esther's mind with a disagreeable illumination. Yes, that she could do, that she must do, if her father would not go back to Seaforth. There was no other way. He could not earn money; she must. If they continued to live in or near New York, it must be on her part as a teacher in a school. The first thought of it was not pleasant. Esther was tempted to wish they had never left Seaforth, if the end of it was to be this. But after the first start of revulsion she gathered herself together. It would put an end to all their difficulties. It would be honourable work, and good work; and, after all,workin some sort is what everybody should have; nobody is put here to be idle. Perhaps this pressure of circumstances was on purpose to push her into the way that was meant for her; the way in which it was the Lord's pleasure she should serve Him and the world. And having got this view of it, Esther's last reluctance was gone. For, you see, what was the Lord's pleasure was also hers.
Her heart grew quite light again. She saw what she had to do. But for the first, the thing was, to go as far in her learning as her father desired her to go. She must finish her own schooling. And if Esther had studied hard before, she studied harder now; applied herself with all the power of her will to do her utmost in every line. It was not a vague thought of satisfying Pitt Dallas that moved her now; but a very definite purpose to take care of her father, and a ready joy to do the will of Him whom Esther loved even better than her father.
The thought of Pitt Dallas, indeed, went into abeyance. Esther had something else to do. And the summer had passed and he had not come; that hope was over; and two years more must go by, according to the plan which Esther knew, before he would come again. Before that time, who could tell? Perhaps he would have forgotten them entirely.
It happened one day, putting some drawers in order, that Esther took up an old book and carelessly opened it. Its leaves fell apart at a place where there lay a dry flower. It was the sprig of red Cheiranthus; not faded; still with its velvety petals rich tinted, and still giving forth the faint sweet fragrance which belongs to the flower. It gave Esther a thrill. It was the remaining fragment of Pitt's Christmas bouquet, which she had loved and cherished to the last leaf as long as she could. She remembered all about it. Her father had made her burn all the rest; this blossom only had escaped, without her knowledge at the time. The sight of it went to her heart. She stood still by her chest of drawers with the open book in her hand, gazing at the wallflower in its persistent beauty. All came back to her: Seaforth, her childish days, Pitt and her love for him, and his goodness to her; the sorrow and the joy of that old time; and more and more the dry flower struck her heart. Why had her father wanted her to burn the others? why had she kept this? And what was the use of keeping it now? When anything, be it a flower, be it a memory, which has been fresh and sweet, loses altogether its beauty and its savour, what is the good of still keeping it to look at? Truly the flower had not lost either beauty or savour; but the memory that belonged to it? what had become of that? Pitt let himself no more be heard from; why should this little place-keeper be allowed to remain any longer? Would it not be wiser to give it up, and let the wallflower go the way of its former companions? Esther half thought so; almost made the motion to throw it in the fire; but yet she could not. She could not quite do it. Maybe there was an explanation; perhaps Pitt would come next time, when another two years had rolled away, and tell them all about it. At any rate, she would wait.
She shut up the book again carefully, and put it safely away.