It seemed very inexplicable to Esther that Pitt was never heard from. Not a scrap of a letter had they had from him since they came to New York. Mr. Dallas, the elder, had written once or twice, mostly on business, and said nothing about his son. That was all. Mrs. Dallas never wrote. Esther would have been yet more bewildered if she had known that the lady had been in New York two or three times, and not merely passing through, but staying to do shopping. Happily she had no suspicion of this.
One day, late in the autumn, Christopher Bounder went over to Mrs. Blumenfeld's garden. It lay in pretty fall order, trim and clean; bushes pruned, canes tied up, vines laid down, leaves raked off; all the work done, up to the very day. Christopher bestowed an approving glance around him as he went among the beds; it was all right and ship-shape. Nobody was visible at the moment; and he passed on round the house to the rear, from whence he heard a great racket made by the voices of poultry. And there they were; as soon as he turned the corner he saw them: a large flock of hens and chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, all wobbling and squabbling. In the midst of them stood the gardener's widow, with her hands in the pockets of a great canvas apron; or rather, with her hands in and out, for from the pockets, which were something enormous, she was fetching and distributing handfulls of oats and corn to her feathered beneficiaries. Christopher drew near, as near as he could, for the turkeys, and Mrs. Blumenfeld gave him a nod.
'Good morning, mum!'
'Good day to ye.'
'Them's a fine lot o' turkeys!' Christopher really had a good deal of education, and even knew some Latin; nevertheless, in common life, the instincts of his early habits prevailed, and he said 'Them' by preference.
'Ain't they!' rejoined Mrs. Blumenfeld. 'They had ought to be, for they've given me plague enough. Every spring I think it's the last turkeys I'll raise; and every winter, jes' as regular, I think it 'ud be well to set more turkey eggs next year than I did this'n. You see, a good fat roast turkey is what you can't beat—not in this country.'
'Nor can't equal in England, without you go to the game covers for it.They're for the market, I s'pose?'
'Wall, I calkilate to send some on 'em. I do kill a turkey once in a while for myself, but la, how long do ye think it takes me to eat up a turkey? I get sick of it afore I'm done.'
'You want company,' suggested Mr. Bounder.
But to this the lady made no answer at all. She finished scattering her grain, and then turned to her visitor, ready for business. Christopher could not but look at her with great approbation. She was dressed much as Esther had seen her a few weeks before: a warm shawl wrapped and tied around the upper part of her person, bareheaded, hair in neat and tight order, and her hands in her capacious pockets.
'Now, I kin attend to ye,' she said, leaving the chickens and geese, which for the present were quiet, picking up their breakfast. But Mr. Bounder did not go immediately to business.
'That's a capital notion of an apron!' he said admiringly.
'Ain't it!' she answered. 'Oh, I'm great on notions. I believe in savin' yourself all the trouble you kin, provided you don't lose no time by it. There is folks, you know, that air soft-headed enough to think they kin git rid o' trouble by losin' their time. I ain't o' that sort.'
'I should say, you have none o' that sort o' people about you.'
'Wall, I don't—not ef I kin help it. Anyhow, ef I get 'em I contrive to lose 'em agin. But what was you wantin'?'
'I came to see if you could let us have our winter's onions? White onions, you know. It's all the sort we can do with, up at the house.'
'Onions!' said Mrs. Blumenfeld. 'Why hain't you riz your own onions, I want to know? You've got a garden.'
'That is true, mum,' said Christopher; 'but all the onions as was in it is gone.'
'Then you didn't plant enough.'
'And that's true too,' said Christopher; 'but I can't say as I takes any blame to myself for it.'
'Sakes alive, man! ain't you the gardener?'
'At your service, mum.'
'Wall, then, why, when you were about it, why didn't you sow your seeds accordin' to your needs?'
'I sowed all the seed I had.'
'All you had!' cried the little woman. 'That sounds kind o' shiftless; and I don't take you for that sort of a man neither, Mr. Bounder.'
'Much obleeged for your good opinion, mum.'
'Then why didn't you git more onion seed, du tell, when you knowed you hadn't enough?'
'As I said, mum, I am much obleeged for your good opinion, which I hope I deserve. There is reasons which must determine a man, upon occasion, to do what you would not approve—unless you also knowed the reasons.'
This sounded oracular. The two stood and looked at one another. Christopher explained himself no further; however, Mrs. Blumenfeld's understanding appeared to improve. She looked first inquisitive, and then intelligent.
'That comes kind o' hard upon me, at the end,' she said with a somewhat humorous expression. 'You see, I've made a vow— You believe in vows, Mr. Bounder?'
'I do, mum,—of the right sort.'
'I don't make no other. Wall, I've made a vow to myself, you see. Look here; what do you call that saint o' your'n? up to your house.'
'I don't follow you, mum,' said Christopher, a good deal mystified.
'You know you've got a saint there, I s'pose. What's her name? that's what I want to know.'
'Do you mean Miss Esther?'
'Ah! that's it. I never heerd of a Saint Esther. There was an Esther in the Bible—I'll tell you! she was a Queen Esther; and that fits. Ain't she a kind o' a queen! But she's t'other thing too. Look here, Mr. Bounder; be you all saints up to your house?'
'Well, no, mum, not exactly; that's not altogether the description I'd give of some of us, if I was stating my opinion.'
'Don't you think you had ought to be that?'
'Perhaps we ought,' said Christopher, with wondering slow admission.
'I kin tell you. There ain't no question about it. Folks had ought to live up to their privileges; an' you've got a pattern there right afore your eyes. I hev no opinion of you, ef you ain't all better'n common folks. I'd be, I know, ef I lived a bit where she was.'
'It's different with a young lady,' Christopher began.
'Why is it different?' said the woman sharply. 'You and me, we've got as good right to be saints as she has, or anybody. I tell you I've made a vow.Iain't no saint, but I'm agoin' to sell her no onions.'
'Mum!' said Christopher, astounded.
'Nor nothin' else,' Mrs. Blumenfeld went on. 'How many d'ye want?'
Mr. Bounder's wits were not quick enough to follow these sharp Yankee turns. Like the ships his countrymen build, he could not come about so quick. It is curious how the qualities of people's minds get into their shipbuilding and other handicraft. It was not till Mrs. Blumenfeld had repeated her question that he was able to answer it.
'I suppose, mum, a half a bushel wouldn't be no more'n enough to go through with.'
'Wall, I've got some,' the gardener's widow went on; 'the right sort; white, and as soft as cream, and as sweet as onions kin be. I'll send you up a bag of 'em.'
'But then I must be allowed to pay for 'em,' said Christopher.
'I tell you, I won't sell her nothin'—neither onions nor nothin' else.'
'Then, mum,—it's very handsome of you, mum; that I must say, and won't deny—but in that case I am afraid Miss Esther would prefer that I should get the onions somewheres else.'
'Jes' you hold your tongue about it, an' I'll send up the sass; and ef your Queen Esther says anything, you tell her it's all paid for. What else do you want that's my way?'
While she spoke, Mrs. Blumenfeld was carefully detaching a root of celery from the rich loose soil which enveloped it, and shaking the white stalks free from their encumbrance, Mr. Bounder the while looking on approvingly, both at the celery, which was beautifully long and white and delicate, and at the condition of things generally on the ground, all of which his eye took in; although he was too much of a magnate in his own line to express the approval he felt.
'There!' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, eyeing her celery stalks; 'kin you beat that where you come from?'
'It's very fair,' said Christopher—'very fair. But England can beat the world, mum, in gardening and that. I suppose you can't expect it of a new country like this.'
'Can't expect what? to beat the world? You jes' wait a bit, till you see. You jes' only wait a bit.'
'What do you think of England and America going into partnership?' asked Mr. Bounder, bending to pick up a refuse stem that Mrs. Blumenfeld had rejected. 'Think we couldn't be a match for most things u-nited?'
'I find myself a match for most things, as it is,' returned the lady promptly.
'But you must want help sometimes?' said Christopher, with a sharp and somewhat sly glance at her.
'When I do, I git it,—or I do without it.'
'That's when you can't get the right kind.'
'Jes' so.'
'It ain't for a man properly to say what he can do or what he can't do; words is but breath, they say; and those as know a man can give a pretty good guess what he's good for; but, however, when he's speakin' to them as don't know him, perhaps it ain't no more but fair that he should be allowed to speak for himself. Now if I say that accordin' to the best o' my knowledge and belief, what I offer youisthe right kind o' help, you won't think it's brag or bluster, I hope?'
'Why shouldn't I?' said the little woman. But Christopher thought the tone of the words was not discouraging. 'They does allays practise fence,' he thought to himself.
'Well, mum, if you hev ever been up to our place in the summer-time, you may hev seen our garden; and to a lady o' your experience I needn't to say no more.'
'Wall,' said Mrs. Blumenfeld, by way of conceding so much, 'I'll allow Colonel Gainsborough has a pretty fair gardener, ef hehessome furrin notions.'
'I'll bring them furrin notions to your help, mum,' said Mr. Bounder eagerly. 'I know my business as well as any man on this side or that side either. It's no boastin' to say that.'
'Sounds somethin' like it. But what'll the colonel do without you, or the colonel's garden? that's what I can't make out. Hev you and he hed a falling out?' And the speaker raised herself up straight and looked full at her visitor.
'There's nothin' like that possible!' said Mr. Bounder solemnly. 'The colonel ain't agoin' to do without me, my woman. No more can't I do with out the colonel, I may say. I've lived in the family now this twenty year; and as long as I can grow spinach they ain't agoin' to eat no other—without it's yours, mum,' Christopher added, with a change of tone; 'or yours and mine. You see, the grounds is so near, that goin' over to one ain't forsakin' the other; and the colonel, he hasn't really space and place for a man that can do what I can do.'
'An' what is it you propose?'
'That you should take me, mum, for your head man.'
The two were standing now, quite still, looking into one another's eyes; a little sly audacity in those of Christopher, while a smile played about his lips that was both knowing and conciliating. Mrs. Blumenfeld eyed him gravely, with the calm air of one who was quite his match. Christopher could tell nothing from her face.
'I s'pose,' she said, 'you'll want ridiculous wages?'
'By no means, mum!' said Christopher, waving his hand. 'There never was nothin' ridiculous aboutyou. I'll punch anybody's head that says it.'
Mrs. Blumenfeld shook the last remnant of soil from the celery roots, and handed the bunch to Christopher.
'There,' she said; 'you may take them along with you—you'll want 'em for dinner. An' I'll send up the onions. An' the rest I'll think about. Good day to ye!'
Christopher went home well content.
The winter passed, Esther hardly knew how. For her it was in a depth of study; so absorbing that she only now and then and by minutes gave her attention to anything else. Or perhaps I should say, her thoughts; for certainly the colonel never lacked his ordinary care, which she gave him morning and evening, and indeed all day, when she was at home, with a tender punctuality which proved the utmost attention. But even while ministering to him, Esther's head was apt to be running on problems of geometry and ages of history and constructions of language. She was so utterly engrossed with her work that she gave little heed to anything else. She did notice that Pitt Dallas still sent them no reminders of his existence; it sometimes occurred to her that the housekeeping in the hands of Mrs. Barker was becoming more and more careful; but the only way she saw to remedy that was the way she was pursuing; and she went only the harder at her constructions and translations and demonstrations. The colonel livedhislife without any apparent change.
And so went weeks and months: winter passed and spring carne; spring ran its course, and the school year at last was at an end. Esther came home for the long vacation. And then one day, Mrs. Barker confided to her reluctantly that the difficulties of her position were increasing.
'You ask me, why don't I get more strawberries, Miss Esther. My dear, I can't do it.'
'Cannot get strawberries? But they are in great plenty now, and cheap.'
'Yes, mum, but there's so many other things, Miss Esther.' The housekeeper looked distressed. Esther was startled, and hesitated.
'You mean you have not money, Barker? Papa does not give you enough?'
'He gives me the proper sum, Miss Esther, I'm certain; but I can't make it do all it should do, to have things right and comfortable.'
'Do you have less than you used at the beginning of winter?'
'Yes, mum. I didn't want to trouble you, Miss Esther, for to be sure you can't do nothin' to help it; but it's just growin' slimmer and slimmer.'
'Never mind; I think I know how to mend matters by and by; if we can only get along for a little further. We must have some things, and my father likes fruit, you can get strawberries from Mrs. Blumenfeld down here, can you not?'
'No, mum,' said the housekeeper, looking embarrassed. 'She won't sell us nothin', that woman won't.'
'Will not sell us anything? I thought she was so kind. What is the matter? Is there not a good understanding between her and us?'
'There's too good an understanding, mum, and that's the truth. We don't want no favours from the likes o' her; and now Christopher'—
'What of Christopher?'
'Hain't he said nothin' to the colonel?'
'To papa? No. About what?'
'He's gone and made an ass o' himself, has Christopher,' said the housekeeper, colouring with displeasure.
'Why? How? What has he done?'
'He hain't done nothin' yet, mum, but he's bound he will, do the foolishest thing a man o' his years can do. An' he wants me to stan' by and see him! I do lose my patience whiles where I can't find it. As if Christopher hadn't enough to think of without that! Men is all just creatures without the power o' thought and foresight.'
'Thought?—why, that is precisely what is supposed to be their distinguishing privilege,' said Esther, a little inclined to laugh. 'And Christopher was always very foresighted.'
'He ain't now, then,' muttered his sister.
'What is he doing?'
'Miss Esther, that yellow-haired woman has got holt o' him.'
This was said with a certain solemnity, so that Esther was very much bewildered, and most incoherent visions flew past her brain. She waited dumbly for more.
'She has, mum,' the housekeeper repeated; 'and Christopher ain't a babby no more, but he's took—that's what he is. I wish, Miss Esther—as if that would do any good!—that we'd stayed in Seaforth, where we was. I'm that provoked, I don't rightly know myself. Christopher ain't a babby no more; but it seems that don't keep a man from bein' wuss'n a fool.'
'Do you mean'—
'Yes 'm, that's what he has done; just that; and I might as well talk to my spoons. I've knowed it a while, but I was purely ashamed to tell you about it. I allays gave Christopher the respect belongin' to a man o' sense, if he warn't in high places.'
'But what has he done?'
'Didn't I tell you, Miss Esther? That yellow-haired woman has got holt of him.'
'Yellow-haired woman?'
'Yes, mum,—the gardener woman down here.'
'Is Christopher going to take service withher?'
'He don't call it that, mum. He speaks gay about bein' his own master. I reckon he'll find two ain't as easy to manage as one! She knows what she's about, that woman does, or my name ain't Sarah Barker.'
'Do you mean,' cried Esther,—'do you mean that he is going tomarryher?'
'That's what I've been tellin' you, mum, all along. He's goin' to many her, that he is; and for as old as he is, that should know better.'
'Oh, but Christopher is notold;that is nothing; he is young enough.I did not think, though, he would have left us.'
'An' that, mum, is just what he's above all sure and certain he won't do. I tell him, a man can't walk two ways to once; nor he can't serve two masters, even if one of 'em is himself, which that yellow-haired woman won't let come about. No, mum, he's certain sure he'll never leave the colonel, mum; that ain't his meaning.'
Esther went silently away, thinking many things. She was more amused than anything else, with the lightheartedness of youth; yet she recognised the fact that this change might introduce other changes. At any rate, it furnished an occasion for discussing several things with her father. As usual, when she wanted a serious talk with the colonel, she waited till the time when his attention would be turned from his book to his cup of tea.
'Papa,' she began, after the second cup was on its way, 'have you heard anything lately of Christopher's plans?'
'Christopher's plans? I did not know he had any plans,' said the colonel drily.
'He has, papa,' said Esther, divided between a desire to laugh and a feeling that after all there was something serious about the matter. 'Papa, Christopher has fallen in love.'
'Fallen inwhat?' shouted the colonel.
'Papa! please take it softly. Yes, papa, really; Christopher is going to be married.'
'He has not asked my consent.'
'No, sir, but you know—Christopher is of age,' said Esther, unable to maintain a gravity in any way corresponding to that on her father's face.
'Don't talk folly! What do you mean?'
'He has arranged to marry Mrs. Blumenfeld, the woman who keeps the market garden over here. He does not mean to leave us, papa; the places are so near, you know. He thinks, I believe, he can manage both.'
'He is a fool!'
'Barker is very angry with him. But that does not help anything.'
'He is an ass!' repeated the colonel hotly. 'Well, that settles one question.'
'What question, papa?
'We have done with Christopher. I want no half service. I suppose he thinks he will make more money; and I am quite willing he should try.'
Esther could see that her father was much more seriously annoyed than he chose to show; his tone indicated a very unusual amount of disturbance. He turned from the table and took up his book.
'But, papa, how can we do without Christopher?'
There was no answer to this.
'I suppose he really has a great deal of time to spare; our garden ground is so little, you know. He does not mean to leave us at all.'
'Imean he shall!'
Esther sat silent and pondered. There were other things she wished to speak about; was not this a good occasion? But she hesitated long how to be gin. The colonel was not very deep in his book, she could see; he was too much annoyed.
'Papa,' she said slowly after a while, 'are our circumstances any better than they were?'
'Circumstances? what do you mean?'
'Money, papa; have we any more money than we had when we talked about it last fall?'
'Where is it to come from?' said the colonel in the same short, dry fashion. It was the fashion in which he was wont to treat unwelcome subjects, and always drove Esther away from a theme, unless it were too pressing to be avoided.
'Papa, you know I do not know where any of our money comes from, except the interest on the price of the sale at Seaforth.'
'I do not know where anymoreis to come from.'
'Then, papa, don't you think it would be good to let my schooling stop here?'
'No.'
'Papa, I want to make a very serious proposition to you. Do not laugh at me' (the colonel looked like anything but laughing), 'but listen to me patiently. You know wecannotgo on permanently as we have done this year, paying out more than we took in?'
'That is my affair.'
'But it is for my sake, papa, and so it comes home to me. Now this is my proposal. I have really had schooling enough. Let me give lessons.'
'Let you dowhat?'
'Lessons, papa; let me give lessons. I have not spoken to Miss Fairbairn, but I am almost sure she would be glad of me; one of her teachers is going away. I could give lessons in Latin and French and English and drawing, and still have time to study; and I think it would make up perhaps all the deficiency in our income.'
The colonel looked at her. 'You have not spoken of this scheme to anybody else?'
'No, sir; of course not.'
'Then, do not speak of it.'
'You do not approve of it, papa?'
'No. My purpose in giving you an education was not that you might be a governess.'
'But, papa, it would not hurt me to be a governess for a while; it would do me no sort of hurt; and it would help our finances. There is another thing I could teach—mathematics.'
'I have settled that question,' said the colonel, going back to his book.
'Papa,' said the girl after a pause, 'may I give lessons enough to pay for the lessons that are given me?'
'No.'
'But, papa, it troubles me very much, the thought that we are living beyond our means; and on my account.' And Esther now looked troubled.
'Leave all that to me.'
Well, it was all very well to say, 'Leave that to me;' but Esther had a strong impression that matters of this sort, so left, would not meet very thorough attention. There was an interval here of some length, during which she was pondering and trying to get up her courage to go on.
'Papa,'—she broke the silence doubtfully,—'I do not want to disturb you, but I must speak a little more. Perhaps you can explain; I want to understand things better. Papa, do you know Barker has still less money now to do the marketing with than she had last year?'
'Well, what do you want explained?' The tone was dry and not encouraging.
'Papa, she cannot get the things you want.'
'Do I complain?'
'No, sir, certainly; but—is this necessary?'
'Is what necessary?'
'Papa, she tells me she cannot get you the fruit you ought to have; you are stinted in strawberries, and she has not money to buy raspberries.'
'Call Barker.'
The call was not necessary, for the housekeeper at this moment appeared to take away the tea-things.
'Mrs. Barker,' said the colonel, 'you will understand that I do not wish any fruit purchased for my table. Not until further orders.'
The housekeeper glanced at Esther, and answered with her decorous,'Certainly, sir;' and with that, for the time, the discussion was ended.
But it is in the nature of this particular subject that the discussion of it is apt to recur. Esther kept silence for some time, possessing herself in patience as well as she could. Nothing more was said about Christopher by anybody, and things went their old train, minus peaches, to be sure, and also minus pears and plums and nuts and apples, articles which Esther at least missed, whether her father did or not. Then fish began to be missing.
'I thought, Miss Esther, dear,' said Mrs. Barker when this failure in themenuwas mentioned to her,—'I thought maybe the colonel wouldn't mind if he had a good soup, and the fish ain't so nourishin', they say, as the meat of the land creatures. Is it because they drinks so much water, Miss Esther?'
'But I think papa does not like to go without his fish.'
'Then he must have it, mum, to be sure; but I'm sure I don't just rightly know how to procure it. It must be done, however.'
The housekeeper's face looked doubtful, notwithstanding her words of assurance, and a vague fear seized her young mistress.
'Do not get anything you have not money to pay for, at any rate!' she said impressively.
'Well, mum, and there it is!' cried the housekeeper. 'There is things as cannot be dispensed with, in no gentleman's house. I thought maybe fish needn't be counted among them things, but now it seems it must. I may as well confess, Miss Esther; that last barrel o' flour ain't been paid for yet.'
'Not paid for!' cried Esther in horror. 'How came that?'
'Well, mum, just that I hadn't the money. And bread must be had.'
'Not if it cannot be paid for! I would rather starve, if it comes to that. You might have got a lesser quantity.'
'No, mum,' replied the housekeeper; 'you have to have the whole barrel in the end; and if you get it by bits you pay every time for the privilege. No, mum, that ain't no economy. It's one o' the things which kills poor people; they has to pay for havin' every quart of onions measured out to 'em. I'm afeard Christopher hain't had no money for his hay and his oats that he's got latterly.'
'Hay and oats!' cried Esther. 'Would he get them without orders and means?'
'I s'pose he thinks he has his orders from natur'. The horse can't be let to go without his victuals, mum. And means Christopher hadn't, more'n a quarter enough. What was he to do?'
Esther stood silent and pale, making no demonstration, but the more profoundly moved and dismayed.
'An' what's harder onmystomach than all the rest,' the housekeeper went on, 'is that woman sendin' us milk.'
'That woman? Mrs. Blumenfeld?'
'Which itwasher name, mum.'
'Was!You do not mean— Is Christopher really married?'
'He says that, mum, and I suppose he knows. He's back and forth, and don't live nowheres, as I tells him. And the milk comes plentiful, and to be sure the colonel likes his glass of a mornin'; and curds, and blancmange, and the like, I see he's no objection to; but thinks I to myself, if he knowed, it wouldn't go down quite so easy.'
'If he knew what? Don't you pay for it?'
'I'd pay that, Miss Esther, if I paid nothin' else; but Christopher's beyond my management and won't hear of no money, nor his wife neither, he says. It's uncommon impudence, mum, that's what I think it is. Set her up! to give us milk, and onions, and celery; and she would send apples, only I dursn't put 'em on the table, being forbidden, and so I tells Christopher.'
Esther was penetrated through and through with several feelings while the housekeeper spoke; touched with the kindness manifested, but terribly humbled that it should be needed, and that it should be accepted. This must not go on; but, in the meantime, there was another thing that needed mending.
'Have you been to see your new sister, Barker?'
'Me? That yellow-haired woman? No, mum; and have no desire.'
'It would be right to go, and to be very kind to her.'
'She's that independent, mum, she don't want no kindness. She's got her man, and I wish her joy.'
'I am sure you may,' said Esther, half laughing. 'Christopher will certainly make her a good husband. Hasn't he been a good brother?'
'Miss Esther,' said the housekeeper solemnly, 'the things is different. It's my belief there ain't half a dozen men on the face o' the earth that is fit to have wives, and one o' the half dozen I never see yet. Christopher's a good brother, mum, as you say; as good as you'll find, maybe,—I've nought against him as sich; but then, I ain't his wife, and that makes all the differ. There's no tellin' what men don't expect o' their wives, when once they've got 'em.'
'Expectations ought to be mutual, I should think,' said Esther, amused. 'But it would be the right thing for you to go and see Mrs. Bounder at any rate, and to be very good to her; and you know, Barker, you always like to do what is right.'
There was a sweet persuasiveness in the tone of the last words, which at least silenced Mrs. Barker; and Esther went away to think what she should say to her father. The time had come to speak in earnest, and she must not let herself be silenced. Getting into debt on one hand, and receiving charity on the other! Esther's pulses made a bound whenever she thought of it. She must not put itsoto Colonel Gainsborough. How should she put it? She knelt down and prayed for wisdom, and then she went to the parlour. It was one Saturday afternoon in the winter; school business in full course, and Esther's head and hands very much taken up with her studies. The question of ways and means had been crowded out of her very memory for weeks past; it came with so much the sharper incisiveness now. She went in where her father was reading, poked the fire, brushed up the hearth, finally faced the business in hand.
'Papa, are you particularly busy? Might I interrupt you?'
'Youhaveinterrupted me,' said the colonel, letting his hand with the book sink to his side, and turning his face towards the speaker. But he said it with a smile, and looked with pleased attention for what was coming. His fair, graceful, dignified daughter was a constant source of pride and satisfaction to him, though he gave little account of the fact to himself, and made scarce any demonstration of it to her. He saw that she was fair beyond most women, and that she had that refined grace of carriage and manner which he valued as belonging to the highest breeding. There was never anything careless about Esther's appearance, or hasty about her movements, or anything that was not sweet as balm in her words and looks. As she stood there now before him, serious and purposeful, her head, which was set well back on her shoulders, carried so daintily, and the beautiful eyes intent with grave meaning amid their softness, Colonel Gainsborough's heart swelled in his bosom, for the delight he had in her.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What do you want to say to me? All goes well at school?'
'Oh yes, papa, as well as possible. It isn't that. But I am in a great puzzle about things at home.'
'Ah! What things?'
'Papa, we want more money, or we need to make less expenditure. I must consult you as to the which and the how.'
The colonel's face darkened. 'I see no necessity,' he answered.
'But I do, papa. I see it so clearly that I am forced to disturb you. I am very sorry, but I must. I am sure the time has come for us to take some decided measures. We cannot go on as we are going now.'
'I should like to ask, why not?'
'Because, papa—because the outlay and the income do not meet.'
'It seems to me that is rather my affair,' said the colonel coolly.
'Yes, papa,' said Esther, with a certain eagerness, 'I like it to be your affair—only tell me what I ought to do.'
'Tell you what you ought to do about what?'
'How to pay as we go, papa,' she answered in a lower tone.
'It is very simple,' the colonel said, with some impatience. 'Let your expenses be regulated by your means. In other words, do not get anything you have not the money for.'
'I should like to follow that rule, papa; but'—
'Then follow it,' said the colonel, going back to his book, as if the subject were dismissed.
'But, papa, there are some things onemusthave.'
'Very well. Get those things. That is precisely what I mean.'
'Papa, flour is one of them.'
'Yes. Very well. What then?'
'Our last barrel of flour is not paid for.'
'Not paid for! Why not?'
'Barker could not, papa.'
'Barker should not have got it, then. I allow no debts.'
'But, papa, we must have bread, you know. That is one of the things that one cannot do with out. What should she do?' Esther said gently.
'She could go to the baker's, I suppose, and get a loaf for the time.'
'But, papa, the bread costs twice as much that way; or one third more, if not twice as much. I do not know the exact proportion; but I know it is very greatly more expensive so.'
The colonel was well enough acquainted with details of the commissary department to know it also. He was for a moment silenced.
'And, papa, Buonaparte, too, must eat; and his oats and hay are not paid for.' It went sharp to Esther's heart to say the words, for she knew how keenly they would go to her father's heart; but she was standing in the breach, and must fight her fight. The colonel flew out in hot displeasure; sometimes, as we all know, the readiest disguise of pain.
'Who dared to get hay and oats in my name and leave it unpaid for?'
'Christopher had not the money, papa; and the horse must eat.'
'Not without my order!' said the colonel. 'I will send Christopher about his own business. He should have come to me.'
There was a little pause here. The whole discussion was exceedingly painful to Esther; yet it must be gone through, and it must be brought to some practical conclusion. While she hesitated, the colonel began again.
'Did you not tell me that the fellow had some ridiculous foolery with the market woman over here?'
'I did not put it just so, papa, I think,' said Esther, smiling in spite of her pain. 'Yes, he is married to her.'
'Married!' cried the colonel. 'Married, do you say? Has he had the impudence to do that?'
'Why not, sir? Why not Christopher as well as another man?'
'Because he is my servant, and had no permission from me to get married while he was in my service. He did notaskpermission.'
'I suppose he dared not, papa. You know you are rather terrible when you are displeased. But I think it is a good thing for us that he is married. Mrs. Blumenfeld is a good woman, and Christopher is disposed of, whatever we do.'
'Disposed of!' said the colonel. 'Yes! I have done with him. I want no more of him.'
'Then, papa,' said Esther, sinking down on her knees beside her father, and affectionately laying one hand on his knee, 'don't you see this makes things easy for us? I have a proposition. Will you listen to it?'
'A proposition! Say on.'
'It is evident that we must take some step to bring our receipts and expenses into harmony. Your going without fruit and fish will not do it, papa; and I do not like that way of saving, besides. I had rather make one large change—cut off one or two large things—than a multitude of small ones. It is easier, and pleasanter. Now, so long as we live in this house we are obliged to keep a horse; and so long as we have a horse we must have Christopher, or some other man; and so long as we keep a horse and a man wemustmake this large outlay, that we cannot afford. Papa, I propose we move into the city.'
'Move! Where?' asked the colonel, with a very unedified expression.
'We could find a house in the city somewhere, papa, from which I could walk to Miss Fairbairn's. That could not be difficult.'
'Who is to find the house?'
'Could not you, papa? Buonaparte would take you all over; the driving would not do you any harm.'
'I have no idea where to begin,' said the colonel, rubbing his head in uneasy perplexity.
'I will find out that, papa. I will speak to Miss Fairbairn; she is a great woman of business. She will tell me.'
The colonel still rubbed his head thoughtfully. Esther kept her position, in readiness for some new objection. The next words, however, surprised her.
'I have sometimes thought,'—the colonel's fingers were all the while going through and through his hair; the action indicating, as such actions do, the mental movement and condition, 'I have sometimes thought lately that perhaps I was doing you a wrong in keeping you here.'
'Here, papa?—in New York?'
'No. In America.'
'In America! Why, sir?'
'Your family, my family, are all on the other side. You would have friends if you were there,—you would have opportunities,—you would not be alone. And in case I am called away, you would be in good hands. I do not know that I have the right to keep you here.'
'Papa, I like to be where you like to be. Do not think of that. Why did we come away from England in the first place?'
The colonel was silent, with a gloomy brow.
'It was nothing better than a family quarrel,' he said.
'About what? Do you mind telling me, papa?'
'No, child; you ought to know. It was a quarrel on the subject of religion.'
'How, sir?'
'Our family have been Independents from all time. But my father married a second wife, belonging to the Church of England. She won him over to her way of thinking. I was the only child of the first marriage; and when I came home from India I found a houseful of younger brothers and sisters, all belonging, of course, to the Establishment, and my father with them. I was a kind of outlaw. The advancement of the family was thought to depend very much on the stand I would take, as after my father's death I would be the head of the family. At least my stepmother made that a handle for her schemes; and she drove them so successfully that at last my father declared he would disinherit me if I refused to join him.'
'In being a Church of England man?'
'Yes.'
'But, papa, that was very unjust!'
'So I thought. But the injustice was done.'
'And you disinherited?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, papa! Just because you followed your own conscience!'
'Just because I held to the traditions of the family. We hadalwaysbeen Independents—fought with Cromwell and suffered under the Stuarts. I was not going to turn my back on a glorious record like that for any possible advantages of place and favour.'
'What advantages, papa? I do not understand. You spoke of that before.'
'Yes,' said the colonel a little bitterly, 'in that particular my stepmother was right. You little know the social disabilities under which those lie in England who do not belong to the Established Church. For policy, nobody should be a Dissenter.'
'Dissenter?' echoed Esther, the word awaking a long train of old associations; and for a moment her thoughts wandered back to them.
'Yes,' the colonel went on; 'my father bade me follow him; but with more than equal right I called on him to follow a long line of ancestors. Rather hundreds than one!'
'Papa, in such a matter surely conscience is the only thing to follow,' said Esther softly. 'You do not think a man ought to be either Independent or Church of England, just because his fathers have set him the example?'
'You do not think example and inheritance are anything?' said the colonel.
'I think they are everything, for the right;—most precious!—but they cannot decide the right.Thata man must do for himself, must he not?'
'Republican doctrine!' said the colonel bitterly. 'I suppose, after I am gone, you will become a Church of England woman, just to prove to yourself and others that you are not influenced by me!'
'Papa,' said Esther, half laughing, 'I do not think that is at all likely; and I am sure you do not. And so that was the reason you came away?'
'I could not stay there,' said the colonel, 'and see my young brother in my place, and his mother ruling where your mother should by right have ruled. They did not love me either,—why should they?—and I felt more a stranger there than anywhere else. So I took the little property that came to me from my mother, to which my father in his will had made a small addition, and left England and home for ever.'
There was a pause of some length.
'Who is left there now, of the family?' Esther asked.
'I have not heard.'
'Do they never write to you?'
'Never.'
'Nor you to them, papa?'
'No. Since I came away there has been no intercourse whatever between our families.'
'Oh, papa!'
'I am inclined to regret it now, for your sake.'
'I am not thinking of that. But, papa, it must be sixteen or seventeen years now; isn't it?'
'Something like so much.'
'Oh, papa, do write to them! do write to them, and make it up. Do not let the quarrel last any longer.'
'Write to them and make it up?' said the colonel, rubbing his head again. In all his life Esther had hardly ever seen him do it before. 'They have forgotten me long ago; and I suppose they are all grown out of my remembrance. But it might be better for you if we went home.'
'Never mind that, papa; that is not what I am thinking of. Why, who could be better off than I am? But write and make it all up, papa; do! It isn't good for families to live so in hostility. Do what you can to make it up.'
The colonel sat silent, rubbing the hair of his head in every possible direction, while Esther's fancy for a while busied itself with images of an unknown crowd of relations that seemed to flit before her. How strange it would be to have aunts and cousins; young and old family friends, such as other girls had; instead of being so entirely set apart by herself, as it were. It was fascinating, the mere idea. Not that Esther felt her loneliness now; she was busy and healthy and happy; yet this sudden vision made her realise that shewasalone. How strange and how pleasant it would be to have a crowd of friends, of one's own blood and name! She mused a little while over this picture, and then came back to the practical present.
'Meanwhile, papa, what do you think of my plan? About getting a house in the city, and giving up Buonaparte and his oats? Don't you think it would be comfortable?'
The colonel considered the subject now in a quieter mood, discussed it a little further, and finally agreed to drive into town and see what he could find in the way of a house.
Yet the colonel did not go. Days passed, and he did not go. Esther ventured some gentle reminders, which had no effect. And the winter was gone and the spring was come, before he made the first expedition to the city in search of a house. Once started on his quest, it is true the colonel carried it on vigorously, and made many journeys for it; but they were all in vain. Rents in the city were found to be so much higher than rents in the country as fully to neutralize the advantage hoped for in a smaller household and the dismissal of the horse. Not a dwelling could be found where this would not be true. The search was finally given up; and things in the little family went on as they had been going for some time past.
Esther at last, under stress of necessity, made fresh representations to her father, and besought leave to give lessons. They were running into debt, with no means of paying. It went sorely against the grain with the colonel to give his consent; pride and tenderness both rebelled; he hesitated long, but circumstances were too much for him. He yielded at last, not with a groan, but with many groans.
'I came here to take care of you,' he said; 'andthisis the end of it!'
'Don't take it so, papa,' cried Esther. 'I like to do it. It is not a hardship.'
'Itis a hardship,' he retorted; 'and you will find it so. I find it so now.'
'Even so, papa,' said the girl, with infinite sweetness; 'suppose it be a hardship, the Lord has given it to me; and so long as I am sure it is something He has given, I want no better. Indeed, papa, you know Icould haveno better.'
'I know nothing of the kind. You are talking folly.'
'No, papa, if you please. Just remember,—look here, papa,—here are the words. Listen: "The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory;no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly."'
'Do you mean to tell me,' said the colonel angrily, 'that—well, that all the things that you have not just now, and ought to have, are not good things?'
'Not good for me, or at least not thebest, or I should have them.'
This answer was with a smile so absolutely shadowless, that the colonel found nothing to answer but a groan, which was made up of pain and pride and pleasure in inscrutable proportions.
The next step was to speak to Miss Fairbairn. That wise woman showed no surprise, and did not distress Esther with any sympathy; she took it as the most natural thing in the world that her favourite pupil should wish to become a teacher; and promised her utmost help. In her own school there was now no longer any opening; that chance was gone; but she gave Esther a recommendation in person to the principal of another establishment, where in consequence Miss Gainsborough found ready acceptance.
And now indeed she felt herself a stranger, and found herself alone. This was a different thing from her first entering school as a pupil. And Esther began also presently to perceive that her father had not been entirely wrong in his estimate of a teacher's position and experiences. It is not a path of roses that such a one has to tread; and even the love she may bear to those she teaches, and even the genuine love of teaching them, do not avail to make it so. Woe to the teacher who has not those two alleviations and helps to fall back upon! Esther soon found both; and yet she gave her father credit for having known more about the matter than she did. She was truly alone now; the children loved her, but scattered away from her as soon as their tasks were done; her fellow-teachers she scarcely saw—they were busy and jaded; and with the world outside of school she had nothing to do. She had never had much to do with it; yet at Miss Fairbairn's she had sometimes a little taste of society that was of high order, and all in the house had been at least well known to her and she to them, even if no particular congeniality had drawn them together. She had lost all that now. And it sometimes came over Esther in those days the thought of her English aunts and cousins, as a vision of strange pleasantness. To have plenty of friends and relations, of one's own blood, and therefore inalienable; well-bred and refined and cultivated (whereby I am afraid Esther's fancy made them a multiplication of Pitt Dallas),—it looked very alluring! She went bravely about her work, and did it beautifully, and was very contented in it, and relieved to be earning money; yet these visions now and again would come over her mind, bringing a kind of distant sunshiny glow with them, different from the light that fell on that particular bit of life's pathway she was treading just then. They came and went; what came and did not go was Esther's consciousness that she was earning only a little money, and that with that little she could not clear off all the debts that had accrued and were constantly accruing. When she had paid the butcher, the grocer's bill presented itself, and when she had after some delay got rid of that, then came the need for a fresh supply of coal. Esther spent nothing on her own dress that she could help, but her father's was another matter, and tailors' charges she found were heavy. She went bravely on; she was young and full of spirit, and she was a Christian and full of confidence; nevertheless she did begin to feel the worry of these petty, gnawing, money cares, which have broken the heart of so many a woman before her. Moreover, another thing demanded consideration. It was necessary, now that she had no longer a home with Miss Fairbairn, that she should go into town and come back every day, and, furthermore, as she was giving lessons in a school, no circumstance of weather or anything else must hinder her being absolutely punctual. Yet Esther foresaw that as the winter came on again it would be very difficult sometimes to maintain this punctuality; and it became clear to her that it would be almost indispensable for them to move into town. If only a house could be found!
Meantime Christopher went and came about the house, cultivated the garden and took care of the horse and drove Esther to school, all just as usual; his whilome master never having as yet said one word to him on the subject of his marriage and consequent departure. Whether his wages were paid him, Esther was anxiously doubtful; but she dared not ask. I say 'whilome' master, for there is no doubt that Mr. Bounder in these days felt that nobody was his master but himself. He did all his duties faithfully, but then he took leave to cross the little field which lay between his old home and his new, and to disappear for whole spaces of time from the view of the colonel's family.
It was one evening in November. Mrs. Barker was just sitting down to her tea, and Christopher was preparing himself to leave her. I should remark that Mrs. Barker had called on the former Mrs. Blumenfeld, and established civil relations between the houses.
'Won't you stay, Christopher?' asked his sister.
'No, thank ye. I've got a little woman over there, who's expecting me.'
'Does she set as good a table for you as I used to do? in those days when I could?' the housekeeper added, with a sigh.
'Well, she ain't just up to some o' your arts,' said Christopher, with a contented face, in which his blue eye twinkled with a little slyness; 'but I'll tell you what, she can cook a dish o' pot-pie that you can't beat, nor nobody else; and her rye bread is just uncommon!'
'Rye bread!' said the housekeeper, with an utterance of disdain.
'I'll bring a loaf over,' said Christopher, nodding his head; 'and you can give some to Miss Esther if you like. Good-night!'
He made few steps of it through the dark cold evening to the house that had become his home. The room that received him might have pleased a more difficult man. It was as clean as hands could make it; bright with cleanliness, lighted and warmed with a glowing fire, and hopeful with a most savoury scent of supper. The mistress of the house was busy about her hearth, looking neat and comfortable enough to match her room. As Christopher came in she lit a candle that stood on the supper-table. Christopher hugged himself at this instance of his wife's thrift, and sat down.
'You've got something that smells uncommon good there!' said he approvingly.
'I allays du think a hot supper's comfortable at the end o' a cold day,' returned the new Mrs. Bounder. 'I don't care what I du as long's I'm busy with all the world all the day long; I kin take a piece and a bite and go on, but when it comes night, and I hev time to think I'm tired, then I like a good hot something or other.'
'What have you got there?' said Christopher, peering over at the dish on the hearth which Mrs. Bounder was filling from a pot before the fire. She laughed.
'You wouldn't be any wiser ef I told you. It's a little o' everything. Give me a good garden, and I kin live as well as I want to, and cost no one more'n a few shillin's, neither. 'Tain't difficult, ef you know how. Now see what you say to that.'
She dished up her supper, put a plate of green pickles on the table, filled up her tea-pot, and cut some slices from a beautiful brown loaf, which must have rivalled the rye, though it was not that colour. Christopher sat down, said grace reverently, and attacked the viands, while the mistress poured him out a cup of tea.
'Christopher,' she said, as she handed it to him, 'I'd jes' like to ask you something.'
'What is it?'
'I'd like to know jes' why you go through that performance?'
'Performance?' echoed Christopher. 'What are you talkin' about?'
'I mean, that bit of a prayer you think it is right to make whenever you're goin' to put your fork to your mouth.'
'Oh! I couldn't imagine what you were driving at. Why do I do it?'
'I'd like to know, ef you think you kin tell.'
'Respectable folk always does it.'
'Hm! I don' know about that. So it's for respectability you keep it up?'
'No,' said Christopher, a little embarrassed how to answer. 'It's proper. Don't you know the Bible bids us give thanks?'
'Wall, hev you set out to du all the rest o' the things the Bible bids you du?—that's jes' what I'm comin' to.'
A surly man would not perhaps have answered at all, resenting this catechizing; but Christopher was not surly, and not at all offended. He was perplexed a little; looked at his wife in some sly wonder at her, but answered not.
'Ef I began, I'd go through. I wouldn't make no half way with it; that's all I was goin' to say,' his wife went on, with a grave face that showed she was not jesting.
'It's saying a good deal!' remarked Christopher, still looking at her.
'It's sayin' a good deal, to make the first prayer; but ef I made the first one, I'd make all the rest. I don't abide no half work inmygarden, Christopher; that's what I was thinkin'; and I don't believe Him you pray to likes it no better.'
Christopher was utterly unprepared to go on with this subject; and finally gave up trying, and attended to his supper. After a little while his wife struck a new theme. She was not a trained rhetorician; but when she had said what she had to say she was always contented to stop.
'How are things going up your way to-day?' she asked.
'My way is down here, I'm happy to say.'
'Wall, up to the colonel's, then. What's the news?'
'Ain't no sort o' news. Never is. They're always at the old things. The colonel he lies on his sofy, and Miss Esther she goes and comes. They want to get a house in town, now she's goin' so regular, only they can't find one to fit.'
'Kin't find a house? I thought there was houses enough in all New York.'
'Houses enough, but they all is set up so high in their rents, you see.'
'Is that the trouble?'
'That is exactly the trouble; and Miss Esther, I can see, she doesn't know just what to do.'
'They ain't gittin' along well, Christopher?'
'Well, there is no doubt they ain't! I should say they was gettin' on uncommon bad. Don't seem as if they could any way pay up all their bills at once. They pay this man, and then run up a new score with some other man. Miss Esther, she tries all she knows; but there ain't no one to help her.'
'They git this house cheaper than they'd git any one in town, I guess.They'd best stay where they be.'
'Yes, but you see, Miss Esther has to go and come every day now; she's teachin' in a school, that's what she is,' said Christopher, letting his voice drop as if he were speaking of some desecration. 'That's what she is; and so she has to be there regular, rain or shine makes no difference. An' if they was in town, you see, they wouldn't want the horse, nor me.'
'Youdon't cost 'em nothin'!' returned Mrs. Bounder.
'No; but they don't know that; andifthey knowed it, you see, there'd be the devil to pay.'
'I wouldn't give myself bad names, ef I was you,' remarked Mrs. Bounder quietly. 'Christopher'—
'What then?'
'I'm jes' thinkin''—
'What are you thinkin' about?'
'Jes' you wait till I know myself, and I'll tell ye.'
Christopher was silent, watching from time to time his spouse, who seemed to be going on with her supper in orderly fashion. Mr. Bounder was not misled by this, and watched curiously. He had acquired in a few months a large respect for his wife. Her very unadorned attire, and her peculiar way of knotting up her hair, did not hinder that he had a great and growing value for her. Christopher would have liked her certainly to dress better and to put on a cap; nevertheless, and odd as it may seem, he was learning to be proud of his very independent wife, and even boasted to his sister that she was a 'character.' Now he waited for what was to come next.
'I guess I was a fool,' began Mrs. Bounder at last. 'But it came into my head, ef they're in such a fix as you say, whether maybe they wouldn't take up with my house. I guess, hardly likely.'
'Yourhouse?' inquired Christopher, in astonishment. But his wife calmly nodded.
'Yourhouse!' repeated Christopher. 'Which one?'
'Wall, not this one, I guess,' said his wife quietly. 'But I've got one in town.'
'A house in town! Why, I never heard of it before.'
'No, 'cause it's been standin' empty for a spell back, doin' nothin'. Ef there had been rent comin' in, I guess you'd have heard of it. But the last folks went out; and I hadn't found no one that suited me to let hev it.'
'Would it do for the colonel and Miss Esther?'
'That's jes' what I don' know, Christopher. It would du as fur's the rent goes; an' it's all right and tight. It won't let the rain in on 'em; I've kep' it in order.'
'I should like to see what you don't keep in order!' said Christopher admiringly.
'Wall, I guess it's my imagination. For, come to think of it, it ain't jes' sich a house as your folks are accustomed to.'
'The thing is,' said Christopher gravely, 'they can't have just what they're accustomed to. Leastways I'm afeard they can't. I'll just speak to Miss Esther about it.'
'Wall, you kin du that. 'Twon't du no harm. I allays think, when anybody's grown poor he'd best take in his belt a little.'