_CONTAMINATION_.
The lessons went on, and the interest on both sides knew no flagging.
Dallas had begun by way of experiment, and he was quite contented with
his success. In his room, over Latin and botany, at her own home, over
history and the boxes of coins, he and Esther daily spent a good deal
of time together. They were pleasant enough hours to him; but to her
they were sources of life-giving nourishment and delight. The girl had
been leading a forlorn existence; mentally in a desert and alone; and,
added to that, with an unappeased longing for her departed mother, and
silent, quiet, wearing grief for the loss of her. Even now, her
features often settled into the dulness which had so struck Dallas; but
gradually there was a lightening and lifting of the cloud: when
studying she was wholly intent on her business, and when talking or
reciting or examining flowers there was a play of life and thought and
feeling in her face which was a constant study to her young teacher, as
well as pleasure, for the change was his work. He read indications of
strong capacity; he saw the tokens of rare sensitiveness and delicacy;
he saw there was a power of feeling as well as a capacity for suffering
covered by the quiet composure and reserve of manner and habit which,
he knew, were rather signs of the depth of that which they covered.
Esther interested him. And then, she was so simply upright and honest,
and so noble in all her thoughts, so high-bred by nature as well as
education, that her young teacher's estimation constantly grew, and to
interest was soon added liking. He had half expected that when the
novelty was off the pleasure of study would be found to falter; but it
was no such matter. Esther studied as honestly as if she had been a
fifth form boy at a good school; with a delight in it which boys at
school, in any form, rarely bring to their work. She studied
absorbedly, eagerly, persistently; whatever pleasure she might get by
the way, she was plainly bent on learning; and she learned of course
fast. And in the botanical studies they carried on together, and in the
historical studies which had the coins for an illumination, the child
showed as keen enjoyment as other girls of her age are wont to feel in
a story-book or in games and plays. Of games and plays Esther knew
nothing; she had no young companions, and never had known any; her
intercourse had been almost solely with father and mother, and now only
the father was left to her. She would have been in danger of growing
morbid in her sorrow and loneliness, and her whole nature might have
been permanently and without remedy dwarfed, if at this time of her
life she had been left to grow like the wild things in the woods,
without sympathy or care. For some human plants need a good deal of
both to develop them to their full richness and fragrance; and Esther
was one of these. The loss of her mother had threatened to be an
irreparable injury to her. Colonel Gainsborough was a tenderly
affectionate father: still, like a good many men, he did not understand
child nature, could not adapt himself to it, had no sort of notion of
its wants, and no comprehension that it either needed or could receive
and return his sympathy. So he did not give sympathy to his child, nor
dreamed that she was in danger of starving for want of it. Indeed, he
had never in his life given much sympathy to anybody, except his wife;
and in the loss of his wife, Colonel Gainsborough thought so much of
himself was lost that the remainder probably would not last long. He
thought himself wounded to death. That it might be desirable, and that
it might be duty to live for his daughter's sake, was an idea that had
never entered his very masculine heart. Yet Colonel Gainsborough was a
good man, and even had the power of being a tender one; he had been
that towards his wife; but when she died he felt that life had gone
from him.
All this, more or less, young Dallas came to discern and understand in
the course of his associations with the father and daughter. And now it
was with a little pardonable pride and a good deal of growing
tenderness for the child, that he saw the change going on in Esther.
She was always, now as before, quiet as a mouse in her father's
presence; truly she was quiet as a mouse everywhere; but under the
outward quiet Dallas could see now the impulse and throb of the strong
and sensitive life within; the stir of interest and purpose and hope;
the waking up of the whole nature; and he saw that it was a nature of
great power and beauty. It was no wonder that the face through which
this nature shone was one of rare power and beauty too. Others could
see that, besides him.
'What a handsome little girl that is!' remarked the elder Dallas one
evening. Esther had just left the house, and his son come into the room.
'It seems to me she is here a great deal,' Mrs. Dallas said, after a
pause. The remark about Esther's good looks called forth no response.
'I see her coming and going pretty nearly every day.'
'Quite every day,' her son answered.
'And you go there every day!'
'I do. About that.'
'Very warm intercourse!'
'I don't know; not necessarily,' said young Dallas. 'The classics are
rather cool--and Numismatics refreshing and composing.'
'Numismatics! You are not teaching that child Numismatics, I suppose?'
'She is teaching me.'
Mrs. Dallas was silent now, with a dissatisfied expression. Her husband
repeated his former remark.
'She's a handsome little maid. Are you teaching her, Pitt?'
'A little, sir.'
'What, pray? if I may ask.'
'Teaching her to support existence. It about comes to that.'
'I do not understand you, I confess. You are oracular.'
'I did not understand _her_, until lately. It is what nobody else does,
by the way.'
'Why should not anybody else understand her?' Mrs. Dallas asked.
'Should,--but they do not. That's a common case, you know, mother.'
'She has her father; what's the matter with him?'
'He thinks a good deal is the matter with him.'
'Regularly hipped,' said the elder Dallas. 'He has never held up his
head since his wife died. He fancies he is going after her as fast as
he can go. Perhaps he is; such fancies are often fatal.'
'It would do him good to look after his child,' Mrs. Dallas said.
'I wish you would put that in his head, mother.'
'Does he _not_ look after her?'
'In a sort of way. He knows where she is and where she goes; he has a
sort of outward care of her, and so far it is very particular care; but
there it stops.'
'She ought to be sent to school.'
'There is no school here fit for her.'
'Then she should be sent away, where there _is_ a school fit for her.'
'Tell the colonel so.'
'I shall not meddle in Colonel Gainsborough's affairs,' said Mrs.
Dallas, bridling a little; 'he is able to manage them himself; or he
thinks he is, which comes to the same thing. But I should say, that
child might better be in any other hands than his.'
'Well, she is not shut up to them,' said young Dallas, 'since I have
taken her in hand.'
He strolled out of the room as he spoke, and the two elder people were
left together. Silence reigned between them till the sound of his steps
had quite ceased to be heard.
Mrs. Dallas was working at some wool embroidery, and taking her
stitches with a thoughtful brow; her husband in his easy-chair was
carelessly turning over the pages of a newspaper. They were a contrast.
She had a tall, commanding figure, a gracious but dignified manner, and
a very handsome, stately face. There was nothing commanding, and
nothing gracious, about Mr. Dallas. His figure was rather small, and
his manner insignificant. He was not a handsome man, either, although
he may be said to have but just missed it, for his features were
certainly good; but he did miss it. Nobody spoke in praise of Mr.
Dallas's appearance. Yet his face showed sense; his eyes were shrewd,
if they were also cold; and the mouth was good; but the man's whole air
was unsympathetic. It was courteous enough; and he was careful and
particular in his dress. Indeed, Mr. Dallas was careful of all that
belonged to him. He wore long English whiskers of sandy hair, the head
crop being very thin and kept very close.
'Hildebrand,' said Mrs. Dallas when the sound of her son's footsteps
had died away, 'when are you going to send Pitt to college?'
Mr. Dallas turned another page of his newspaper, and did not hurry his
answer.
'Why?'
'And _where_ are you going to send him?'
'Really,' said Mr. Dallas, without ceasing his contemplation of the
page before him, 'I do not know. I have not considered the matter
lately.'
'Do you remember he is eighteen?'
'I thought you were not ready to let him go yet?'
Mrs. Dallas stopped her embroidery and sighed.
'But he must go, husband.'
Mr. Dallas made no answer. He seemed not to find the question pressing.
Mrs. Dallas sat looking at him now, neglecting her work.
'You have got to make up your mind to it, and so have I,' she went on
presently. 'He is ready for college. All this pottering over the
classics with Colonel Gainsborough doesn't amount to anything. It keeps
him out of idleness,--if Pitt ever could be idle,--but he has got to go
to college after all, sooner or later. He must go!' she repeated with
another sigh.
'No special hurry, that I see.'
'What's gained by delay? He's eighteen. That's long enough for him to
have lived in a place like this. If I had my way, Hildebrand, I should
send him to England.'
'England!' Mr. Dallas put down his paper now and looked at his wife.
What had got into her head?
'Oxford is better than the things they call colleges in this country.'
'Yes; but it is farther off.'
'That's not a bad thing, in some respects. Hildebrand, you don't want
Pitt to be formed upon the model of things in this country. You would
not have him get radical ideas, or Puritanical.'
'Not much danger!'
'I don't know.'
'Who's to put them in his head? Gainsborough is not a bit of a radical.'
'He is not one of us,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'And Pitt is very independent,
and takes his own views from nobody or from anybody. See his educating
this girl, now.'
'Educating her!'
'Yes, he is with her and her father a great piece of every day; reading
and talking and walking and drying flowers and giving lessons. I don't
know what all they are doing. But in my opinion Pitt might be better
employed.'
'That won't last,' said the father with a half laugh.
'What ought not to last, had better not be begun,' Mrs. Dallas said
sententiously.
There was a pause.
'What are you afraid of, wife?'
'I am afraid of Pitt's wasting his time.'
'You have never been willing to have him go until now. I thought you
stood in the way.'
'He was not wasting his time until lately. He was as well at home. But
there must come an end to that,' the mother said, with another slight
sigh. She was not a woman given to sighing; it meant much from her.
'But England?' said Mr. Dallas. 'What's your notion about England?
Oxford is very well, but the ocean lies between.'
'Where would _you_ send him?'
'I'd send him to the best there is on this side.'
'That's not Oxford. I believe it would be good for him to be out of
this country for a while; forget some of his American notions, and get
right English ones. Pitt is a little too independent.'
The elder Dallas caressed his whiskers and pondered. If the truth were
told, he had been about as unwilling to let his son go away from home
as ever his mother could be. Pitt was simply the delight and pride of
both their hearts; the one thing they lived for; the centre of all
hopes, and the end of all undertakings. No doubt he must go to college;
but the evil day had been pushed far off, as far as possible. Pitt was
a son for parents to be proud of. He had the good qualities of both
father and mother, with some added of his own which they did not share,
and which perhaps therefore increased their interest in him.
'I expect he will have a word to say about the matter himself,' the
father remarked. 'Oh, well! there's no raging hurry, wife.'
'Husband, it would be a good thing for him to see the English Church as
it is in England, before he gets much older.'
'What then?'
'He would learn to value it. The cathedrals, and the noble services in
them, and the bishops; and the feeling that everybody around him goes
the same way; there's a great deal of power in that. Pitt would be
impressed by it.'
'By the feeling that everybody around him goes that way? Not he. That's
quite as likely to stir him up to go another way.'
'It don't work so, Hildebrand.'
'You think he's a likely fellow to be talked over into anything?'
'No; but he would be influenced. Nobody would try to talk him over, and
without knowing it he would feel the influence. He couldn't help it.
All the influence at Oxford would be the right way.'
'Afraid of the colonel? I don't think you need. He hasn't spirit enough
left in him for proselyting.'
'I am not speaking of anybody in particular. I am afraid of the air
here.'
Mr. Dallas laughed a little, but his face took a shade of gravity it
had not worn. Must he send his son away? What would the house be
without him?