_GOING TO COLLEGE_.
Whatever thoughts were harboured in the elder heads, nothing was spoken
openly, and no steps were taken for some time. All through the summer
the pleasant intercourse went on, and the lessons, and the botanizing,
and the study of coins. And much real work was done; but for Esther one
invaluable and abiding effect of a more general character was gained.
She was lifted out of her dull despondency, which had threatened to
become stagnation, and restored to her natural life and energy and the
fresh spring of youthful spirits. So, when her friend really went away
to college in the fall, Esther did not slip back to the condition from
which he had delivered her.
But the loss of him was a dreadful loss to the child, although Pitt was
not going over the sea, and would be home at Christmas. He tried to
comfort her with this prospect. Esther took no comfort. She sat silent,
tearless, pale, in a kind of despair. Pitt looked at her, half amused,
half deeply concerned.
'And you must go on with all your studies, Esther, you know,' he was
saying. 'I will show you what to do, and when I come home I shall go
into a very searching examination to see whether you have done it all
thoroughly.'
'Will you?' she said, lifting her eyes to him with a gleam of sudden
hope.
'Certainly! I shall give you lessons just as usual whenever I come
home; indeed, I expect I shall do it all your life. I think I shall
always be teaching and you always be learning. Don't you think that is
how it will be, Queen Esther?' he said kindly.
'You cannot give me lessons when you are away.'
'But when I come back!'
There was a very faint yet distinct lightening of the gloom in her
face. Yet it was plain Esther was not cheated out of her perception of
the truth. She was going to lose her friend; and his absence would be
very different from his presence; and the bits of vacation time would
not help, or help only by anticipation, the long stretches of months in
which there would be neither sight nor sound of him. Esther's looks had
brightened for a moment, but then her countenance fell again and her
face grew visibly pale. Pitt saw it with dismay.
'But Esther!' he said, 'this is nothing. Every man must go to college,
you know, just as he must learn swimming and boating; and so I must go;
but it will not last for ever.'
'How long?' said she, lifting her eyes to him again, heavy with their
burden of sorrow.
'Well, perhaps three years; unless I enter Junior, and then it would be
only two. That isn't much.'
'What will you do then?'
'Then? I don't know. Look after you, at any rate. Let us see. How old
will you be in two years?'
'Almost fourteen.'
'Fourteen. Well, you see you will have a great deal to do before you
can afford to be fourteen years old; so much that you will not have
time to miss me.'
Esther made no answer.
'I'll be back at Christmas anyhow, you know; and that's only three
months away, or a little more.'
'For how long?'
'Never mind; we will make a little do the work of a great deal. It will
seem a long time, it will be so good.'
'No,' said Esther; 'that will make it only the shorter.'
'Why, Esther,' said he, half laughing, 'I didn't know you cared so much
about me. I don't deserve all that.'
'I am not crying,' said the girl, rising with a sort of childish
dignity; 'but I shall be alone.'
They had been sitting on a rock, resting and talking, and now set out
again to go home. Esther spoke no more; and Pitt was silent, not
knowing what to say; but he watched her, and saw that if she had not
been crying at the time she had made that declaration, the tears had
taken their revenge and were coming now. Yet only in a calm, repressed
way; now and then he saw a drop fall, or caught a motion of Esther's
hand which could only have been made to prevent a drop from falling.
She walked along steadily, turning neither to the right hand nor the
left; she who ordinarily watched every hedgerow and ran to explore
every group of plants in the corner of a field, and was keen to see
everything that was to be seen in earth or heaven. Pitt walked along
silently too. He was at a careless age, but he was a generous-minded
fellow; and to a mind of that sort there is something exceedingly
attractive and an influence exceedingly powerful in the fact of being
trusted and depended on.
'Mother,' he said when he got home, 'I wish you would look after that
little girl now and then.'
'What little girl?'
'You must know whom I mean; the colonel's daughter.'
'The colonel is sufficient for that, I should say.'
'But you know what sort of a man he is. And she has no mother, nor
anybody else, except servants.'
'Isn't he fond of her?'
'Very fond; but then he isn't well, and he is a reserved, silent man;
the child is left to herself in a way that is bad for her.'
'What do you suppose I can do?'
'A great deal; if you once knew her and got fond of her, mother.'
Mrs. Dallas made no promise; however, she did go to see Esther. It was
about a week after Pitt's departure. She found father and daughter very
much as her son had found them the day he was introduced to the box of
coins. Esther was on the floor, beside the same box, and the colonel
was on his sofa. Mrs. Dallas did take the effect of the picture for
that moment before the colonel sprang up to receive her. Then she had
to do with a somewhat formal but courtly host, and the picture was
lost. The lady sat there, stately in her silks and laces, carrying on a
stiff conversation; for she and Colonel Gainsborough had few points of
sympathy or mutual understanding; and for a while she forgot Esther.
Then her eye again fell upon the child in her corner, sitting by her
box with a sad, uninterested air.
'And how is Esther?' she said, turning herself a little towards that
end of the room. 'Really I came to see Esther, colonel. How does she
do?'
'She is much obliged to you, and quite well, madam, I believe.'
'But she must want playmates, colonel. Why don't you send her to
school?'
'I would, if there were a good school at hand.'
'There are schools at New Haven, and Hartford, and Boston,--plenty of
schools that would suit you.'
'Only that, as you observe, they are at New Haven, and Hartford, and
Boston; out of my reach.'
'You couldn't do without her for a while?'
'I hardly think it; nor she without me. We are all, each of us, that
the other has.'
'Pitt used to give you lessons, didn't he?' the lady went on, turning
more decidedly to Esther. Esther rose and came near.
'Yes, ma'am.'
'What did he teach you?'
Now Esther felt no more congeniality than her father did with this
handsome, stately, commanding woman. Yet it would have been impossible
to the girl to say why she had an instant unwillingness to answer this
simple question. She did not answer it, except under protest.
'It began with the coins,' she said vaguely. 'He said we would study
history with them.'
'And did you?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'How did you manage it? or how did he? He has original ways of doing
things.'
'Yes, ma'am. We used to take only one or two of the coins at once, and
then Pitt told me what to read.'
'What did he tell you to read?'
'A great many different books, at different times.'
'But tell Mrs. Dallas what books, Esther,' her father put in.
'There were so many, papa. Gibbon's History, and Plutarch's Lives, and
Rollin, and Vertot and Hume, and I--forget some of them.'
'How much of all these did you really read, Esther?'
'I don't know, ma'am. I read what he told me.'
The lady turned to Colonel Gainsborough with a peculiar smile. 'Sounds
rather heterogeneous!' she said.
It was on Esther's lips to justify her teacher, and say how far from
heterogeneous, how connected, and how thorough, and how methodical, the
reading and the study had been; and how enriched with talk and
explanations and descriptions and discussions. How delightful those
conversations were, both to herself and Pitt; how living the truth had
been made; how had names and facts taken on them the shape and
colouring of nature and reality. It rushed back upon Esther, and her
lips opened; and then, an inexplicable feeling of something like
caution came down upon her, and she shut her lips again.
'It was harmless amusement,' remarked the colonel carelessly.
Whether the mother thought that, may be questioned. She looked again at
the child standing before her; a child truly, with childlike innocence
and ignorance in her large eyes and pure lips. But the eyes were eyes
of beauty; and the lips would soon and readily take to themselves the
sweetness and the consciousness of womanhood, and a new bloom would
come upon the cheek. The colonel had never yet looked forward to all
that; but the wise eyes of the matron saw it as well as if already
before her. This little girl might well by and by be dangerous. If Mrs.
Dallas had come as a friend, she went away, in a sort, as an enemy, in
so far, at least, as Esther's further and future relations with her son
were concerned.
The colonel went back to his sofa. Esther sat down again by the coins.
She was not quite old enough to reflect much upon the developments of
human nature as they came before her; but she was conscious of a
disagreeable, troubled sensation left by this visit of Mrs. Dallas. It
had not been pleasant. It ought to have been pleasant: she was Pitt's
mother; she came on a kind errand; but Esther felt at once repelled and
put at a distance.
The child had not gone back to the dull despondency of the time before
Pitt busied himself with her; she was striving to fulfil all his
wishes, and working hard in order to accomplish more than he expected
of her. With the cherished secret hope of doing this, Esther was
driving at her books early and late. She went from the coins to the
histories Pitt had told her would illustrate them; she fagged away at
the dry details of her Latin grammar; she even tried to push her
knowledge of plants and see further into their relations with each
other, though in this department she felt the want of her teacher
particularly. From day to day it was the one pressing desire and
purpose in Esther's mind, to do more, and if possible much more, than
Pitt wanted her to do; so that she might surprise him and win his
respect and approbation. She thought, too, that she was in a fair way
to do this, for she was gaining knowledge fast, she knew; and it was a
great help towards keeping up spirit and hope and healthy action in her
mind. Nevertheless, she missed her companion and friend, with an
intense longing want of him which nobody even guessed. All the more
keen it was, perhaps, because she could speak of it to nobody. It
consumed the girl in secret, and was only saved from being disastrous
to her by the transformation of it into working energy, which
transformation daily went on anew. It did not help her much, or she
thought so, to remember that Pitt was coming home at the end of
December. He would not stay; and Esther was one of those thoughtful
natures that look all round a subject, and are not deceived by a first
fair show. He could not stay; and what would his coming and the delight
of it do, after all, but renew this terrible sense of want and make it
worse than ever? When he went away again, it would be for a long, long
time,--an absence of months; how was it going to be borne?
The problem of life was beginning early for Esther. And the child was
alone. Nobody knew what went on in her; she had nobody to whom she
could open her heart and tell her trouble; and the troubles we can tell
to nobody else somehow weigh very heavy, especially in young years. The
colonel loved his child with all of his heart that was not buried in
his wife's grave; still, he was a man, and like most men had little
understanding of the workings of a child's mind, above all of a girl's.
He saw Esther pale, thoughtful, silent, grave, for ever busy with her
books; and it never crossed his thoughts that such is not the natural
condition and wholesome manner of life for twelve years old. He knew
nothing for himself so good as books; why should not the same be true
for Esther? She was a studious child; he was glad to see her so
sensible.
As for Pitt, he had fallen upon a new world, and was busily finding his
feet, as it were. Finding his own place, among all these other
aspirants for human distinction; testing his own strength, among the
combatants in this wrestling school of human life; earning his laurels
in the race for learning; making good his standing and trying his power
amid the waves and currents of human influence. Pitt found his standing
good, and his strength quite equal to the call for it, and his power
dominating. At least it would have been dominating, if he had cared to
rule; all he cared for, as it happened, in that line, was to be
independent and keep his own course. He had done that always at home,
and he found no difficulty in doing it at college. For the rest, his
abilities were unquestioned, and put him at once at the head of his
fellows.