_A NOSEGAY_.
Pitt walked home, half amused at himself that he should take so much
pains about this little girl, at the same time very firmly resolved
that nothing should hinder him. Perhaps his liking for her was deeper
than he knew; it was certainly real; while his kindly and generous
temper responded promptly to every appeal that her affection and
confidence made upon him. Affection and confidence are very winning
things, even if not given by a beautiful girl who will soon be a
beautiful woman; but looking out from Esther's innocent eyes, they went
down into the bottom of young Dallas's heart. And besides, his nature
was not only kind and noble; it was obstinate. Opposition, to him, in a
thing he thought good to pursue, was like blows of a hammer on a nail;
drove the purpose farther in.
So he made himself, it is true, very pleasant indeed to his parents at
home, that night and the next morning; but then he went with Esther
after cedar and hemlock branches. It may be asked, what opposition had
he hitherto found to his intercourse with the colonel's daughter? And
it must be answered, none. Nevertheless, Pitt felt it in the air, and
it had the effect on him that the north wind and cold are said to have
upon timber.
It was a day of days for Esther. First the delightful roving walk, and
cutting the greens, which were bestowed in a cart that attended them;
then the wonderful novelty of dressing the house. Esther had never seen
anything of the kind before, which did not hinder her, however, from
giving very good help. The hall, the sitting-room, the drawing-room,
and even Pitt's particular, out-of-the-way work-room, all were wreathed
and adorned and dressed up, each after its manner. For Pitt would not
have one place a repetition of another. The bright berries of the
winterberry and bittersweet were mingled with the dark shade of the
evergreens in many ingenious ways; but the crowning triumph of art,
perhaps, to Esther's eyes, was a motto in green letters, picked out
with brilliant partridge berries, over the end of the
sitting-room,--'Peace on earth.' Esther stood in delighted admiration
before it, also pondering.
'Pitt,' she said at last, 'those partridge berries ought not to be in
it.'
'Why not?' said Pitt, in astonishment. 'I think they set it off
capitally.'
'Oh, so they do. I didn't mean that. They are beautiful, very. But you
know what you said about them.'
'What did I say?'
'You said they were poison.'
'Poison! What then, Queen Esther? they won't hurt anybody up there. No
partridge will get at them.'
'Oh no, it isn't that, Pitt; but I was thinking--Poison shouldn't be in
that message of the angels.'
Pitt's face lighted up.
'Queen Esther,' said he solemnly, 'are you going to be _that_ sort of
person?'
'What sort of person?'
'One of those whose spirits are attuned to finer issues than their
neighbours? They are the stuff that poets are made of. You are not a
poet, are you?'
'No, indeed!' said Esther, laughing.
'Don't! I think it must be uncomfortable to have to do with a poet. You
may notice, that in nature the dwellers on the earth have nothing to do
with the dwellers in the air.'
'Except to be food for them,' said Esther.
'Ah! Well,--leaving that,--I should never have thought about the
partridge berries in that motto, and my mother would never have thought
of it. For all that, you are right. What shall we do? take 'em down?'
'Oh, no, they look so pretty. And besides, I suppose, Pitt, by and by,
poison itself will turn to peace.'
'What?' said Pitt. 'What is that? What can you mean, Queen Esther?'
'Only,' said Esther a little doubtfully, 'I was thinking. You know,
when the time comes there will be nothing to hurt or destroy in all the
earth; the wild beasts will not be wild, and so I suppose poison will
not be poison.'
'The wild beasts will not be wild? What _will_ they be, then?'
'Tame.'
'Where did you get that idea?'
'It is in the Bible. It is not an idea.'
'Are you sure?'
'Certainly. Mamma used to read it to me and tell me about it.'
'Well, you shall show _me_ the place some time. How do you like it,
mother?'
This question being addressed to Mrs. Dallas, who appeared in the
doorway. She gave great approval.
'Do you like the effect of the partridge berries?' Pitt asked.
'It is excellent, I think. They brighten it up finely.'
'What would you say if you knew they were poison?'
'That would not make any difference. They do no hurt unless you swallow
them, I suppose.'
'Esther finds in them an emblem of the time when the message of peace
shall have neutralized all the hurtful things in the world, and made
them harmless.'
Mrs. Dallas's eye fell coldly upon Esther. 'I do not think the Church
knows of any such time,' she answered, as she turned away. Pitt
whistled for some time thereafter in silence.
The decorations were finished, and most lovely to Esther's eyes; then,
when they were all done, she went home to tea. For getting the greens
and putting them up had taken both the morning and the afternoon to
accomplish. She went home gaily, with a brisk step and a merry heart,
at the same time thinking busily.
Home, in its dull uniformity and stillness, was a contrast after the
stir and freshness and prettiness of life in the Dallases's house. It
struck Esther rather painfully. The room where she and her father took
their supper was pleasant and homely indeed; a bright fire burned on
the hearth, or in the grate, rather, and a bright lamp shone on the
table; Barker had brought in the tea urn, and the business of preparing
tea for her father was one that Esther always liked. But, nevertheless,
the place approached too nearly a picture of still life. The urn hissed
and bubbled, a comfortable sound; and now and then there was a falling
coal or a jet of gas flame in the fire; but I think these things
perhaps made the stillness more intense and more noticeable. The
colonel sat on his sofa, breaking dry toast into his tea and
thoughtfully swallowing it; he said nothing, unless to demand another
cup; and Esther, though she had a healthy young appetite, could not
quite stay the mental longing with the material supply. Besides, she
was pondering something curiously.
'Papa,' she said at last, 'are you busy? May I ask you something?'
'Yes, my dear. What is it?'
'Papa, what is Christmas?'
The colonel looked up.
'What is Christmas?' he repeated. 'It is nothing, Esther; nothing at
all. A name--nothing more.'
'Then, why do people think so much of Christmas?'
'They do not. Sensible people do not think anything of it. Christmas is
nothing to me.'
'But, papa, why then does anybody make much of it? Mrs. Dallas has her
house all dressed up with greens.'
'You had better keep away from Mrs. Dallas's.'
'But it looks so pretty, papa! Is there any harm in it?'
'Harm in what?'
'Dressing the house so? It is all hemlock wreaths, and cedar branches,
and bright red berries here and there; and Pitt has put them up so
beautifully! You can't think how pretty it all is. Is there any harm in
that, papa?'
'Decidedly; in my judgment.'
'Why do they do it then, papa?'
'My dear, they have a foolish fancy that it is the time when Christ was
born; and so in Romish times a special Popish mass was said on that
day; and from that the twenty-fifth of December got its present
name--Christ-mass; that is what it is.'
'Then He was not born the twenty-fifth of December?'
'No, nor in December at all. Nothing is plainer than that spring was
the time of our Lord's coming into the world. The shepherds were
watching their flocks by night; that could not have been in the depth
of winter; it must have been in the spring.'
'Then why don't they have Christmas in springtime?'
'Don't ask _me_, my dear; I don't know. The thing began in the ages of
ignorance, I suppose; and as all it means now is a time of feasting and
jollity, the dead of winter will do as well as another time. But it is
a Popish observance, my child; it is a Popish observance.'
'There's no harm in it, papa, is there? if it means only feasting and
jollity, as you say.'
'There is always harm in superstition. This is no more the time of
Christ's birth than any other day that you could choose; but there is a
superstition about it; and I object to giving a superstitious reverence
to what is nothing at all. Reverence the Bible as much as you please;
you cannot too much; but do not put any ordinance of man, whether it be
of the Popish church or any other, on a level with what the Bible
commands.'
The colonel had finished his toast, and was turning to his book again.
'Pitt has been telling me of the way they keep Christmas in England,'
Esther went on. 'The Yule log, and the games, and the songs, and the
plays.'
'Godless ways,' said the colonel, settling himself to his
reading,--'godless ways! It is a great deal better in this country,
where they make nothing of Christmas. No good comes of those things.'
Esther would disturb her father no more by her words, but she went on
pondering, unsatisfied. In any question which put Mrs. Dallas and her
father on opposite sides, she had no doubt whatever that her father
must be in the right; but it was a pity, for surely in the present case
Mrs. Dallas's house had the advantage. The Christmas decorations had
been so pretty! the look of them was so bright and festive! the walls
she had round her at home were bare and stiff and cold. No doubt her
father must be right, but it was a pity!
The next day was Christmas day. Pitt being in attendance on his father
and mother, busied with the religious and other observances of the
festival, Esther did not see him till the afternoon. Late in the day,
however, he came, and brought in his hands a large bouquet of hothouse
flowers. If the two had been alone, Esther would have greeted him and
them with very lively demonstrations; as it was, it amused the young
man to see the sparkle in her eye, and the lips half opened for a cry
of joy, and the sudden flush on her cheek, and at the same time the
quiet, unexcited demeanour she maintained. Esther rose indeed, but then
stood silent and motionless and said not a word; while Pitt paid his
compliments to her father. A new fire flashed from her eye when at last
he approached her and offered her the flowers.
'Oh, Pitt! Oh, Pitt!' was all Esther with bated breath could say. The
colonel eyed the bouquet a moment and then turned to his book. He was
on his sofa, and seemingly gave no further heed to the young people.
'Oh, Pitt, where _could_ you get these?' The girl's breath was almost
taken away.
'Only one place where I could get them. Don't you know old Macpherson's
greenhouse?'
'But he don't let people in, I thought, in winter?'
'He let _me_ in.'
'Oh, Pitt, how wonderful! What is this? Now you must tell me all the
names. This beautiful white geranium with purple lines?'
'It's a _Pelargonium;_ belongs to the Geraniaceae; this one they call
Mecranthon. It's a beauty, isn't it? This little white blossom is
myrtle; don't you know myrtle?'
'And this geranium--this purple one?'
'That is Napoleon, and this Louise, and this Belle. This red
magnificence is a _Metrosideros;_ this white flower, is--I forget its
name; but _this_, this sweet one, is Daphne. Then here are two heaths;
then this thick leaf is _Laurustinus_, and this other, with the red
bud, _Camellia japonica_.'
'Oh, how perfectly beautiful!' exclaimed the delighted child. 'Oh, how
perfectly beautiful! And this yellow flower?'
'_Coronilla_.'
'And this, is it a _red_ wallflower?'
'A red wallflower; you are right.'
'How lovely! and how sweet! And these blue?'
'These little blue flowers are _Lobelia;_ they are cousins of the
cardinal flower; _that_ is _Lobelia cardinalis;_ these are _Lobelia
erinus_ and _Lobelia gracilis_.'
He watched the girl, for under the surprise and pleasure of his gift
her face was itself but a nobler flower, all glowing and flashing and
fragrant. With eyes dewy with delight she hung over the bouquet, almost
trembling in her eagerness of joy. She set the flowers carefully in a
vase, with tender circumspection, lest a leaf might be wronged by
chance crowding or inadvertent handling. Pitt watched and read it all.
He felt a great compassion for Esther. This creature, full of life and
sensibility, receptive to every influence, at twelve years old shut up
to the company of a taciturn and melancholy father and an empty house!
What would ever become of her? There was the colonel now, on the sofa,
attending only to his book; caring nothing for what was so moving his
child. Nobody cared, or was anywhere to sympathize with her. And if she
grew up so, shut up to herself, every feeling and desire repressed for
want of expression or of somebody to express it to, how would her
nature ever develop? would it not grow stunted and poor, compared with
what it might be? He was sorry for his little playmate and friend; and
it did the young fellow credit, I think, for at his age boys are not
wont to be tenderly sympathetic towards anything, unless it be a
beloved mother or sister. Pitt silently watched the putting the flowers
in water, speculating upon the very unhopeful condition of this little
human plant, and revolving schemes in his mind.
After he had gone, Colonel Gainsborough bade Esther show him her
flowers. She brought the dish to his sofa. The colonel reviewed them
with a somewhat jealous eye, did not seem to perceive their beauty, and
told her to take them away again. But the next day, when Esther was not
in the room, he examined the collection carefully, looking to see if
there were anything that looked like contraband 'Christmas greens.'
There were some sprigs of laurel and holly, that served to make the
hues of the bouquet more varied and rich. _That_ the colonel did not
think of; all he saw was that they were bits of the objectionable
'Christmas.' Colonel Gainsborough carefully pulled them out and threw
them in the fire; and nothing, I fear, saved the laurustinus and
japonica from a like fate but their exquisite large blossoms. Esther
was not slow to miss the green leaves abstracted from her vase.
'Papa,' she said, in some bewilderment, 'I think somebody has been at
my flowers; there is some green gone.'
'I took out some sprigs of laurel and holly,' said her father. 'I
cannot have any Christmas decorations here.'
'Oh, papa, Pitt did not mean them for any such thing!'
'Whether he meant it or no, I prefer not to have them there.'
Esther was silenced, but she watched her vase with rather anxious eyes
after that time. However, there was no more meddling; the brilliant
blossoms were allowed to adorn the place and Esther's life as long as
they would, or could. She cherished them to the utmost of her
knowledge, all the rather that Pitt was gone away again; she gave them
fresh water, she trimmed off the unsightly dry leaves and withered
blossoms; but all would not do; they lasted for a time, and then
followed the law of their existence and faded. What Esther did then,
was to fetch a large old book and lay the different sprigs, leaves or
flowers, carefully among its pages and put them to dry. She loved every
leaf of them. They were associated in her mind with all that pleasant
interlude of Christmas: Pitt's coming, his kindness; their going after
greens together, and dressing the house. The bright interlude was past;
Pitt had gone back to college; and the little girl cherished the faded
green things as something belonging to that good time which was gone.
She would dry them carefully and keep them always, she thought.
A day or two later, her father noticed that the vase was empty, and
asked Esther what she had done with her flowers?
'They were withered, papa; they were spoilt; I could not keep them.'
'What did you do with them?'
'Papa, I thought I would try to dry them.'
'Yes, and what did you do with them?'
'Papa, I put them in that old, odd volume of the Encyclopaedia.'
'Bring it here and let me see.'
Much wondering and a little discomfited, Esther obeyed. She brought the
great book to the side of the sofa, and turned over the pages
carefully, showing the dried and drying leaves. She had a great love to
them; what did her father want with them?
'What do you propose to do with those things, when they are dry? They
are staining the book.'
'It's an old book, papa; it is no harm, is it?'
'What are you going to do with them? Are they to remain here
permanently?'
'Oh, no, sir; they are only put here to dry. I put a weight on the
book. They will be dry soon.'
'And what then?'
'Then I will take them out, papa. It's an old book.'
'And what will you do with them?'
'I will keep them, sir.'
'What is the use of keeping the flowers after their beauty is gone? I
do not think that is worth while.'
'_Some_ of their beauty is gone,' said Esther, with a certain
tenderness for the plants manifested in her manner,--'but I love them
yet, papa.'
'That is not wise, my child. Why should you love a parcel of dry
leaves? Love what is worthy to be loved. I think I would throw them all
in the fire.'
'Oh, papa!'
'That's the best, my dear. They are only rubbish. I object to the
hoarding of rubbish. It is a poor habit.'
The colonel turned his attention again to his book, and perhaps did not
even remark how Esther sat with a disconsolate face on the floor,
looking at her condemned treasures. He would not have understood it if
he had seen. In his nature there was no key to the feeling which now
was driving the tears into Esther's eyes and making her heart swell.
Like many men, and many women, for the matter of that, Colonel
Gainsborough had very little power of association. He would indeed have
regarded with sacred reverence anything that had once belonged to his
wife, down to her shoe; in that one instance the tension of feeling was
strong enough to make the chords tremble under the lightest touch. In
other relations, what did it matter? They were nothing to him; and if
Colonel Gainsborough made his own estimate the standard of the worth of
things, he only did what I am afraid we all do, more or less. At any
rate, his was not one of those finer strung natures which recognise the
possibility of worlds of knowledge and feeling not open to themselves.
It is also just possible that he divined his daughter's sentiment in
regard to the flowers enough to be jealous of it.
But Esther did not immediately move to obey his order. She sat on the
floor with the big book before her, the open page showing a half dry
blossom of the Mecranthon geranium which was still to her eyes very
beautiful. And all the associations of that pleasant Christmas
afternoon when Pitt had brought it and told her what its name was, rose
up before her. She was exceedingly unwilling to burn it. The colonel
perhaps had a guess that he had given a hard command; for he did not
look again at Esther or speak to her, or take any notice of her delay
of obedience. That she would obey he knew; and he let her take her
time. So he did not see the big tears that filled her eyes, nor the
quiet way in which she got rid of them; while the hurt, sorrowful,
regretful look on her face would have certainly moved Pitt to
indignation if he had been where he could see it. I am afraid, if the
colonel had seen it, _he_ would have been moved quite in a different
way. Not to anger, indeed; Colonel Gainsborough was never angry with
his child, as truly she never gave him cause; but I think he would
privately have applauded the wisdom of his regulation, which removed
such objects of misplaced sentiment out of the way of doing further
harm. And Esther sat and looked at the Mecranthon, brushed away her
tears softly, swallowed her regrets and unwillingness, and finally rose
up, carried her book to the fire, and one by one, turning the leaves,
took out her drying favourites and threw them into the glowing grate.
It was done; and she carried the book away and put it in its old place.
But a week later it happened that Esther bethought her to open the
Encyclopaedia again, to look at _the marks her flowers had left_ on the
pages. For they _had_ stained the book a little, and here and there she
could discern the outline of a sprig, and trace a faint dash of colour
left behind by the petals of some flower rich in its dyes. If it
appears from this that the colonel was right in checking the feeling
which ran to such extremes, I cannot help that; I am reporting the
facts. Esther turned over the book from one place to another where her
flowers had lain. Here had been heath; there coronilla; here--oh, here
was _still_ the wallflower! Dried beautifully; delicate and unbroken,
and perfect and sweet. There was nothing else left, but here was the
wallflower. A great movement of joy filled Esther's heart; then came a
doubt. Must this be burned too? Would this one little sprig matter? She
had obeyed her father, and destroyed all the rest of the bouquet; and
this wallflower had been preserved without her knowledge. Since it had
been saved, might it not be saved? Esther looked, studied, hesitated;
and finally could not make up her mind without further order to destroy
this last blossom. She never thought of asking her father's mind about
it. The child knew instinctively that he would not understand her; a
sorrowful thing for a child to know; it did not occur to her that if he
_had_ understood her feeling, he would have been still less likely to
favour it. She kept the wallflower, took it away from its exposed
situation in the Encyclopaedia, and put it in great safety among her
own private possessions.