_THE BLESSING_.
So spring came, and then high summer, and the time when the collegian
was expected home. The roses were blossoming and the pinks were sweet,
in the old-fashioned flower garden in front of the house; and the smell
of the hay came from the fields where mowers were busy, and the trill
of a bob-o'-link sounded in the meadow. It was evening when Pitt made
his way from his father's house over to the colonel's; and he found
Esther sitting in the verandah, with all this sweetness about her. The
house was old and country fashioned; the verandah was raised but a step
above the ground,--low, and with slim little pillars to support its
roof; and those pillars were all there was between Esther and the
flowers. At one side of the house there was a lawn; in front, the space
devoted to the flowers was only a small strip of ground, bordered by
the paling fence and the road. Pitt opened a small gate, and came up to
the house, through an army of balsams, hollyhocks, roses, and
honeysuckles, and balm and southernwood. Esther had risen to her feet,
and with her book in her hand, stood awaiting him. Her appearance
struck him as in some sense new. She looked pale, he thought, and the
mental tension of the moment probably made it true, but it was not
merely that. There was a refined, ethereal gravity and beauty, which it
is very unusual to see in a girl of thirteen; an expression too
spiritual for years which ought to be full of joyous and careless
animal life. Nevertheless it was there, and it struck Pitt not only
with a sense of admiration, but almost with compassion; for what sort
of apart and introverted life could it be which had called forth such a
look upon so young a face? No child living among children could ever be
like that; nor any child living among grown people who took proper care
of her; unless indeed it were an exceptional case of disease, which
sets apart from the whole world; but Esther was perfectly well.
'I've been watching for you,' she said as she gave him her hand, and a
very lovely smile of welcome. 'I have been looking for you ever so
long.'
I don't know what made Pitt do it, and I do not think he knew; he had
never done it before; but as he took the hand, and met the smile, he
bent down and pressed his lips to those innocent, smiling ones. I
suppose it was a very genuine expression of feeling; the fact that he
might not know _what_ feeling is nothing to the matter.
Esther coloured high, and looked at him in astonishment. It was a flush
that meant pleasure quite as much as surprise.
'I came as soon as I could,' he said.
'Oh, I knew you would! Sit down here, Pitt. Papa is sleeping; he had a
headache. I am so glad you have come!'
'How is the colonel?'
'He says he's not well. I don't know.'
'And, Queen Esther, how are you?'
'Oh, I'm well.'
'Are you sure?'
'Why, certainly, Pitt. What should be the matter with me? There is
never anything the matter with me.'
'I should say, a little too much thinking,' said Pitt, regarding her.
'Oh, but I have to think,' said Esther soberly.
'Not at all necessary, nor in my opinion advisable. There are other
people in the world whose business it is to do the thinking. Leave it
to them. You cannot do it, besides.'
'Who will do my thinking for me?' asked Esther, with a look and a smile
which would have better fitted twice her years; a look of wistful
inquiry, a smile of soft derision.
'I will,' said Pitt boldly.
'Will you? Oh, Pitt, I would like to ask you something! But not now,'
she added immediately. 'Another time. Now, tell me about college.'
He did tell her. He gave her details of things he told no one else. He
allowed her to know of his successes, which Pitt was too genuinely
modest and manly to enlarge upon even to his father and mother; but to
these childish eyes and this implicit trusting, loving, innocent
spirit, he gave the infinite pleasure of knowing what he had secretly
enjoyed alone, in the depths of his own mind. It pleased him to share
it with Esther. As for her, her interest and sympathy knew no bounds.
Pitt, however, while he was talking about his own doings and affairs,
was thinking about Esther. She had changed, somehow. That wonderful
stage of life, 'where the brook and river meet,' she had hardly yet
reached; she was really a little girl still, or certainly ought to be.
What was then this delicate, grave, spiritual look in the face, the
thoughtful intelligence, the refinement of perception, so beyond her
years? No doubt it was due to her living alone, with a somewhat gloomy
father, and being prematurely thrown upon a woman's needs and a woman's
resources. Pitt recognised the fact that his own absence might have had
something to do with it. So long as he had been with her, teaching her
and making a daily breeze in her still life, Esther had been in a
measure drawn out of herself, and kept from brooding. And then, beyond
all, the natural organization of this fine creature was of the rarest;
strong and delicate at once, of large capacities and with
correspondingly large requirements; able for great enjoyment, and open
also to keen suffering. He could see it in every glance of the big,
thoughtful eyes, and every play of the sensitive lips, which had,
however, a trait of steadfastness and grave character along with their
sensitiveness. Pitt looked, and wondered, and admired. This child's
face was taking on already a fascinating power of expression, quite
beyond her years; and that was because the inner life was developing
too soon into thoughtfulness and tenderness, and too early realizing
the meaning of life. Nothing could be more innocent of
self-consciousness than Esther; she did not even know that Pitt was
regarding her with more attention than ordinary, or, if she knew, she
took it as quite natural. He saw that, and so indulged himself. What a
creature this would be, by and by! But in the meantime, what was to
become of her? Without a mother, or a sister, or a brother; all alone;
with nobody near who even knew what she needed. What would become of
her? It was not stagnation that was to be feared, but too vivid life;
not that she would be mentally stunted, but that the growth would be to
exhaustion, or lack the right hardening processes, and so be unhealthy.
The colonel awoke after a while, and welcomed his visitor as truly, if
not as warmly, as Esther had done. He always had liked young Dallas;
and now, after so long living alone, the sight of him was specially
grateful. Pitt must stay and have tea; and the talk between him and the
colonel went on unflaggingly. Esther said nothing now; but Pitt watched
her, and saw how she listened; saw how her eyes accompanied him, and
her lips gave their silent tokens of understanding. Meanwhile she
poured out tea for the gentlemen; did it with quiet grace and neatness,
and was quick to see and attend to any little occasion for hospitable
care.
The old life began again now in good measure. Esther had no need to beg
Pitt to come often; he came constantly. He took up her lessons, as of
old, and carried them on vigorously; rightly thinking that good sound
mental work was wholesome for the child. He joined her in drawing, and
begged the colonel to give him instruction too; and they studied the
coins in the boxes with fresh zeal. And they had glorious walks, and
most delightful botanizing, in the early summer mornings, or when the
sun had got low in the western sky. Sometimes Pitt came with a little
tax-cart and took Esther a drive. It was all delight; I cannot tell
which thing gave her most pleasure. To study with Pitt, or to play with
Pitt, one was as good as the other; and the summer days of that summer
were not fuller of fruit-ripening sun, than of blessed, warm, healthy,
and happy influences for this little human plant. Her face grew bright
and joyous, though in moments when the talk took a certain sober tone
Pitt could see the light or the shadow, he hardly knew which to call
it, of that too early spiritual insight and activity come over it.
One day, soon after his arrival, he asked her what she had been
thinking about so much. They were sitting on the verandah again, to be
out of the way of the colonel; they were taking up lessons, and had
just finished an examination in history. Pitt let the book fall.
'You said the other day, Queen Esther, that you were under the
necessity of thinking. May I ask what you have been thinking about?'
'Did I say that?'
'Something like it.'
Esther's face became sober. 'Everybody must think, I suppose, Pitt?'
'That is a piece of your innocence. A great many people get along quite
comfortably without doing any thinking at all.'
'One might as well be a squash,' said Esther gravely. 'I don't see how
they can live so.'
'Some people think too much.'
'Why?'
'I don't know why, I am sure. It's their nature, I suppose.'
'What harm, Pitt?'
'You keep a fire going anywhere, and it will burn up what is next to
it.'
'Is thought like fire?'
'So far, it is. What were you thinking about, Queen Esther?'
'I had been wanting to ask you about it, Pitt,' the girl said, a little
with the air of one who is rousing herself up to give a confidence. 'I
was looking for something and I did not know where to find it.'
'Looking for what?'
'I remembered, mamma said people could always find comfort in the
Bible; but I did not know how to look for it.'
'Comfort, Queen Esther!' said Pitt, rousing himself now; 'you were not
in want of that article, were you?'
'After you were gone, you know--I hadn't anybody left. And oh, Pitt,
are you going to--England?'
'One thing at a time. Tell me about this extraordinary want of comfort,
at twelve years old. That is improper, Queen Esther!'
'Why?' she said, casting up to him a pair of such wistful, sensitive,
beautiful eyes, that the young man was almost startled.
'People at your age ought to have comfort enough to give away to other
people.'
'I shouldn't think they could, always,' said Esther quaintly.
'What is the matter with you?'
Esther looked down, a little uneasily. She felt that Pitt ought to have
known. And he did know; however, he thought it advisable to have things
brought out into the full light and put into form; hoping they might so
be easier dealt with. Esther's next words were hardly consecutive,
although perfectly intelligible.
'I know, of course, you cannot stay here always.'
'Of course. But then I shall always be coming back.'
Esther sighed. She was thinking that the absences were long and the
times of being at home short; but what was the use of talking about it?
That lesson, that words do not change the inevitable, she had already
learned. Pitt was concerned.
'Where did you say your highness went to look for comfort?'
'In the Bible. Oh, yes, that was what I wanted your help about. I did
not know how to look; and papa said he didn't; or I don't know if he
_said_ exactly that, but it came to the same thing. And then I asked
Barker.'
'Was she any wiser?'
'No. She said her way of finding anything was to begin at one end and
go through to the other; so I tried that. I began at the beginning; and
I read on; but I found nothing until--I'll show you,' she said,
suddenly breaking off and darting away; and in two minutes more she
came back with her Bible. She turned over the leaves eagerly.
'Here, Pitt,--I came to this. Now what does it mean?'
She gave him the volume open at the sixth chapter of Numbers; in the
end of which is the prescribed form for the blessing of the children of
Israel. Pitt read the words to himself.
'The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. 'The Lord make His face shine upon
thee, and be gracious unto thee. 'The Lord lift up His countenance upon
thee, and give thee peace.'
Esther waited till she saw he had read them through.
'Now, Pitt, what does that mean?'
'Which?'
'That last: "The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace." What does "lift up his countenance upon thee" mean?'
What _did_ it mean? Pitt asked himself the question for the first time
in his life. He was quite silent.
'You see,' said Esther quaintly, after a pause,--'you see, _that_ would
be comfort.'
Pitt was still silent.
'Do you understand it, Pitt?'
'_Understand_ it, Esther!' he said, knitting his brows, 'No. Nobody
could do that, except--the people that had it. But I think I see what
it means.'
'The people "that had it"? That had what?'
'This wonderful thing.'
'What wonderful thing?'
'Queen Esther, you ought to ask your father.'
'I can't ask papa,' said the little girl. 'If ever I speak to him of
comfort, he thinks directly of mamma. I cannot ask him again.'
'And I am all your dependence?' he said half lightly.
'I mustn't depend upon you either. Only, now you are here, I thought I
would ask you.'
'You ought to have a better counsellor. However, perhaps I can tell
what you want to know, in part. Queen Esther, was your mother, or your
father, ever seriously displeased with you?'
Esther reflected, a little astonished, and then said no.
'I suppose not!' said Pitt. 'Then you don't know by experience what it
would be, to have either of them refuse to look at you or smile upon
you?--hide their face from you, in short?'
'Why, no! never.'
'You're a happy girl.'
'But what has that to do with it?'
'Nothing to do with it; it is the very contrast and opposite, in fact.
Don't you see? "Lift up the light of thy countenance;"--you know what
the "light" of a smiling, loving face of approval is? You know _that_,
Queen Esther?'
'That?' repeated Esther breathlessly. 'Yes, I know; but this is God.'
'Yes, and I do not understand; but that is what it means.'
'You don't understand!'
'No. How should I? But that is what it means. Something that answers to
what among us a bright face of love is, when it smiles upon us. That is
"light," isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Esther. 'But how can this be, Pitt?'
'I cannot tell. But that is what it means. "The Lord make His face to
shine upon thee." They are very fine words.'
'Then I suppose,' said Esther slowly, 'if anybody had _that_, he
wouldn't want comfort?'
'He wouldn't be without it, you mean? Well, I should think he would
not. "The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."'
'But I don't understand, Pitt.'
'No, Queen Esther. This is something beyond you and me.'
'How can one come to understand?'
Pitt was silent a minute, looking down at the words. 'I do not know,'
he said. 'That is a question. It is a look of favour and love described
here; but of course it would not give peace, unless the person
receiving it knew he had it. How that can be, I do not see.'
Both were silent a little while.
'Well,' said Esther, 'you have given me a great deal of help.'
'How?'
'Oh, you have told me what this means,' said the child, hanging over
the words, which Pitt still held.
'That does not give it to you.'
'No; but it is a great deal, to know what it means,' said Esther, in a
tone which Pitt felt had a good element of hopefulness in it.
'What are you going to do about it?'
Esther lifted her head and looked at him. It was one of those looks
which were older than her years; far-reaching, spiritual, with an
intense mixture of pathos and hope in her eyes.
'I shall go on trying to get it,' she said. 'You know, Pitt, it is
different with you. You go out into the world, and you have everything
you want; but I am here quite alone.'