_LETTERS_.
And so life seemed for many days to the child. She could not shake off
the feeling, nor regain any brightness of spirit. Dull, dull,
everything in earth and heaven seemed to be. The taste and savour had
gone out of all her pleasures and occupations. She could not read,
without the image of Pitt coming between her and the page; she could
not study, without an unendurable sense that he was no longer there nor
going to be there to hear her lessons. She had no heart for walks,
where every place recalled some memory of Pitt, and what they had done
or said there together; she shunned the box of coins, and hardly cared
to gather one of the few lingering fall flowers. And the last of them
were soon gone, for the pleasant season was ended. Then came rains and
clouds and winds, and Esther was shut up to the house.
I can never tell how desolate she was. Truly she was only a girl of
thirteen; she ought not to have been desolate, perhaps, for any no
greater matter. She had her father, and her books, and her youth. Bat
Esther had also a nature delicate and deep far beyond what is common;
and then she was unduly matured by her peculiar life. Intercourse with
light-hearted children like herself had not kept her thoughtless and
careless. At thirteen Esther was looking into life, and finding it
already confused and dark. At thirteen also she was learning and
practising self-command. Her father, not much of an observer unless in
the field of military operations, had no perception that she was
suffering; it never occurred to him that she might be solitary; he
never knew that she needed his tenderest care and society and guidance.
He might have replaced everything to Esther, so that she would have
found no want at all. He did nothing of the kind. He was a good man;
just and upright and highly honourable; but he was selfish, like most
men. He lived to himself in his own deprivation and sorrow, and never
thought but that Esther would in a few days get over the loss of her
young teacher and companion. He hardly thought about it at all. The
idea of filling Pitt's place, of giving her in his own person what left
her when Pitt went away, did not enter his head. Indeed, he had no
knowledge of what Pitt had done for her. If he had known it, there is
little doubt it would have excited his jealousy. For it is quite in
some people's nature to be jealous of another's having what they do not
want themselves.
And so Esther suffered in a way and to a degree that was not good for
her. Her old dull spiritless condition was creeping upon her again. She
realized, more than it is the way of thirteen years old to realize,
that something more than an ocean of waters--an ocean of
circumstances--had rolled itself between her and the one friend and
companion she had ever had. Pitt said he would return; but four or five
years, for all present purposes, is a sort of eternity at her age; hope
could not leap over it, and expectation died at the brink. Her want of
comfort came back in full force; but where was the girl to get it?
The sight of Mr. and Mrs. Dallas used to put her in a fever. Once in a
while the two would come to make an evening call upon her father; and
then Esther used to withdraw as far as possible into a corner of the
room and watch and listen; watch the looks of the pair with a kind of
irritated fascination, and listen to their talk with her heart jumping
and throbbing in pain and anxiety and passionate longing. For they were
Pitt's father and mother, and only the ocean of waters lay between him
and them, which they could cross at any time; he belonged to them, and
could not be separated from them. All which would have drawn Esther
very near to them and made them delightful to her, but that she knew
very well they desired no such approach. Whether it were simply because
she and her father were 'dissenters' Esther could not tell; whatever
the reason, her sensitive nature and discerning vision saw the fact.
They made visits of neighbourly politeness to the one English family
that was within reach; but more than politeness they desired neither to
give nor receive. I suppose it was this perception which made the sight
of the pair so irritating to Esther. _They_ were near Pitt, but they
did not wish that _she_ should be. Esther kept well at a distance. But
with all this they talked of their son perpetually: of his voyage, of
his prospects, of his grand-uncle at Kensington, of his career in
college, or at the University rather, and of his possible permanent
remaining in the old country; at any rate, of his studying there for a
profession. The colonel was only faintly interested, and would take up
his book with a sigh of relief when they were gone; but Esther would
sit in passionate misery, not shedding any tears; only staring with her
big eyes at the lire in a sort of fixed gravity most unfit for her
years.
The months went heavily. Winters were rather severe and very long at
Seaforth; Esther was much shut up to the house. It made things all the
harder for her. To the colonel it made no difference. He lay upon his
couch, summer or winter, and went on with his half-hearted
reading,--half a heart was all he brought to it; while Esther would
stand at the window, watching the snow drive past, or the beating down
of the rain, or the glitter of the sunbeams upon a wide white world,
and almost wonder at the thought that warm lights and soft airs and
flowers and walks and botanizing had ever been out there, where now the
glint of the sunbeams on the snow-crystals was as sharp as diamonds,
and all vegetable life seemed to be gone for ever.
Pitt had sailed in November, various difficulties having delayed his
departure to a month later than the time intended for it. Therefore
news from him could not be looked for until the new year was on its
way. Towards the end of January, however, as early as could possibly be
hoped, a letter came to Colonel Gainsborough, which he immediately knew
to be in Pitt's hand.
'No postmark,' he said, surveying it. 'I suppose it came by private
opportunity.'
'Papa, you look a long while at the outside!' said Esther, who stood by
full of excited impatience which she knew better than to show.
'The outside has its interest too, my dear,' said her father. 'I was
looking for the Lisbon postmark, but there is none whatever. It must
have come by private hand.'
He broke the seal, and found within an enclosure directed to Esther,
which he gave her. And Esther presently left the room. Her father, she
saw, was deep in the contents of his letter, and would not notice her
going, while if she stayed in the room she knew she would be called
upon to read her own letter or to show it before she was ready. She
wanted to enjoy the full first taste of it, slowly and thoroughly.
Meanwhile, the colonel never noticed her going. Pitt's letter was dated
'Lisbon, Christmas Day, 1813,' and ran as follows:--
'MY DEAR COLONEL,--I have landed at last, as you see, in this dirtiest
of all places I ever was in. I realize now why America is called the
New world; for everything here drives the consciousness upon me that
the world on this side is very old--so old, I should say, that it is
past cleansing. I do suppose it is not fair to compare it with
Seaforth, which is as bright in comparison as if it were an ocean shell
shining with pure lights; but I certainly hope things will mend when I
get to London.
'But I did not mean to talk to you about Lisbon, which I suppose you
know better than I do. My hope is to give you the pleasure of an early
piece of news. Probably the papers will already have given it to you,
but it is just possible that the chances of weather and ships may let
my letter get to you first, and in that case my pleasure will be gained.
'There is great news. Napoleon has been beaten, beaten! isn't that
great? He has lost a hundred thousand men, and is driven back over the
Rhine. Holland has joined the Allies, and the Prince of Orange; and
Lord Wellington has fought such a battle as history hardly tells of;
seven days' fighting; and the victory ranks with the greatest that ever
were gained.
'That is all I can tell you now, but it is so good you can afford to
wait for further details. It is now more difficult than ever to get
into France, and I don't know yet how I am going to make my way to
England; it is specially hard for Americans, and I must be reckoned an
American, you know. However, money will overcome all difficulties;
money and persistence. I have written to Esther something about my
voyage, which will, I hope, interest her. I will do myself the pleasure
of writing again when I get to London. Meanwhile, dear sir, I remain
'Ever your grateful and most obedient,
'WILM. PITT DALLAS.'
Esther, while her father was revelling in this letter, was taking a
very different sort of pleasure in hers. There was a fire up-stairs in
her room; she lit a candle, and, in the exquisite sense of having her
enjoyment all to herself, went slowly over the lines; as slowly as she
could.
'Lisbon, _Christmas Day_, 1813. 'MY DEAR LITTLE ESTHER,--If you think a
voyage over the sea is in anything like a journey by land, you are
mistaken. The only one thing in which they are alike, is that in both
ways you _get on_. But wheels go smoothly, even over a jolty road; and
waves do nothing but toss you. It was just one succession of rollings
and pitchings from the time we left New Bedford till we got sight of
the coast of Portugal. The wind blew all the time _almost_ a gale,
rising at different points of our passage to the full desert of the
name. One violent storm we had; and all the rest of the voyage we were
pitching about at such a rate that we had to fight for our meals;
tables were broken, and coffee and chocolate poured about with a
reckless disregard of economy. For about halt the way it rained
persistently; so altogether you may suppose, Queen Esther, that my
first experience has not made me in love with the sea. But it wasn't
bad, after all. The wind drove us along, that was one comfort; and it
would have driven us along much faster, if our sails had been good for
anything; but they were a rotten set, a match for the crew, who were a
rascally band of Portuguese. However, we drove along, as I said, seeing
nobody to speak to all the way except ourselves; not a sail in sight
nearer than eight or ten miles off.
'Well, the 23rd we sighted land, to everybody's great joy, you may
suppose. The wind fell, and that night was one of the most beautiful
and delicious you can imagine. A smooth sea without a ripple, a clear
sky without a cloud, stars shining down quietly, and air as soft as May
at Seaforth. I stood on deck half the night, enjoying, and thinking of
five hundred thousand things one after another. Now that I was almost
setting my foot on a new world, my life, past and future, seemed to
rise up and confront me; and I looked at it and took counsel with it,
as it were. Seaforth on one side, and Oxford on the other; the question
was, what should William Pitt be between them? The question never
looked so big to me before. Somehow, I believe, the utter perfection of
the night suggested to me the idea of perfection generally; what a
mortal may come to when at his best. Such a view of nature as I was
having puts one out of conceit, I believe, with whatever is out of
order, unseemly, or untrue, or what for any reason misses the end of
its existence. _Then_ rose the question, what is the end of
existence?--but I did not mean to give you my moralizings, Queen
Esther; I have drifted into it. I can tell you, though, that my
moralizing got a sharp emphasis the next day.
'I turned in at last, leaving the world of air and water a very image
of peace. I slept rather late, I suppose; was awakened by the hoarse
voice of the captain calling all hands on deck, in a manner that showed
me there must be urgent cause. I tumbled up as soon as possible. What
do you think I saw?
'The morning was as fair as the night had been. The sea was smooth, the
sun shining brilliantly. I suppose the colonel would tell you, that
seas may be _too_ smooth; anyhow I saw the fact now. There had been not
wind enough during the night to make our sails of any use; a current
had caught us, and we had been drifting, drifting, till now it appeared
we were drifting straight on to a line of rocks which we could see at a
little distance; made known both to eye and ear: to the former by a
line of white where the waves broke upon the rocks, and to the latter
by the thundering noise the breakers made. Now you know, where waves
break, a ship would stand very little chance of holding together; but
what were we to do? The only thing possible we did,--let out our
anchors; but the question was, would they hold? They did hold, but none
too soon; for we were left riding only about three times our ship's
length from the threatening danger. You see, we had a drunken crew; no
proper watch was kept; the captain was first roused by the thunder of
the waves dashing upon the rocks; and then nothing was ready or in
order, and before the anchors could be got out we were where I tell
you. The anchors held, but we could not tell how long they would hold,
nor how soon the force of the waves would drag us, cables and all, to
the rocks. There we sat and looked at the view and situation. We
hoisted a signal and fired guns of distress; but we were in front of a
rocky shore that gave us little hope of either being of avail. At last,
after three hours of this, the captain and some of the passengers got
into the yawl and went off to find help. We, left behind, stared at the
breakers. After three more hours had gone, I saw the yawl coming back,
followed by another small boat, and further off by four royal pilot
boats with sails. I saw them with the glass, that is, from my station
in the rigging. When they came up, all the passengers except half a
dozen, of whom I was one, were transferred to the pilot boats. You
should have heard the jabber of the Portuguese when they came on board!
But the captain had determined to try to save his brig, as by this time
a slight breeze had sprung up, and I stayed with some of the others to
help in the endeavour. When the rest of the passengers were safe on
board the pilot boats, we set about our critical undertaking. Sails
were spread, one anchor hoisted, the cable of the other cut, and we
stood holding our breath, to see whether wind or water would prove
strongest. But the sails drew; the brig slowly fell off before the
wind, and we edged away from our perilous position. Then, when we were
fairly off, there rose a roar of shouts that rent the air; for the
boats had all waited, lying a few rods off, to see what would become of
us. Queen Esther, I can tell you, if I had been a woman, I should have
sat down and cried; what _I_ did I won't say. As I looked back to the
scene of our danger, there was a most lovely rainbow spanning it,
showing in the cloud of spray that rose above the breakers.
'At six o'clock on Christmas eve I landed at Lisbon, where I got
comfortable quarters in an English boarding-house. When I can get to
London, I do not yet know. I am here at a great time, to see history as
it is taking shape in human life and experience; something different
from looking at it as cast into bronze or silver in former ages and
packed up in a box of coins; hey, Queen Esther? But that's good too in
its way. Your father will tell you the news.
'Your devoted subject,
'WILM. PITT DALLAS.'