_COMFORT_.
These letters, on the whole, did not comfort Esther. The momentary
intense pleasure was followed by inevitable dull reaction and contrast;
and before she had well got over the effect of one batch of letters
another came; and she was kept in a perpetual stir and conflict. For
Pitt proved himself a good correspondent, although it was June before
the first letter from his parents reached him. So he reported, writing
on the third of that month; and told that the Allied Sovereigns were
just then leaving Paris for a visit to the British Capital, and all the
London world was on tiptoe. 'Great luck for me to be here just now,' he
wrote; and so everybody at home agreed. Mrs. Dallas grew more stately,
Esther thought, with every visit she made at the colonel's house; and
she and her husband made many. It was a necessity to have some one to
speak to about Pitt and Pitt's letters; and it was urgent likewise that
Mrs. Dallas should know if letters had been received by the same mail
at this other house. She always found out, one way or another; and then
she would ask, 'May I see?' and scan with eager eyes the sheet the
colonel generally granted her. Of the letters to Esther nothing was
said, but Esther lived in fear and trembling that some inadvertent word
might let her know of their existence.
Another necessity which brought the Dallases often to Colonel
Gainsborough's was the political situation. They could hardly discuss
it with anybody else in Seaforth, and what is the use of a political
situation if you cannot discuss it? All the rest of the families in the
neighbourhood were strong Americans; and even Pitt, in his letters, was
more of an American than anything else. Indeed, so much more, that it
gave his mother sad annoyance. He told of the temper of the English
people at this juncture; of the demands to be made by the English
government before they would hear of peace; of a strong force sent to
Canada, and the general indignant and belligerent tone of feeling and
speech among members of Parliament; but Pitt did not write as if he
sympathized with it. 'He has lived here too long already!' sighed his
mother.
'Not if he is destined to live here the rest of his life, my dear
madam,' said the colonel.
'He will not do that. He will end by settling in England.'
'Will may have his own views, on that as on some other things.'
'By the time he has gone through the University and studied for his
profession, he will be more of an Englishman than of an American,' Mr.
Dallas observed contentedly. 'He will choose for himself.'
'What profession? Have you fixed upon one? or has he?'
'Time enough yet for that.'
'But your property lies here.'
'I am here to take care of it,' said Mr. Dallas, laughing a little.
All this sort of talk, which Esther heard often, with variations, made
one thing clear to her, namely, that if it depended on his father and
mother, Pitt's return to his native country would be long delayed or
finally prevented. It did not entirely depend on them, everybody knew
who knew him; nevertheless it seemed to Esther that the fascinations of
the old world must be great, and the feeling of the distance between
her and Pitt grew with every letter. It was not the fault of the
letters or of the writer in any way, nor was it the effect the latter
were intended to produce; but Esther grew more and more despondent
about him. And then, after a few months, the letters became short and
rare. Pitt had gone to Oxford; and, from the time of his entering the
University, plunged head and ears into business, so eagerly that time
and disposition failed for writing home. Letters did come, from time to
time, but there was much less in them; and those for Colonel
Gainsborough were at long intervals. So, when the second winter of
Pitt's absence began to set in, Esther reckoned him, to all intents and
purposes, lost to her life.
The girl went with increased eagerness and intentness to the one
resource she had--her Bible. The cry for happiness is so natural to the
human heart, that it takes long oppression to stifle it. The cry was
strong in Esther's young nature--strong and imperative; and in all the
world around her she saw no promise of help or supply. The spring at
which she had slaked her thirst was dried up; the desert was as barren
to her eye as it had been to Hagar's; but, unlike Hagar, she sought
with a sort of desperate eagerness in one quarter where she believed
water might be found. When people search in _that_ way, unless they get
discouraged, their search is apt to come to something; unless, indeed,
they are going after a mirage, and it was no mirage that hovered before
Esther,--no vision of anything, indeed; she was searching into the
meaning of a promise.
And, as I said, nobody knew; nobody helped her; the months of that
winter rolled slowly and gloomily over her. Esther was between fourteen
and fifteen now; her mind just opening to a consciousness of its
powers, and a growing dawn of its possibilities. Life was unfolding,
not its meaning, but something of its extent and richness to her; less
than ever could she content herself to have it a desert. The study went
on all through the winter with no visible change or result. But with
the breaking spring the darkness and ice-bound state of Esther's mind
seemed to break up too. Another look came into the girl's face--a high
quiet calm; a light like the light of the spring itself, so gracious
and tender and sweet. Esther was changed. The duties which she had done
all along with a dull punctuality were done now with a certain blessed
alacrity; her eye got its life of expression again, and a smile more
sweet than any former ones came readily to the lips. I do not think the
colonel noticed all this; or if he noticed at all, he simply thought
Esther was glad of the change of season; the winter, to be sure, had
kept her very much shut up. The servants were more observing.
'Do you know, we're a-goin' to have a beauty in this 'ere house?'
inquired Christopher one evening of his sister, with a look of sly
search, as if to see whether she knew it.
'Air we?' asked the housekeeper.
'A beauty, and no mistake. Why, Sarah, can't you see it?'
'I sees all there is to see in the family,' the housekeeper returned
with a superior air.
'Then you see that. She's grown and changed uncommon, within a year.'
'She's a very sweet young lady,' Mrs. Barker agreed.
'And she's goin' to be a stunner for looks,' Christopher repeated, with
that same sly observation of his sister's face. 'She'll be
better-lookin' than ever her mother was.'
'Mrs. Gainsborough was a handsome woman too,' said the housekeeper.
'But Miss Esther's very promisin'--you're right there; she's very
promisin'. She's just beginnin' to show what she will be.'
'She's got over her dumps lately uncommon. I judged the dumps was
natural enough, sitiwated as she is; but she's come out of 'em. She's
openin' up like a white camellia; and there ain't anythin' that grows
that has less shadow to it; though maybe it ain't what you'd call a gay
flower,' added Christopher thoughtfully.
'Is that them stiff white flowers as has no smell to 'em?'
'The same, Mrs. Barker--if you mean what I mean.'
'Then I wouldn't liken Miss Esther to no sich. She's sweet, she is, and
she ain't noways stiff. She has just which I call the manners a young
lady ought to have.'
'Can't beat a white camellia for manners,' responded Christopher
jocularly.
So the servants saw what the father did not. I think he hardly knew
even that Esther was growing taller.
One evening in the spring, Esther was as usual making tea for her
father. As usual also the tea-time was very silent. The colonel
sometimes carried on his reading alongside of his tea-cup; at other
times, perhaps, he pondered what he had been reading.
'Papa,' said Esther suddenly, 'would it be any harm if I wrote a
letter to Pitt?'
The colonel did not answer at once.
'Do you want to write to him?'
'Yes, papa; I would like it--I would like to write once.'
'What do you want to write to him for?'
'I would like to tell him something that I think it would please him to
hear.'
'What is that?'
'It is just something about myself, papa,' Esther said, a little
hesitatingly.
'You may write, and I will enclose it in a letter of mine.'
'Thank you, papa.'
A day or two passed, and then Esther brought her letter. It was closed
and sealed. The colonel took it and turned it over.
'There's a good deal of it,' he remarked. 'Was it needful to use so
many words?'
'Papa,' said Esther, hesitating, 'I didn't think about how many words I
was using.'
'You should have had thinner paper. Why did you seal it up?'
'Papa, I didn't think about that either. I only thought it had got to
be sealed.'
'You did not wish to hinder my seeing what you had written?'
'No, papa,' said Esther, a little slowly.
'That will do.' And he laid the letter on one side, and Esther supposed
the matter was disposed of. But when she had kissed him and gone off to
bed, the colonel brought the letter before him again, looked at it, and
finally broke the seal and opened it. There was a good deal of it, as
he had remarked.
'Seaforth, _May_ 11, 1815. 'MY DEAR PITT,--Papa has given me leave to
write a letter to you; and I wanted to write, because I have something
to tell you that I think you will be glad to hear. I am afraid I cannot
tell it very well, for I am not much accustomed to writing letters; but
I will do as well as I can.
'I am afraid it will take me some time to say what I want to say. I
cannot put it in two or three sentences. You must have patience with me.
'Do you remember my telling you once that I wanted comfort? And do you
remember my asking you once about the meaning of some words in the
Bible, where I was looking for comfort, because mamma said it was the
best place? We were sitting in the verandah, one afternoon. You had
been away, to New Haven, and were home for vacation.
'Well, I partly forgot about it that summer, I was so happy. You know
what a good time we had with everything, and I forgot about wanting
comfort. But after you went away that autumn to Lisbon and to England,
then the want came back. You were very good about writing, and I
enjoyed your letters very much; and yet, somehow, every one seemed to
make me feel a little worse than I did before. That is, after the first
bit, you know. For an hour, perhaps, while I was reading it, and
reading it the second time, and thinking about it, I was almost
perfectly happy; the letters seemed to bring you near; but when just
that first hour was passed, they made you seem farther off than ever;
farther off every time. And then the want of comfort came back, and I
did not know where to get it. There was nobody to ask, and no help at
all, if I could not find it in the Bible. All that winter, and all the
summer, last summer that was, and all the first part of this last
winter, I did not know what to do, I wanted comfort so. I thought maybe
you would never come back to Seaforth again; and you know there is
nobody else here, and I was quite alone. I never do see anybody but
papa, except Mr. and Mrs. Dallas, who come here once in a while. So I
went to the Bible. I read, and I thought.
'Do you remember those words I once asked you about? Perhaps you do
not, so I will write them down here. "The Lord make His face shine upon
thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon
thee, and give the peace." Those are the words.
'Do you remember what you said at that time, about the pleasure of
seeing a face that looks brightly and kindly upon one? only you did not
know how that could be true of God, because we cannot really _see_ His
face? Well, I thought a great deal about that. You see, there are the
words; and so, I thought, the thing must be possible somehow, and there
must be some way in which they can be true, or the Bible would not say
so. I began to pray that the Lord would make His face shine upon _me_.
Then I remembered another thing. It is only the faces we _love_ that we
care about seeing--I mean, that we care about so very much; and it is
only the faces that love us that _can_ "shine" upon us. But I did not
love God, for I did not know Him; and I knew He could not love me, for
He knew me too well. So I began to pray a different prayer. I asked
that God would teach me to love Him, and make me such a person that He
could love me. It was all very dark and confused before my mind; I
think I was like a person groping about and feeling for things he
cannot see. It was very miserable, for I had no comfort at all; and the
days and the nights were all sad and dark, only I kept a little bit of
hope.
'Then I must tell you another thing. I had been doing nothing but
praying and reading the Bible. But one day I came to these words, which
struck me very much. They are in the fourteenth chapter of John:--
'"He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth
me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love
him, and will manifest myself to him."
'Do you notice those last words? That is like making the face shine, or
lifting up the countenance upon a person. But then I saw that to get
that, which I wanted. I must _keep His commandments_. I hardly knew
what they were, and I began to read to find out. I had been only
looking for comfort before. And as fast as I found out one of His
commands, I began to do it, as far as I could. Pitt, His commandments
are such beautiful things!
'And then, I don't know how it came or when it came, exactly, but I
began to _see His face_. And it began to shine upon me. And the
darkness began to go away, And now, Pitt, this is what I wanted to tell
you: I have found comfort. I am not dark, and I don't feel alone any
more. The promise is all true. I think He has manifested Himself to me;
for I am sure I know Him a little, and I love Him a great deal; and
everything seems changed. It is _so_ changed, Pitt. I am happy now, and
contented, and things seem beautiful to me again, as they used to do
when you were here, only even more, I think.
'I thought you would be glad to know it, and so I have written all this
long letter, and my fingers are really tired.
'Your loving friend,
'ESTHER GAINSBOROUGH.'
The colonel read this somewhat peculiar document with wondering
attention. He got to the end, and began again, with his mind in a good
deal of confusion. A second reading left him more confused than the
first, and he began the third time. What did Esther mean by this want
of comfort? How could she want comfort? And what was this strange thing
that she had found? And how came she to be pouring out her mind in this
fashion to Pitt, to him of all people? The colonel was half touched,
half jealous, half awed. What had his child learned in her strange
solitary Bible study? He had heard of religious ecstasies and religious
enthusiasts; devotees; people set apart by a singular experience; was
his Esther possibly going to be anything like that? He did not wish it.
He wanted her certainly to be a good woman, and a religious woman; he
did not want her to be extravagant. And this sounded extravagant, even
visionary. How had she got it? What had Pitt Dallas to do with it? Was
it for want of _him_ that Esther had set up such a cry for comfort? The
colonel liked nothing of all the questions that started up in his mind;
and the only satisfactory thing was that in some way Esther seemed to
be feeling happy. But her father did not want her to be given over to a
visionary happiness, which in the end would desert her. He sat up a
long time reading and brooding over the letter. Finally he closed it
and sealed it again, and resolved to let it go off, and to have a talk
with his daughter.