_REST AND UNREST_.
It cost the colonel a strange amount of trouble to get to that talk.
For an old soldier and man of the world to ask a little innocent girl
about her meaning of words she had written, would seem a simple matter
enough; but there was something about it that tied the colonel's
tongue. He could not bring himself to broach the subject at breakfast,
with the clear homely daylight streaming upon the breakfast table, and
Esther moving about and attending to her usual morning duties; all he
could do was to watch her furtively. This creature was growing up out
of his knowledge; he looked to see what outward signs of change might
be visible. He saw a fair, slim girl, no longer a little girl
certainly, with a face that still was his child's face, he thought. And
yet, as he looked, he slowly came to the conviction that it was the
face of something more than a child. The old simplicity and the old
purity were there indeed; but now there was a blessed calm upon the
brow, and the calmness had a certain lofty quality; and the sweetness,
which was more than ever, was refined and deep. It was not the
sweetness of hilarious childhood, but something that had a more distant
source than childhood draws from. The colonel ate his breakfast without
knowing what he was eating; however, he could not talk to Esther at
that time. He waited till evening had come round again, and the lamp
was lit, and he was taking his toast and tea, with Esther ministering
to him in her wonted course.
'How old are you, Esther?' he began suddenly.
'Near fifteen, papa.'
'Fifteen! Humph!'
'Why, papa? Had you forgotten?'
'At the moment.' Then he began again. 'I sent your letter off.'
'Thank you, papa.'
'It was sealed up. Why did you seal it? Did you mean me not to read it?'
Esther's eyes opened. 'I never thought about it, papa. I didn't know
you would care to read it. I thought it must be sealed, and I sealed
it.'
'I did care to read it, so I opened it. Had you any objection?'
'No, papa!' said Esther, wondering.
'And having opened it, I read it. I did not quite understand it,
Esther.'
Esther made no reply.
'What do you want _comfort_ so much for, my child? I thought you were
happy--as happy as other children.'
'I _am_ happy now, papa; more happy than other children.'
'But you were not?'
'No, papa; for a while I was not.'
'Why? What did you want, that you had not?--except your mother,' the
colonel added, with a sigh of consciousness that there might be a
missing something there.
'I was not thinking of her, papa,' Esther said slowly.
'Of what, then?' The colonel was intensely curious.
'I was very happy, as long as Pitt was at home.'
'William Dallas! But what is he to you? he's a collegian, and you are a
little girl.'
'Papa, the collegian was very kind to the little girl,' Esther said,
with a smile that was very bright, and also merry with a certain sense
of humour.
'I grant it; still--it is unreasonable And was it because he was gone,
that you wanted comfort?'
'I didn't want it, or I didn't know that I wanted it, while he was
here.'
'People that don't know they need comfort, do _not_ need it, I fancy.
You draw fine distinctions. Well, go on, Esther. You have found it,
your letter says.'
'Oh yes, papa.'
'My dear, I do not understand you; and I should like to understand. Can
you tell me what you mean?'
As he raised his eyes to her, he saw a look come over her face that he
could as little comprehend as he could comprehend her letter; a look of
surprise at him, mingled with a sudden shine of some inner light. She
was moving about the tea-table; she came round and stood in front of
her father, full in view.
'Papa, I thought my letter explained it. I mean, that now I have come
to know the Lord Jesus.'
'_Now?_ My dear, I was under the impression that you had been taught
and had known the truths of the gospel all your life?'
'Oh, yes, papa; so I was. The difference'--
'Well?'
'The difference, papa, is, that now I know _Him_.'
'Him? Whom?'
'I mean Jesus, papa.'
'How do you know Him? Do you mean that lately you have begun to think
about Him?'
'No, papa, I had been thinking a great while.'
'And now?'--
'Now I have come to know Him.'
That Esther knew what she meant was evident; it was equally plain that
the colonel did not. He was puzzled, and did not like to show it too
fully. The one face was shining with clearness and gladness; the other
was dissatisfied and perplexed.
'My dear, I do not understand you,' the colonel said, after a pause.
'Have you been reading mystical books? I did not know there were any in
the house.'
'I have been reading only the Bible, papa; and _that_ is not mystical.'
'Your language sounds so.'
'Why, no, papa! I do not mean anything mystical.'
'Will you explain yourself?'
Esther paused, thinking how she should do this. When one has used the
simplest words in one's vocabulary, and is called upon to expound them
by the use of others less simple, the task is somewhat critical. The
colonel watched with a sort of disturbed pleasure the thoughtful, clear
brow, the grave eyes which had become so sweet. The intelligence at
work there, he saw, was no longer that of a child; the sweetness was no
longer the blank of unconscious ignorance, but the wisdom of some
blessed knowledge. What did she know that was hidden from his
experience?
'Papa, it is very difficult to tell you,' Esther began. 'I used to know
about the things in the Bible, and I had learned whole chapters by
heart; but that was all. I did not know much more than the name of
Christ,--and His history, of course, and His words.'
'What more could you know?' inquired the colonel, in increasing
astonishment.
'That's just it, papa; I did not know Himself. You know what you mean
when you say you don't know somebody. I mean just that.'
'But, Esther, that sounds to me very like--very like--an improper use
of language,' said the colonel, stammering. 'How can you _know Him_, as
you speak?'
'I can't tell you, papa. I think He showed Himself to me.'
'Showed Himself! Do you mean in a vision?'
'Oh no, papa!' said Esther, smiling. 'I have not seen His face, not
literally. But He has somehow showed me how good He is, and how
glorious; and has made me understand how He loves me, and how He is
with me; so that I do not feel alone any more. I don't think I ever
shall feel alone again.'
Was this extravagance? The colonel pondered. It seemed to him a thing
to be rebuked or repressed; he knew nothing of this kind in his own
religious experience; he feared it was visionary and fanciful. But when
he looked at Esther's face, the words died on his tongue which he would
have spoken. Those happy eyes were so strong in their wistfulness, so
grave in their happiness, that they forbade the charge of folly or
fancifulness; nay, they were looking at something which the colonel
wished he could himself see, if the sight brought such contentment.
They stopped his mouth. He could not say what he thought to say, and
his own eyes oddly fell before them.
'What does William Dallas know about all this?' he asked.
'Nothing, papa. I don't think he knows it at all.'
'Why did you write about it to him, then?'
'I was sure he would be glad for me, papa. Once, a good while ago, I
asked Pitt what could be the meaning of a verse in the Bible; that
beautiful verse in Numbers; and he could not tell me, though what he
said gave me a great help. So I knew he would remember, and he would be
glad. And I want him to know Jesus too.'
The colonel felt a little twinge of jealousy here; but Esther did not
know, he reflected, that her own father was in equal destitution of
that knowledge. Or was it all visionary that she had been saying, and
his view of religion the right one after all? It _must_ be the right
one. Yet his religion had never given his face the expression that
shone in Esther's now. It almost hurt him.
'And now you have comfort?' he said, after a moment's pause.
'Yes, papa. More than comfort.'
'Because you think that God looks upon you with favour.'
'Because I love Him, papa. I know Him and I love Him. And I know He
loves me, and will do everything for me.'
'How do you know it?' asked the colonel almost harshly. 'That sounds to
me rather presuming. You may hope it; but how can you know it?'
'He has made me know it, papa. And He has said it in the Bible. I just
believe what He says.'
Colonel Gainsborough gave up the argument. Before Esther's face of
quiet confidence he felt himself baffled. If she were wrong, he could
not prove her wrong. Uneasy and worsted, he gave up the discussion; but
thought he would not have any more letters go to William Dallas.
And as the days went on, he watched furtively his daughter. He had not
been mistaken in his observations that evening. A steadfastness of
sweet happiness was about her, beautifying and elevating all she did
and all she was. Fair quiet on the brow, loving gladness on the lips,
and hands of ready ministry. She had always been a dutiful child,
faithful in her ministering; but now the service was not of duty, but
of love, and gracious accordingly, as the service of duty can never be.
The colonel watched, and saw something of the difference, without being
able, however, to come at a satisfactory understanding of it. He saw
how, under this influence of love and gladness, his child was becoming
the rarest of servants to him; and more still, how under it she was
developing into a most exquisite personal beauty. He watched her, as if
by watching he might catch something of the secret mental charm by
virtue of which these changes were wrought. But 'the secret of the Lord
is with them that fear Him;' and it cannot be communicated from one to
another.
As has been mentioned, Pitt's letters after he got to work at Oxford
became much fewer and scantier. It was only at very rare intervals that
one came to Colonel Gainsborough; and Esther made no proposition of
writing to England again. On that subject the colonel ceased to take
any thought. It was otherwise with Pitt's family.
Mrs. Dallas sat one evening pondering over the last letter received
from her son. It was early autumn; a little fire burning in the
chimney, towards which the master of the house stretched out his legs,
lying very much at his ease in an old-fashioned chaise lounge, and
turning over an English newspaper. His attitude bespoke the comfortable
ease and carelessness of his mind, on which certainly nothing lay
heavy. His wife was in all things a contrast. Her handsome, stately
figure was yielding at the moment to no blandishments of comfort or
luxury; she sat upright, with Pitt's letter in her hand, and on her
brow there was an expression of troubled consideration.
'Husband,' she said at length, 'do you notice how Pitt speaks of the
colonel and his daughter?'
'No,' came slowly and indifferently from the lips of Mr. Dallas, as he
turned the pages of his newspaper.
'Don't you notice how he asks after them in every letter, and wants me
to go and see them?'
'Natural enough. Pitt is thinking of home, and he thinks of them;--part
of the picture.'
'That boy don't forget!'
'Give him time,' suggested Mr. Dallas, with a careless yawn.
'He has had some time,--a year and a half, and in Europe; and
distractions enough. But don't you know Pitt? He sticks to a thing even
closer than you do.'
'If he cares enough about it.'
'That's what troubles me, Hildebrand. I am afraid he does care. If he
comes home next summer and finds that girl-- Do you know how she is
growing up?'
'That is the worst of children,' said Mr. Dallas, in the same lazy way;
'they will grow up.'
'By next summer she will be--well, I don't know how old, but quite old
enough to take the fancy of a boy like Pitt.'
'I know Pitt's age. He will be twenty-two. Old enough to know better.
He isn't such a fool.'
'Such a fool as what?' asked Mrs. Dallas sharply. 'That girl is going
to be handsome enough to take any man's fancy, and hold it too. She is
uncommonly striking. Don't you see it?'
'Humph! yes, I see it.'
'Hildebrand, I do not want him to marry the daughter of a dissenting
colonel, with not money enough to dress her.'
'I do not mean he shall.'
'Then think how you are going to prevent it. Next summer, I warn you,
it may be too late.'
In consequence, perhaps, of this conversation, though it is by no means
certain that Mr. Dallas needed its suggestions, he strolled over after
tea to Colonel Gainsborough's. The colonel was in his usual place and
position; Esther sitting at the table with her books. Mr. Dallas eyed
her as she rose to receive him, noticed the gracious, quiet manner, the
fair and noble face, the easy movement and fine bearing; and turned to
her father with a strengthened purpose to do what he had come to do. He
had to wait a while. He told the news of Pitt's last letter; intimated
that he meant to keep him in England till his studies were all ended;
and then went into a discussion of politics, deep and dry. When Esther
at last left the room, he made a sudden break in the discussion.
'Colonel, what are you going to do with that girl of yours?'
'What am I going to do with her?' repeated the colonel, a little drily.
'Yes. Forgive me; I have known her all her life, you know, nearly. I am
concerned about Esther.'
'In what way?'
'Well, don't take it ill of me; but I do not like to see her growing up
so without any advantages. She is such a beautiful creature.'
Colonel Gainsborough was silent.
'I take the interest of a friend,' Mr. Dallas went on. 'I have a right
to so much. I have watched her growing up. She will be something
uncommon, you know. She ought really to have everything that can help
to make humanity perfect.'
'What would you have me do?' the colonel asked, half conscious and half
impatient.
'I would give her all the advantages that a girl of her birth and
breeding would have in the old country.'
'How is that possible, at Seaforth?'
'It is not possible at Seaforth. There is nothing here. But elsewhere
it is possible.'
'I shall never leave Seaforth,' said the colonel doggedly.
'But for Esther's sake? Why, she ought to be at school now, colonel.'
'I shall never quit Seaforth,' the other repeated. 'I do not expect to
live long anywhere; when I die, I will lie by my wife's side, here.'
'You are not failing in health,' Mr. Dallas persisted. 'You are
improving, colonel; every time I come to see you I am convinced of it.
We shall have you a long while among us yet; you may depend on it.'
'I have no particular reason to wish you may be right. And I see myself
no signs that you are.'
'You have your daughter to live for.'
'She will be taken care of. I have little fear.'
There was a somewhat grim set of Mr. Dallas's mouth in answer to this
speech; his words however were 'smoother than butter.'
'You need have no fear,' he said. 'Miss Gainsborough, with her birth
and beauty and breeding, will do--what you must wish her to do,--marry
some one well able to take care of her; but--you are not doing her
justice, colonel, in not giving her the education that should go with
her birth and breeding. I speak as a friend; I trust you will not take
it ill of me.'
'I cannot send her to England.'
'You do not need. There are excellent institutions of learning in this
country now.'
'I do not know where.'
'My wife can tell you. She has some knowledge of such things, through
friends who have daughters at school. She could tell you of several
good schools for girls.'
'Where are they?'
'I believe in or near New York.'
'I do not wish to leave Seaforth,' said the colonel gloomily.
'And I am sure we do not wish to have you leave it,' said the other,
rising. 'It would be a terrible loss to us. Perhaps, after all, I have
been officious; and you are giving Esther an education more than equal
to what she could get at school.'
'I cannot quit Seaforth,' the colonel repeated. 'All that I care for in
the world lies here. When I have done with the world, I wish to lie
here too; and till then I will wait.'
Mr. Dallas took his leave; and the set of his mouth was grim again as
he walked home.