_THE COLONEL'S TOAST_.
It is just possible that the foregoing experiences did not tend to
increase Esther's popularity among her companions. She got forthwith
the name of _favourite_, the giving of which title is the consolatory
excuse to themselves of those who have done nothing to deserve favour.
However, whether she were popular or not was a matter that did not
concern Esther. She was full of the delight of learning, and bent upon
making the utmost of her new advantages. Study swallowed her up, so to
speak; at least, swallowed up all lesser considerations and attendant
circumstances. Not so far but that Esther got pleasure also from these;
she enjoyed the novelty, she enjoyed the society, even she enjoyed the
sight of so many in the large family; to the solitary girl, who had all
her life lived and worked alone, the stir and breeze and bustle of a
boarding-school were like fresh air to the lungs, or fresh soil to the
plant. Whether her new companions liked her, she did not so much as
question; in the sweetness of her own happy spirit she liked _them_,
which was the more material consideration. She liked every teacher that
had to do with her; after which, it is needless to add, that Miss
Gainsborough had none but favourers and friends in that part of her new
world. And it was so delicious to be learning; and in such a mood one
learns fast. Esther felt, when she went home at the end of the week,
that she was already a different person from the one who had left it on
Monday morning.
Christopher came for her with an old horse and a gig, which was a new
subject of interest.
'Where did you get them?' she asked, as soon as she had taken her seat,
and begun to make her observations.
'Nowheres, Miss Esther; leastways _I_ didn't. The colonel, he's bought
'em of some old chap that wanted to get rid of 'em.'
'Bought? Then they are ours!' exclaimed Esther with delight. 'Well, the
gig seems very nice; is it a good horse, Christopher?'
'Well, mum,' said Mr. Bounder in a tone of very moderate appreciation,
'master says he's the remains of one. The colonel knows, to be sure,
but I can't say as I see the remains. I think, maybe, somewheres in the
last century he may have deserved high consideration; at present, he's
got four legs, to be sure, such as they be, and a head. The head's the
most part of him.'
'Obstinate?' said Esther, laughing.
'Well, mum, he thinks he knows in all circumstances what is best to be
done. I'm only a human, and naturally I thinks otherwise. That makes
differences of opinion.'
'He seems to go very well.'
'No doubt, mum,' said Christopher; 'you let him choose his way, and
he'll go uncommon; that he do.'
He went so well, in fact, that the drive was exhilarating; the gig was
very easy; and Esther's spirits rose. At her age, the mind is just
opening to appreciate keenly whatever is presented to it; every new bit
of knowledge, every new experience, a new book or a new view, seemed to
be taken up by her senses and her intelligence alike, with a fresh
clearness of perception, which had in itself something very enjoyable.
But this afternoon, how pleasant everything was! Not the weather,
however; a grey mist from the sea was sweeping inland, veiling the
country, and darkening the sky, and carrying with it a penetrating raw
chillness which was anything but agreeable. Yet to Esther it was good
weather. She was entered at school; she had had a busy, happy week, and
was going home; there were things at home that she wanted to put in
order; and her father must be glad to have her ministry again. Then
learning was so delightful, and it was so pleasant to be, at least in
some small measure, keeping step with Pitt. No, probably not _that;_
certainly not that; Pitt would be far in advance of her. At least, in
some things, he would be far in advance of her; in others, Esther said
to herself, he should not. He might have more advantages at Oxford, no
doubt; nevertheless, if he ever came back again to see his old friends,
he should find her doing her part and standing up to her full measure
of possibilities. Would Pitt come back? Surely he would, Esther
thought. But would he, in such a case, make all the journey to New York
to look up his old teacher and his old playmate and scholar? She
answered this query with as little hesitation as the other. And so, it
will be perceived, Esther's mind was in as brisk motion as her body
during the drive out to Chelsea.
For at that day a wide stretch of country, more or less cultivated, lay
between what is now Abingdon Square and what was then the city.
Esther's new home was a little further on still, down near the bank of
the river; a drive of a mile and a half or two miles from Miss
Fairbairn's school; and the short November day was closing in already
when she got there.
Mrs. Barker received her almost silently, but with gladness in every
feature, and with a quantity of careful, tender ministrations, every
one of which had the effect of a caress.
'How is papa? Has he missed me much?'
'The colonel is quite as usual, mum; and he didn't say to me as his
feelin's were, but in course he's missed you. The house itself has
missed you, Miss Esther.'
'Well, I am glad to be home for a bit, Barker,' said Esther, laughing.
'Surely, I know it must be fine for you to go to school, mum; but a
holiday's a holiday; and I've got a nice pheasant for your supper, Miss
Esther, and I hope as you'll enjoy it.'
'Thank you, Barker. Oh, anything will be good;' and she ran into the
sitting-room to see her father.
The greetings here were quiet, too; the colonel was never otherwise, in
manner. And then Esther gave a quick look round the room to see if all
were as she wanted it to be.
'My dear,' said the colonel, gazing at her, 'I had no idea you were so
tall!'
Esther laughed. I seem to have grown, oh, inches, in feeling, this
week, papa. I don't wonder I look tall.'
'Never "wonder," my dear, at anything. Are you satisfied with your new
position?'
'Very much, papa. Have you missed me?--badly, I mean?'
'There is no way of missing a person pleasantly, that I know,' said her
father; 'unless it is a disagreeable person. Yes, I have missed you,
Esther; but I am willing to miss you.'
This was not quite satisfactory to Esther's feeling; but her father's
wonted way was somewhat dry and self-contained. The fact that this was
an unwonted occasion might have made a difference, she thought; and was
a little disappointed that it did not; but then, as the colonel went
back to his book, she put off further discussions till supper-time, and
ran away to see to some of the house arrangements which she had upon
her heart. In these she was soon gaily busy; finding the work
delightful after the long interval of purely mental action. She had
done a good many things, she felt with pleasure, before she was called
to tea. Then it was with new enjoyment that she found herself
ministering to her father again; making his toast just as he liked it,
pouring out his tea, and watching over his wants. The colonel seemed to
take up things simply where she had left them; and was almost as silent
as ever.
'Who has made your toast while I have been away, papa?' Esther asked,
unable to-night to endure this silence.
'My toast? Oh, Barker, of course.'
'Did she make it right?'
'Right? My dear, I have given up expecting to have servants do
somethings as they ought to be done. Toast is one of the things. They
are outside of the limitations of the menial mind.'
'What is the reason, papa? Can't they be taught?'
'I don't know, my dear. I never have been able to teach them. They
always think toast is done when it is brown, and the browner the
better, I should say. Also it is beyond their comprehension that
thickness makes a difference. There was an old soldier once I had under
me in India; he was my servant; he was the only man I ever saw who
could make a piece of toast.'
'What are some of the other things that cannot be taught, papa?'
'A cup of tea.'
'Does not Barker make your tea good?' asked Esther, in some dismay.
'She can do many other things,' said the colonel. 'She is a very
competent woman.'
'So I thought. What is the matter with the tea, papa--the tea she
makes?'
'I don't know, my dear, what the matter is. It is without fragrance,
and without sprightliness, and generally about half as hot as it ought
to be.'
'No good toast and no good tea! Papa, I am afraid you have missed me
very much at meal times?'
'I have missed you at all times--more than I thought possible. But it
cannot be helped.'
'Papa,' said Esther, suddenly very serious, '_can_ it not be helped?'
'No, my dear. How should it?'
'I might stay at home.'
'We have come here that you might go to school.'
'But if it is to your hurt, papa'--
'Not the question, my dear. About me it is of no consequence. The
matter in hand is, that you should grow up to be a perfect
woman--perfect as your mother was; that would have been her wish, and
it is mine. To that all other things must give way. I wish you to have
every information and every accomplishment that it is possible for you
in this country to acquire.'
'Is there not as good a chance here as in England, papa?'
'What do you mean by "chance," my dear? Opportunity? No; there cannot
yet be the same advantages here as in an old country, which has been
educating its sons and its daughters in the most perfect way for
hundreds of years.'
Esther pricked up her ears. The box of coins recurred to her memory,
and sundry conversations held over it with Pitt Dallas. Whereby she had
certainly got an impression that it was not so very long since
England's educational provisions and practices, for England's daughters
at least, had been open to great criticism, and displayed great lack of
the desirable. 'Hundreds of years!' But she offered no contradiction to
her father's remark.
'I would like you to be equal to any Englishwoman in your acquirements
and accomplishments,' he repeated musingly. 'So far as in New York that
is possible.'
'I will try what I can do, papa. And, after all, it depends more on the
girl than on the school, does it not?'
'Humph! Well, a good deal depends on you, certainly. Did Miss Fairbairn
find you backward in your studies, to begin with?'
'Papa,' said Esther slowly, 'I do not think she did.'
'Not in anything?'
'In French and music, of course.'
'Of course! But in history?'
'No, papa.'
'Nor in Latin?'
'Oh no, papa.'
'Then you can take your place well with the rest?'
'Perfectly, papa.'
'Do you like it? And does Miss Fairbairn approve of you? Has the week
been pleasant?'
'Yes, sir. I like it very much, and I think she likes me--if only you
get on well, papa. How have you been all these days?'
'Not very well. I think, not so well as at Seaforth. The air here does
not agree with me. There is a rawness--I do not know what--a peculiar
quality, which I did not find at Seaforth. It affects my breast
disagreeably.'
'But, dear papa!' cried Esther in dismay, 'if this place does not agree
with you, do not let us stay here! Pray do not for me!'
'My dear, I am quite willing to suffer a little for your good.'
'But if is bad for you, papa?'
'What does that matter? I do not expect to live very long in any case;
whether a little longer or a little shorter, is most immaterial. I care
to live only so far as I can be of service to you, and while you need
me, my child.'
'Papa, when should I not need you?' cried Esther, feeling as if her
breath were taken away by this view of things.
'The children grow up to be independent of the parents,' said the
colonel, somewhat abstractly. 'It is the way of nature. It must be; for
the old pass away, and the young step forward to fill their places.
What I wish is that you should get ready to fill your place well. That
is what we have come here for. We have taken the step, and we cannot go
back.'
'Couldn't we, papa? if New York is not good for you?'
'No, my dear. We have sold our Seaforth place.'
'Mr. Dallas would sell it back again.'
'I shall not ask him. And neither do I desire to have it back, Esther.
I have come here on good grounds, and on those grounds I shall stay.
How I personally am affected by the change is of little consequence.'
The colonel, having by this time finished his third slice of toast and
drunk up his tea, turned to his book. Esther remained greatly chilled
and cast down. Was her advantage to be bought at the cost of shortening
her father's life? Was her rich enjoyment of study and mental growth to
be balanced by suffering and weariness on his part?--every day of her
new life in school to be paid for by such a day's price at home? Esther
could not bear to think it. She sat pondering, chewing the bitter cud
of these considerations. She longed to discuss them further, and get
rid, if possible, of her father's dismal conclusions; but with him she
could not, and there was no other. When her father had settled and
dismissed a subject, she could rarely re-open a discussion upon it. The
colonel was an old soldier; when he had delivered an opinion, he had in
a sort given his orders; to question was almost to be guilty of
insubordination. He had gone back to his book, and Esther dared not say
another word; all the more her thoughts burnt within her, and for a
long time she sat musing, going over a great many things besides those
they had been talking of.
'Papa,' she said, once when the colonel stirred and let his book fall
for a minute, 'do you think Pitt Dallas will come home at all?'
'William Dallas! why should he not come home? His parents will want to
see him. I have some idea they expect him to come over next summer.'
'To _stay_, papa?'
'To stay the vacation. He will go back again, of course, to keep his
terms.'
'At Oxford?'
'Yes; and perhaps afterwards in the Temple.'
'The Temple, papa? what is that?'
'A school of law. Do you not know so much, Esther?'
'Is he going to be a lawyer?'
'His father wishes him to study for some profession, and in that he is
as usual judicious. The fact that William will have a great deal of
money does not affect the matter at all. It is my belief that every man
ought to have a profession. It makes him more of a man.'
'Do you think Pitt will end by being an Englishman, papa?'
'I can't tell, my dear. That would depend on circumstances, probably. I
should think it very likely, and very natural.'
'But he _is_ an American.'
'Half.'
The colonel took up his book again.
'Papa,' said Esther eagerly, 'do you think Pitt will come to see us
here?'
'Come to see us? If anything brings him to New York, I have no doubt he
will look us up.'
'You do not think he would come all the way on purpose? Papa, he would
be very much changed if he did not.'
'Impossible to say, my dear. He is very likely to have changed.' And
the colonel went back to his reading.
'Papa does not care about it,' thought Esther. 'Oh, can Pitt be so much
changed as that?'