_HAY AND OATS_.
But it is in the nature of this particular subject that the discussion
of it is apt to recur. Esther kept silence for some time, possessing
herself in patience as well as she could. Nothing more was said about
Christopher by anybody, and things went their old train, minus peaches,
to be sure, and also minus pears and plums and nuts and apples,
articles which Esther at least missed, whether her father did or not.
Then fish began to be missing.
'I thought, Miss Esther, dear,' said Mrs. Barker when this failure in
the _menu_ was mentioned to her,--'I thought maybe the colonel wouldn't
mind if he had a good soup, and the fish ain't so nourishin', they say,
as the meat of the land creatures. Is it because they drinks so much
water, Miss Esther?'
'But I think papa does not like to go without his fish.'
'Then he must have it, mum, to be sure; but I'm sure I don't just
rightly know how to procure it. It must be done, however.'
The housekeeper's face looked doubtful, notwithstanding her words of
assurance, and a vague fear seized her young mistress.
'Do not get anything you have not money to pay for, at any rate!' she
said impressively.
'Well, mum, and there it is!' cried the housekeeper. 'There is things
as cannot be dispensed with, in no gentleman's house. I thought maybe
fish needn't be counted among them things, but now it seems it must. I
may as well confess, Miss Esther; that last barrel o' flour ain't been
paid for yet.'
'Not paid for!' cried Esther in horror. 'How came that?'
'Well, mum, just that I hadn't the money. And bread must be had.'
'Not if it cannot be paid for! I would rather starve, if it comes to
that. You might have got a lesser quantity.'
'No, mum,' replied the housekeeper; 'you have to have the whole barrel
in the end; and if you get it by bits you pay every time for the
privilege. No, mum, that ain't no economy. It's one o' the things which
kills poor people; they has to pay for havin' every quart of onions
measured out to 'em. I'm afeard Christopher hain't had no money for his
hay and his oats that he's got latterly.'
'Hay and oats!' cried Esther. 'Would he get them without orders and
means?'
'I s'pose he thinks he has his orders from natur'. The horse can't be
let to go without his victuals, mum. And means Christopher hadn't,
more'n a quarter enough. What was he to do?'
Esther stood silent and pale, making no demonstration, but the more
profoundly moved and dismayed.
'An' what's harder on _my_ stomach than all the rest,' the housekeeper
went on, 'is that woman sendin' us milk.'
'That woman? Mrs. Blumenfeld?'
'Which it _was_ her name, mum.'
'_Was!_ You do not mean-- Is Christopher really married?'
'He says that, mum, and I suppose he knows. He's back and forth, and
don't live nowheres, as I tells him. And the milk comes plentiful, and
to be sure the colonel likes his glass of a mornin'; and curds, and
blancmange, and the like, I see he's no objection to; but thinks I to
myself, if he knowed, it wouldn't go down quite so easy.'
'If he knew what? Don't you pay for it?'
'I'd pay that, Miss Esther, if I paid nothin' else; but Christopher's
beyond my management and won't hear of no money, nor his wife neither,
he says. It's uncommon impudence, mum, that's what I think it is. Set
her up! to give us milk, and onions, and celery; and she would send
apples, only I dursn't put 'em on the table, being forbidden, and so I
tells Christopher.'
Esther was penetrated through and through with several feelings while
the housekeeper spoke; touched with the kindness manifested, but
terribly humbled that it should be needed, and that it should be
accepted. This must not go on; but, in the meantime, there was another
thing that needed mending.
'Have you been to see your new sister, Barker?'
'Me? That yellow-haired woman? No, mum; and have no desire.'
'It would be right to go, and to be very kind to her.'
'She's that independent, mum, she don't want no kindness. She's got her
man, and I wish her joy.'
'I am sure you may,' said Esther, half laughing. 'Christopher will
certainly make her a good husband. Hasn't he been a good brother?'
'Miss Esther,' said the housekeeper solemnly, 'the things is different.
It's my belief there ain't half a dozen men on the face o' the earth
that is fit to have wives, and one o' the half dozen I never see yet.
Christopher's a good brother, mum, as you say; as good as you'll find,
maybe,--I've nought against him as sich; but then, I ain't his wife,
and that makes all the differ. There's no tellin' what men don't expect
o' their wives, when once they've got 'em.'
'Expectations ought to be mutual, I should think,' said Esther, amused.
'But it would be the right thing for you to go and see Mrs. Bounder at
any rate, and to be very good to her; and you know, Barker, you always
like to do what is right.'
There was a sweet persuasiveness in the tone of the last words, which
at least silenced Mrs. Barker; and Esther went away to think what she
should say to her father. The time had come to speak in earnest, and
she must not let herself be silenced. Getting into debt on one hand,
and receiving charity on the other! Esther's pulses made a bound
whenever she thought of it. She must not put it _so_ to Colonel
Gainsborough. How should she put it? She knelt down and prayed for
wisdom, and then she went to the parlour. It was one Saturday afternoon
in the winter; school business in full course, and Esther's head and
hands very much taken up with her studies. The question of ways and
means had been crowded out of her very memory for weeks past; it came
with so much the sharper incisiveness now. She went in where her father
was reading, poked the fire, brushed up the hearth, finally faced the
business in hand.
'Papa, are you particularly busy? Might I interrupt you?'
'You _have_ interrupted me,' said the colonel, letting his hand with
the book sink to his side, and turning his face towards the speaker.
But he said it with a smile, and looked with pleased attention for what
was coming. His fair, graceful, dignified daughter was a constant
source of pride and satisfaction to him, though he gave little account
of the fact to himself, and made scarce any demonstration of it to her.
He saw that she was fair beyond most women, and that she had that
refined grace of carriage and manner which he valued as belonging to
the highest breeding. There was never anything careless about Esther's
appearance, or hasty about her movements, or anything that was not
sweet as balm in her words and looks. As she stood there now before
him, serious and purposeful, her head, which was set well back on her
shoulders, carried so daintily, and the beautiful eyes intent with
grave meaning amid their softness, Colonel Gainsborough's heart swelled
in his bosom, for the delight he had in her.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What do you want to say to me? All goes well
at school?'
'Oh yes, papa, as well as possible. It isn't that. But I am in a great
puzzle about things at home.'
'Ah! What things?'
'Papa, we want more money, or we need to make less expenditure. I must
consult you as to the which and the how.'
The colonel's face darkened. 'I see no necessity,' he answered.
'But I do, papa. I see it so clearly that I am forced to disturb you. I
am very sorry, but I must. I am sure the time has come for us to take
some decided measures. We cannot go on as we are going now.'
'I should like to ask, why not?'
'Because, papa--because the outlay and the income do not meet.'
'It seems to me that is rather my affair,' said the colonel coolly.
'Yes, papa,' said Esther, with a certain eagerness, 'I like it to be
your affair--only tell me what I ought to do.'
'Tell you what you ought to do about what?'
'How to pay as we go, papa,' she answered in a lower tone.
'It is very simple,' the colonel said, with some impatience. 'Let your
expenses be regulated by your means. In other words, do not get
anything you have not the money for.'
'I should like to follow that rule, papa; but'--
'Then follow it,' said the colonel, going back to his book, as if the
subject were dismissed.
'But, papa, there are some things one _must_ have.'
'Very well. Get those things. That is precisely what I mean.'
'Papa, flour is one of them.'
'Yes. Very well. What then?'
'Our last barrel of flour is not paid for.'
'Not paid for! Why not?'
'Barker could not, papa.'
'Barker should not have got it, then. I allow no debts.'
'But, papa, we must have bread, you know. That is one of the things
that one cannot do with out. What should she do?' Esther said gently.
'She could go to the baker's, I suppose, and get a loaf for the time.'
'But, papa, the bread costs twice as much that way; or one third more,
if not twice as much. I do not know the exact proportion; but I know it
is very greatly more expensive so.'
The colonel was well enough acquainted with details of the commissary
department to know it also. He was for a moment silenced.
'And, papa, Buonaparte, too, must eat; and his oats and hay are not
paid for.' It went sharp to Esther's heart to say the words, for she
knew how keenly they would go to her father's heart; but she was
standing in the breach, and must fight her fight. The colonel flew out
in hot displeasure; sometimes, as we all know, the readiest disguise of
pain.
'Who dared to get hay and oats in my name and leave it unpaid for?'
'Christopher had not the money, papa; and the horse must eat.'
'Not without my order!' said the colonel. 'I will send Christopher
about his own business. He should have come to me.'
There was a little pause here. The whole discussion was exceedingly
painful to Esther; yet it must be gone through, and it must be brought
to some practical conclusion. While she hesitated, the colonel began
again.
'Did you not tell me that the fellow had some ridiculous foolery with
the market woman over here?'
'I did not put it just so, papa, I think,' said Esther, smiling in
spite of her pain. 'Yes, he is married to her.'
'Married!' cried the colonel. '_Married_, do you say? Has he had the
impudence to do that?'
'Why not, sir? Why not Christopher as well as another man?'
'Because he is my servant, and had no permission from me to get married
while he was in my service. He did not _ask_ permission.'
'I suppose he dared not, papa. You know you are rather terrible when
you are displeased. But I think it is a good thing for us that he is
married. Mrs. Blumenfeld is a good woman, and Christopher is disposed
of, whatever we do.'
'Disposed of!' said the colonel. 'Yes! I have done with him. I want no
more of him.'
'Then, papa,' said Esther, sinking down on her knees beside her father,
and affectionately laying one hand on his knee, 'don't you see this
makes things easy for us? I have a proposition. Will you listen to it?'
'A proposition! Say on.'
'It is evident that we must take some step to bring our receipts and
expenses into harmony. Your going without fruit and fish will not do
it, papa; and I do not like that way of saving, besides. I had rather
make one large change--cut off one or two large things--than a
multitude of small ones. It is easier, and pleasanter. Now, so long as
we live in this house we are obliged to keep a horse; and so long as we
have a horse we must have Christopher, or some other man; and so long
as we keep a horse and a man we _must_ make this large outlay, that we
cannot afford. Papa, I propose we move into the city.'
'Move! Where?' asked the colonel, with a very unedified expression.
'We could find a house in the city somewhere, papa, from which I could
walk to Miss Fairbairn's. That could not be difficult.'
'Who is to find the house?'
'Could not you, papa? Buonaparte would take you all over; the driving
would not do you any harm.'
'I have no idea where to begin,' said the colonel, rubbing his head in
uneasy perplexity.
'I will find out that, papa. I will speak to Miss Fairbairn; she is a
great woman of business. She will tell me.'
The colonel still rubbed his head thoughtfully. Esther kept her
position, in readiness for some new objection. The next words, however,
surprised her.
'I have sometimes thought,'--the colonel's fingers were all the while
going through and through his hair; the action indicating, as such
actions do, the mental movement and condition, 'I have sometimes
thought lately that perhaps I was doing you a wrong in keeping you
here.'
'_Here_, papa?--in New York?'
'No. In America.'
'In America! Why, sir?'
'Your family, my family, are all on the other side. You would have
friends if you were there,--you would have opportunities,--you would
not be alone. And in case I am called away, you would be in good hands.
I do not know that I have the right to keep you here.'
'Papa, I like to be where you like to be. Do not think of that. Why did
we come away from England in the first place?'
The colonel was silent, with a gloomy brow.
'It was nothing better than a family quarrel,' he said.
'About what? Do you mind telling me, papa?'
'No, child; you ought to know. It was a quarrel on the subject of
religion.'
'How, sir?'
'Our family have been Independents from all time. But my father married
a second wife, belonging to the Church of England. She won him over to
her way of thinking. I was the only child of the first marriage; and
when I came home from India I found a houseful of younger brothers and
sisters, all belonging, of course, to the Establishment, and my father
with them. I was a kind of outlaw. The advancement of the family was
thought to depend very much on the stand I would take, as after my
father's death I would be the head of the family. At least my
stepmother made that a handle for her schemes; and she drove them so
successfully that at last my father declared he would disinherit me if
I refused to join him.'
'In being a Church of England man?'
'Yes.'
'But, papa, that was very unjust!'
'So I thought. But the injustice was done.'
'And you disinherited?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, papa! Just because you followed your own conscience!'
'Just because I held to the traditions of the family. We had _always_
been Independents--fought with Cromwell and suffered under the Stuarts.
I was not going to turn my back on a glorious record like that for any
possible advantages of place and favour.'
'What advantages, papa? I do not understand. You spoke of that before.'
'Yes,' said the colonel a little bitterly, 'in that particular my
stepmother was right. You little know the social disabilities under
which those lie in England who do not belong to the Established Church.
For policy, nobody should be a Dissenter.'
'Dissenter?' echoed Esther, the word awaking a long train of old
associations; and for a moment her thoughts wandered back to them.
'Yes,' the colonel went on; 'my father bade me follow him; but with
more than equal right I called on him to follow a long line of
ancestors. Rather hundreds than one!'
'Papa, in such a matter surely conscience is the only thing to follow,'
said Esther softly. 'You do not think a man ought to be either
Independent or Church of England, just because his fathers have set him
the example?'
'You do not think example and inheritance are anything?' said the
colonel.
'I think they are everything, for the right;--most precious!--but they
cannot decide the right. _That_ a man must do for himself, must he not?'
'Republican doctrine!' said the colonel bitterly. 'I suppose, after I
am gone, you will become a Church of England woman, just to prove to
yourself and others that you are not influenced by me!'
'Papa,' said Esther, half laughing, 'I do not think that is at all
likely; and I am sure you do not. And so that was the reason you came
away?'
'I could not stay there,' said the colonel, 'and see my young brother
in my place, and his mother ruling where your mother should by right
have ruled. They did not love me either,--why should they?--and I felt
more a stranger there than anywhere else. So I took the little property
that came to me from my mother, to which my father in his will had made
a small addition, and left England and home for ever.'
There was a pause of some length.
'Who is left there now, of the family?' Esther asked.
'I have not heard.'
'Do they never write to you?'
'Never.'
'Nor you to them, papa?'
'No. Since I came away there has been no intercourse whatever between
our families.'
'Oh, papa!'
'I am inclined to regret it now, for your sake.'
'I am not thinking of that. But, papa, it must be sixteen or seventeen
years now; isn't it?'
'Something like so much.'
'Oh, papa, do write to them! do write to them, and make it up. Do not
let the quarrel last any longer.'
'Write to them and make it up?' said the colonel, rubbing his head
again. In all his life Esther had hardly ever seen him do it before.
'They have forgotten me long ago; and I suppose they are all grown out
of my remembrance. But it might be better for you if we went home.'
'Never mind that, papa; that is not what I am thinking of. Why, who
could be better off than I am? But write and make it all up, papa; do!
It isn't good for families to live so in hostility. Do what you can to
make it up.'
The colonel sat silent, rubbing the hair of his head in every possible
direction, while Esther's fancy for a while busied itself with images
of an unknown crowd of relations that seemed to flit before her. How
strange it would be to have aunts and cousins; young and old family
friends, such as other girls had; instead of being so entirely set
apart by herself, as it were. It was fascinating, the mere idea. Not
that Esther felt her loneliness now; she was busy and healthy and
happy; yet this sudden vision made her realise that she _was_ alone.
How strange and how pleasant it would be to have a crowd of friends, of
one's own blood and name! She mused a little while over this picture,
and then came back to the practical present.
'Meanwhile, papa, what do you think of my plan? About getting a house
in the city, and giving up Buonaparte and his oats? Don't you think it
would be comfortable?'
The colonel considered the subject now in a quieter mood, discussed it
a little further, and finally agreed to drive into town and see what he
could find in the way of a house.