A Red Wallflower Part 60

'My dear, you did it for the best, I do not doubt,' her father added presently. 'I only regret that I was not consulted before an irrevocable step was taken.'

Esther could find nothing to answer.

'It is quite true that a man remains himself, whatever he does that is not morally wrong; it is true that our real dignity is not changed; nevertheless, people pa.s.s in the world not for what they are, but for what they seem to be.'

'Oh, papa, do you think that!' Esther cried. But the colonel went on, not heeding her.

'So, if you take to making shoes, it will be supposed that you are no better than a cobbler; and if you choose your abode among washerwomen, you will be credited with tastes and a.s.sociations that fit you for your surroundings. Have we _that_ sort of a neighbourhood?' he asked suddenly.

'I do not know, papa,' Esther said meekly. The colonel fairly groaned again. It was getting to be more than she could stand.

'Papa,' she said gently, 'we have done the best we knew,--at least I have; and the necessity is not one of our own making. Let us take what the Lord gives. I think He has given us a great deal. And I would rather, for my part, that people thought anything of us, rather than that we should miss our own good opinion. I do not know just what the inhabitants are, round about here; but the street is at least clean and decent, and within our own walls we need not think about it. Inside it is _very_ comfortable, papa.'

The colonel was silent now, not, however, seeming to see the comfort.

There was a little interval, during which Esther struggled for calmness and a clear voice. When she spoke, her voice was very clear.

'Barker has tea ready, papa, I see. I hope that will be as good as ever, and better, for we have got something you like. Shall we go in?

It is in the other room.'

'Why is it not here, as usual, in my room? I do not see any reason for the change.'

'It saves the mess of crumbs on the floor in this room. And then it saves Barker a good deal of trouble to have the table there.'

'Why should Barker be saved trouble here more than where we have come from? I do not understand.'

'We had Christopher there, papa. Here Barker has no one to help her--except what I can do.'

'It must be the same thing, to have tea in one room or in another, I should think.'

Esther could have represented that the other room was just at the head of the kitchen stairs, while to serve the tea on the colonel's table would cost a good many more steps. But she had no heart for any further representations. With her own hands, and with her own feet, which were by this time wearily tired, she patiently went back and forth between the two rooms, bringing plates and cups and knives and forks, and tea-tray, and bread and b.u.t.ter and honey and partridge, and salt and pepper, from the one table to the other, which, by the way, had first to be cleared of its own load of books and writing materials. Esther deposited these on the floor and on chairs, and arranged the table for tea, and pushed it into the position her father was accustomed to like.

The tea-kettle she left on its trivet before the grate in the other room; and now made journeys uncounted between that room and this, to take and fetch the tea-pot. Talk languished meanwhile, for the spirit of talk was gone from Esther, and the colonel, in spite of his discomfiture, developed a remarkably good appet.i.te. When he had done, Esther carried everything back again.

'Why do you do that? Where is Barker?' her father demanded at last.

'Barker has been exceedingly busy all day, putting down carpets and arranging her storeroom. I am sure she is tired.'

'I suppose you are tired too, are you not?'

'Yes, papa.'

He said no more, however, and Esther finished her work, and then sat down on a cushion at the corner of the fireplace, in one of those moods belonging to tired mind and body, in which one does not seem at the moment to care any longer about anything. The lively, blazing coal fire shone on a warm, cosy little room, and on two somewhat despondent figures. For his supper had not brightened the colonel up a bit. He sat brooding. Perhaps his thoughts took the road that Esther's had often followed lately, for he suddenly came out with a name now rarely spoken between them.

'It is a long while that we have heard nothing from the Dallases!'

'Yes,' Esther said apathetically.

'Mr. Dallas used to write to me now and then.'

'They are busy with their own concerns, and we are out of sight; why should they remember us?'

'They used to be good neighbours, in Seaforth.'

'Pitt. Papa, I do not think his father and mother were ever specially fond of us.'

'Pitt never writes to me now,' the colonel went on, after a pause.

'He is busy with _his_ concerns. He has forgotten us too. I suppose he has plenty of other things to think of. Oh, I have given up Pitt long ago.'

The colonel brooded over his thoughts a while, then raised his head and looked again over the small room.

'My dear, it would have been better to stay where we were,' he said regretfully.

Esther could not bear to pain him by again reminding him that their means would not allow it; and as her father lay back upon the sofa and closed his eyes, she went away into the other room and sat down at the corner of that fire, where the part.i.tion wall screened her from view.

For she wanted to let her head drop on her knees and be still; and a few tears that she could not help came hot to her eyes. She had worked so hard to get everything in nice order for her father; she had so hoped to see him pleased and contented; and now he was so illogically discontented! Truly he could tell her nothing she did not already know about the disadvantages of their new position; and they all rushed upon Esther's mind at this minute with renewed force. The pleasant country and the shining river were gone; she would no longer see the lights on the Jersey sh.o.r.e when she got up in the morning; the air would not come sweet and fresh to her windows; there would be no singing of birds or fragrance of flowers around her, even in summer; she would have only the streets and the street cries and noises, and dust, and unsweet breath. The house would do inside; but outside, what a change! And though Esther was not very old in the world, nor very worldly-wise for her years, she knew--if not as well as her father, yet she knew--that in Major Street she was pretty nearly cut off from all social intercourse with her kind. Her school experience and observation had taught her so much. She knew that her occupation as a teacher in a school was enough of itself to put her out of the way of invitations, and that an abode in Major Street pretty well finished the matter.

Esther had not been a favourite among her school companions in the best of times; she was of too uncommon a beauty, perhaps; perhaps she was too different from them in other respects. Pleasant as she always was, she was nevertheless separate from her fellows by a great separation of nature; and that is a thing not only felt on both sides, but never forgiven by the inferiors. Miss Gainsborough, daughter of a rich and influential retired officer, would, however, have been sought eagerly and welcomed universally; Miss Gainsborough, the school teacher, daughter of an unknown somebody who lived in Major Street, was another matter; hardly a desirable acquaintance. For what should she be desired?

Esther had not been without a certain dim perception of all this; and it came to her with special disagreeableness just then, when every thought came that could make her dissatisfied with herself and with her lot. Why had her father ever come away from England, where friends and relations could not have failed? Why had he left Seaforth, where at least they were living like themselves, and where they would not have dropped out of the knowledge of Pitt Dallas? The feeling of loneliness crept again over Esther, and a feeling of having to fight her way as it were single-handed. Was this little house, and Major Street, henceforth to be the scene and sphere of her life and labours? How could she ever work up out of it into anything better?

Esther was tired, and felt blue, which was the reason why all these thoughts and others chased through her mind; and more than one tear rolled down and dropped on her stuff gown. Then she gathered herself up. How had she come to Major Street and to school teaching? Not by her own will or fault. Therefore it was part of the training a.s.signed for her by a wisdom that is perfect, and a love that never forgets. And Esther began to be ashamed of herself. What did she mean by saying, 'The Lord is my Shepherd,' if she could not trust Him to take care of His sheep? And now, how had she been helped out of her difficulties, enabled to pay her debts, brought to a home where she could live and be clear of the world; yes, and live pleasantly too? And as for being alone-- Esther rose with a smile. 'Can I not trust the Lord for that too?' she thought. 'If it is His will I should be alone, then that is the very best thing for me; and perhaps He will come nearer than if I had other distractions to take my eyes in another direction.'

Barker came in to remove the tea-things, and Esther met her with a smile, the brightness of which much cheered the good woman.

'Was the pheasant good, mum?' she asked in a whisper.

'Capital, Barker, and the honey. And papa made a very good supper. And I am so thankful, Barker! for the house is very nice, and we are moved.'

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

_BETTY_.

It was summer again, and on the broad gra.s.sy street of Seaforth the sunshine poured in its full power. The place lay silent under the heat of mid-day; not a breath stirred the leaves of the big elms, and no pa.s.sing wheels stirred the dust of the roadway, which was ready to rise at any provocation. It was very dry, and very hot. Yet at Seaforth those two facts, though proclaimed from everybody's mouth, must be understood with a qualification. The heat and the dryness were not as elsewhere. So near the sea as the town was, a continual freshness came from thence in vapours and cool airs, and mitigated what in other places was found oppressive. However, the Seaforth people said it was oppressive too; and things are so relative in the affairs of life that I do not know if they were more contented than their neighbours. But everybody said the heat was fine for the hay; and as most of the inhabitants had more or less of that crop to get in, they criticised the weather only at times when they were thinking of it in some other connection.

At Mrs. Dallas's there was no criticism of anything. In the large comfortable rooms, where windows were all open, and blinds tempering the too ardent light, and cool mats on the floors, and chintz furniture looked light and summery, there was an atmosphere of pure enjoyment and expectation, for Pitt was coming home again, and his mother was looking for him with every day. She was sitting now awaiting him; no one could tell at what hour he might arrive; and his mother's face was beautiful with hope. She was her old self; not changed at all by the four or five years of Pitt's absence; as handsome and as young and as stately as ever. She made no demonstration now; did not worry either herself or others with questions and speculations and hopes and fears respecting her son's coming; yet you could see on her fine face, if you were clever at reading faces, the lines of pride and joy, and now and then a quiver of tenderness. It was seen by one who was sitting with her, whose interest and curiosity it involuntarily moved.

This second person was a younger lady. Indeed a _young_ lady, not by comparison, but absolutely. A very attractive person too. She had an exceedingly good figure, which the trying dress of those times showed in its full beauty. Woe to the lady then whose shoulders were not straight, or the lines of her figure not flowing, or the proportions of it not satisfactory. Every ungracefulness must have shown its full deformity, with no possibility of disguise; every angle must have been aggravated, and every untoward movement made doubly fatal. But the dress only set off and developed the beauty that could bear it. And the lady sitting with Mrs. Dallas neither feared nor had need to fear criticism. Something of that fact appeared in her graceful posture and in the brow of habitual superiority, and in the look of the eyes that were now and then lifted from her work to her companion. The eyes were beautiful, and they were also queenly; at least their calm fearlessness was not due to absence of self-consciousness. She was a pretty picture to see. The low-cut dress and fearfully short waist revealed a white skin and a finely-moulded bust and shoulders. The very scant and clinging robe was of fine white muslin, with a narrow dainty border of embroidery at the bottom; and a scarf of the same was thrown round her shoulders. The round white arms were bare, the little tufty white sleeves making a pretty break between them and the soft shoulders; and the little hands were busy with a strip of embroidery, which looked as if it might be destined for the ornamentation of another similar dress.

The lady's face was delicate, intelligent, and attractive, rather than beautiful; her eyes, however, as I said, were fine; and over her head and upon her neck curled ringlets of black, l.u.s.trous hair.

'You think he will be here to-day?' she said, breaking the familiar silence that had reigned for a while. She had caught one of Mrs.

Dallas's glances towards the window.

'He may be here any day. It is impossible to tell. He would come before his letter.'

'You are very fond of him, I can see. What made you send him away from you? England is so far off!'