A Red Wallflower Part 92

She came down soon after his departure to prepare the tea. The lamp was lit, the little fire kindled for the kettle, the table brought up to the colonel's couch, which, as in old time, he liked to have so; and Esther made his toast and served him with his cups of tea, in just the old fashion. But the way her father looked at her was _not_ just in the old fashion. He noticed how tall she had grown,--it was no longer the little Esther of Seaforth times. He noticed the lovely lines of her supple figure, as she knelt before the fire with the toasting-fork, and raised her other hand to shield her face from the blaze. His eye lingered on her rich hair in its abundant coils; on the delicate hands; but though it went often to the face it as often glanced away and did not dwell there. Yet it could not but come back again; and the colonel's own face took a grim set as he looked. Oddly enough, he said never a word of the event of the afternoon.

'You had somebody here, papa, a little while ago, Barker says?'

'Yes.'

'Who was it?'

'Called himself a gentleman on business.'

'What business, papa? It is not often that business comes here. It wasn't anything about taxes?'

'No.'

'I've got all _that_ ready,' said Esther contentedly, 'so he may come when he likes,--the tax man, I mean. What business was this then, papa?'

'It was something about an old account, my dear, that he wanted to set right. There had been a mistake, it seems.'

'Anything to pay?' inquired Esther with a little anxiety.

'No. It's all right; or so he says.'

Esther thought it was somewhat odd, but, however, was willing to let the subject of a settled account go; and she had almost forgotten it, when her father broached a very different subject.

'Would you like to go to live in Seaforth again, Esther?'

'Seaforth, papa?' she repeated, much wondering at the question. 'No, I think not. I loved Seaforth once--dearly!--but we had friends there then; or we thought we had. I do not think it would be pleasant to be there now.'

'Then what do you think of our going back to England? You do not like _this_ way of life, I suppose, in this pitiful place? I have kept you here too long!'

What had stirred the colonel up to so much speculation? Esther hesitated.

'Papa, I know our friends there seem very eager to have us; and so far it would be good; but--if we went back, have we enough to live upon and be independent?'

'No.'

'Then I would rather be here. We are doing very nicely, papa; you are comfortable, are you not? I am very well placed, and earning money--enough money. Really we are not poor any longer. And it is so nice to be independent!'

'Not poor!' said the colonel, between a groan and a growl. 'What do you call poor? For you and for me to be in this doleful street is to be all that, I should say.'

'Papa,' said Esther, her lips wreathing into a smile, 'I think n.o.body is poor who can live and pay his debts. And we have no debts at all.'

'By dint of hard work on your part, and deprivation on mine!'

'Papa,' said Esther, the smile fading away,--what did he mean by deprivation?--'I thought--I hoped you were comfortable?'

'Comfortable!' groaned and growled the colonel again. 'I believe, Esther, you have forgotten what comfort means. Or rather, you never knew. For _us_ to be in a prison like this, and shut out from the world!'

'Papa, I never thought you cared for the world. And this does not feel like a prison to me. I have been very happy here, and free, and oh, so thankful! If you remember how we were before, papa.'

'All the same,' said the colonel, 'it is not fitting that those who are meant for the world should live out of it. I wish I had taken you home years ago. You see n.o.body. You have seen n.o.body all your life but one family; and I wish you had never seen them!'

'The Dallases? Oh, why, papa?'

'You do not care for them, I suppose, _now?_'

'I do not care for them at all, papa. I did care for one of them very much, once; but I have given him up long ago. When I found he had forgotten us, it was not worth while for me to remember. That is all dead. His father and mother,--I doubt if ever they were real friends, to you or to me, papa.'

'I am inclined to think William was not so much to blame. It was his father's fault, perhaps.'

'It does not make much difference,' said Esther easily. 'If anything could make him forsake us--after the old times--he is not worth thinking about; and I do not think of him. That is an ended thing.'

There was a little something in the tone of the last words which allowed the hearer to divine that the closing of that chapter had not been without pain, and that the pain had perhaps scarcely died out. But he did not pursue the subject, nor say any more about anything. He only watched his daughter, uninterruptedly, though stealthily. Watched every line of her figure; glanced at the sweet, fair face; followed every quiet graceful movement. Esther was studying, and part of the time she was drawing, absorbed in her work; yet throughout, what most struck her father was the high happiness that sat on her whole person. It was in the supreme calm of her brow; it was in a half-appearing smile, which hardly broke, and yet informed the soft lips with a constant sweetness; it seemed to the colonel to appear in her very positions and movements, and probably it was true, for the lines of peace are not seen in an uneasy figure, nor do the movements of grace come from a restless spirit. The colonel's own brow should have unbent at the sweet sight, but it did not. He drew his brows lower and lower over his watching eyes, and now and then set his teeth, in a grim kind of way for which there seemed no sort of provocation. 'The heart knoweth his own bitterness;' no doubt Colonel Gainsborough's tasted its own particular draught that night, which he shared with n.o.body.

CHAPTER XLVII.

_A TALK_.

The next day began for Esther quite in its wonted wise, and it will be no harm to see how that was. She was up very early, a long while before the sun; and after a somewhat careful dressing, for it was not in Esther's nature to do anything imperfectly, she went down-stairs, to her father's little study or dwelling room. It was free for her use at this time of day; the colonel took a late breakfast, and was never up long before it. This had grown to be his invalid habit; in the early days of his life and of military service, no doubt it had been different. The room was empty and still at this hour; even Mrs. Barker was not yet astir, and a delightful sense of privacy and security encompa.s.sed the temporary occupant. The weather was still warm; no fire would be needed till it was time for the colonel's toast. Moving like a mouse, or better, like a gentle domestic spirit, Esther lit a lamp, opened a window to let the morning air in, and sat down to her book.

Do you think it was philosophy, or science, or languages, or school work? Nay, it was something which with Esther went before all these, and if need were would have excluded all of them. She had time for them too, as things were, but this must come first. She must 'draw water from the wells of salvation,' before she felt freshened up for the rather weary encounters and dry routine of school life; she must feel the Rock under her feet, and breathe the air of heaven a bit before she ventured forth into the low-lying grounds and heavy vapours of earthly business and intercourse; and she must have her armour well on, and bright, before she dared to meet the possible dangers and temptations which might come to her in the course of the day. It is true, this day was a free day, but that made no difference. Being at home had its trials and difficulties as well as being abroad.

But drawing from those wells, and breathing that air, Esther thought nothing of trials or difficulties; and, in matter of fact, for her they hardly seemed to exist, or were perceived, as it were, dimly, and their contact scarce felt. I suppose it is true in all warfares, that a well-armed and alert soldier is let alone by the foes that would have swallowed him up if he had been defenceless or not giving heed. And if you could have seen Esther's face during that hour, you would understand that all possible enemies were, at least for the time, as hushed as the lions in Daniel's den; so glad, so grave, so pure and steadfast, so enjoying, was the expression which lay upon it. Reading and praying--praying and reading--an hour good went by. Then Esther rose up, ready for the work of the day.

She threw open all the windows and put out her lamp. Then she gave both the rooms a careful cleaning and dusting and putting in order; set the table in the one for breakfast, and laid the fire in the other, to be lit whenever her father might desire it. All this done and in readiness, she sat down again to study. This time it was study of a lower grade; partly preparation for school work, partly reading for her own advancement, though there was not much time for this latter. It was long past eight, and Mrs. Barker came with the chafing-dish of red coals and the tea-kettle. She stood by while Esther made the tea, looking on or meditating; and then began to blow the coals in the chafing-dish. She blew the coals and looked at Esther.

'Miss Esther,' she began, 'did master say anything about the visitor that came to see him yesterday?'

'Not much. Why? He said it was somebody on business.'

'Well, mum, he didn't look like that sort o' pusson at all.'

'Why not? Any sort of person might come on business, you know.'

'True, mum, but this wasn't that sort o' pusson. If Christopher had opened the door for him, he'd ha' knowed; but my eyes is that poor, when I'm lookin' out into the light, I can't seem to see nothin' that's nearer me. But howsomever, mum, what I did see of him, somehow, it put me in mind of Seaforth.'

'Seaforth! Why? Who did you think it was?'

'I am sure, mum, I don't know. I couldn't see good, with the light behind him, and he standin' in the doorway. And I can't say how it was, but what he made me think of, it was Seaforth, mum.'

'I am afraid you have been thinking of Seaforth, Barker,' said Esther, with half a sigh. 'It could not have been anybody we used to know. Papa went there, you know, last summer, to see old friends, or to see what had become of them; and Mr. and Mrs. Dallas were gone to England, to their son, and with them the young lady he is to marry. I daresay he may be married by this time, or just going to be married. He has quite forgotten us, you may be sure. I do not expect ever to see him again.

Was this man yesterday young or old?'

'Young, mum, and tall and straight, and very personable. I'd like to see his face!--but it may be as you say.'

Perhaps Esther would have put some further question to her father at breakfast about his yesterday's visit, but as it happened she had other things to think of. The colonel was in a querulous mood; not altogether uncommon in these days, but always very trying to Esther. When he seemed contented and easy, she felt repaid for all labours or deprivations; but when that state of things failed, and he made himself uncomfortable about his surroundings, there would come a miserable _cui bono_ feeling. If _he_ were not satisfied, then what did she work for?