A Red Wallflower

Esther was very glad; she knew she ought to be very glad, and she was; and yet, gladness was not precisely the uppermost feeling that possessed her. She did not know what in the world could make her think of tears at that moment; but there was a strange sensation as if, had she been alone, she would have liked to cry. No shadow of such a softness appeared, however.

'What decided you at last?' she said softly.

'I can scarce tell you,' he answered. 'I was busy studying the matter, arguing for and against; and then I saw of a sudden that I was lighting a lost battle; that my sense and reason and conscience were all gained over, and only my will held out. Then I gave up fighting any more.'

'You came up to the subject on a different side from what I did,'

Esther remarked.

'And you, Esther? have you been always as happy as you were when you wrote that letter?'

'Yes,' she said quietly. 'More happy.' But she did not look up.

'The happiness in your letter was the sunbeam that cleared up everything for me. Now I have talked enough; tell me of yourself and your father.'

'There is not much to tell,' said Esther, with that odd quietness. She felt somehow oppressed. 'We are living in the old fashion; have been living so all along.'

'But – Quite in the old fashion?' he said, with a swift glance at the little room where they were sitting. 'It does not look so, Esther.'

'This is not so pleasant a place as we were in when we first came to

New York,' Esther confessed. 'That was very pleasant.'

'Why did you change?'

'It was necessary,' she said, with a smile. 'You may as well know it; papa lost money.'

'How?'

'He invested the money from the sale of the place at Seaforth in some stocks that gave out somehow. He lost it all. So then we had nothing but the stipend from England; and I think papa somehow lost part of that, or was obliged to take part of it to meet obligations.'

'And you?'

'We did very well,' said Esther, with another smile. 'We are doing very well now. We are out of debt, and that is everything. And I think papa is pretty comfortable.'

'And Esther?'

'Esther is happy.'

'But – I should think – forgive me! – that this bit of a house would hardly hold you.'

'See how mistaken you are! We have two rooms unused.'

Pitt's eye roved somewhat restlessly over the one in which they were, as he remarked, —

'I never comprehended just why you went away from Seaforth.'

'For my education, I believe.'

'You were getting a very good education when I was there!'

'When you were there,' repeated Esther, smiling; but then she went on quickly: 'Papa thought he could not give me all the advantages he wished, if we stayed in Seaforth. So we came to New York. And now, you see, I am able to provide for him. The education is turning to account.'

'How?' asked Pitt suddenly.

'I help out his small income by giving lessons.'

'You, giving lessons? Not that, Esther!'

'Why not?' she said quietly. 'The thing given one to do is the thing to do, you know; and this certainly was given me. And by means of that we get along nicely.'

Again Pitt's eye glanced over the scanty little apartment. What sort of 'getting along' was it which kept them here?

'What do you teach?' he asked, speaking out of a confusion of thoughts the one thing that occurred which it was safe to say.

'Drawing, and music, and some English branches.'

'Do you like it?'

She hesitated. 'I am very thankful to have it to do. I do not fancy that teaching for money is just the same as teaching for pleasure. But I am very glad to be able to do it. Before that, there was a time when I did not know just what was going to become of us. Now I am very happy.'

Pitt could not at the moment speak all his thoughts. Moreover, there was something about Esther that perplexed him. She was so unmovedly quiet in her manner. It was kind, no doubt, and pleasant, and pleased; and yet, there was a smooth distance between him and her that troubled him. He did not know how to get rid of it. It was so smooth, there was nothing to take hold of; while it was so distant, or put her rather at such a distance, that all Pitt's newly aroused feelings were stimulated to the utmost, both by the charm and by the difficulty. How exquisite was this soft dignity and calm! but to the man who was longing to be permitted to clasp his arms round her it was somewhat aggravating.

'What has become of Christopher?' he asked after a pause.

'Oh, Christopher is happy!' said Esther, with a smile that was only too frank and free. Pitt wished she would have shown a little embarrassment or consciousness. 'Christopher is happy. He has become a householder and a market-gardener, and, above all, a married man. Married a market-gardener's widow, and set up for himself.'

'What do you do without him?'

'Oh, we could not afford him now,' said Esther, with another smile. 'It was very good for us, almost as good for us as for him. Christopher has become a man of substance. We hire this house of him, or rather of his wife.'

'Are the two not one, then?'

Esther laughed. 'Yes,' she said; 'but you know, which one it is depends on circumstances.'

And she went on to tell about her first meeting with the present Mrs. Bounder, and of all the subsequent intercourse and long chain of kindnesses, to which Pitt listened eagerly though with a some what distracted mind. At the end of her story Esther rose.

CHAPTER XLVIII

A SETTLEMENT

'Will you excuse me, if I leave you for one moment to go down into the kitchen?'

'What for,' said Pitt, stopping her.

'I want to see if Mrs. Barker has anything in the house for lunch.'

'Sit down again. She certainly will. She always does.'

'But I want to let her know that there will be one more at table to-day.'

'Never mind. If the supplies fall short, I will go out and get some oysters. I know the colonel likes oysters. Sit still, and let us talk while we can.'

Esther sat down, a little wondering, for Pitt was evidently in earnest; too much in earnest to be denied. But when she had sat down he did not begin to talk. He was thinking; and words were not ready. It was Esther who spoke first.

'And you, Pitt? what are you going to do?'

It was the first time she had called him by his name in the old fashion. He acknowledged it with a pleased glance.

'Don't you know all about me?' he said.

'I know nothing, but what you have told me. And hearsay,' added Esther, colouring a little.

'Did your father not tell you?'

'Papa told me nothing.' And therewith it occurred to Esther how odd it was that her father should have been so reticent; that he should not have so much as informed her who his visitor had been. And then it also occurred to her how he had desired not to be called down to see anybody that morning. Then it must be that he did not want to see Pitt? Had he taken a dislike to him? disapproved of his marriage, perhaps? And how would luncheon be under these circumstances? One thought succeeded another in growing confusion, but then Pitt began to talk, and she was obliged to attend to him.

'Then your father did not tell you that I have become a householder too?'

'I – no – yes! I heard something said about it,' Esther answered, stammering.

'He told you of my old uncle's death and gift to me?'

'No, nothing of that. What is it?'

Then Pitt began and gave her the whole story: of his life with his uncle, of Mr. Strahan's excellences and peculiarities, of his favour, his illness and death, and the property he had bequeathed intact to his grand-nephew. He described the house at Kensington, finding a singular pleasure in talking about it; for, as his imagination recalled the old chambers and halls, it constantly brought into them the sweet figure of the girl he was speaking to, and there was a play of light often, or a warm glow, or a sudden sparkle in his eyes, which Esther could not help noticing. Woman-like, she was acute enough also to interpret it rightly; only, to be sure, she never put herself in the place of the person concerned, but gave all that secret homage to another. 'It is like Pitt!' she thought, with a suppressed sigh which she could not stop to criticize, – 'it is like him; as much in earnest in love as in other things; always in earnest! It must be something to be loved so.' However, carrying on such aside reflections, she kept all the while her calm, sweet, dignified manner, which was bewitching Pitt, and entered with generous interest into all he told her; supplying in her own way what he did not tell, and on her part also peopling the halls and chambers at Kensington with two figures, neither of which was her own. Her imagination flew back to the party, a year ago, at which she had seen Betty Frere, and mixed up things recklessly. How would she fit into this new life of Pitt, of which he had been speaking a little while ago? Had she changed too, perhaps? It was to be hoped!

Pitt ended what he had to say about his uncle and his house, and there was a little pause. Esther half wondered that he did not get up and go away; but there was no sign of that. Pitt sat quietly, thoughtfully, also contentedly, before her, at least so far as appeared; of all his thoughts, not one of them concerned going away. It had begun to be a mixed pleasure to Esther, his being there; for she thought now that he was married he would be taken up with his own home interests, and the friend of other days, if still living, would be entirely lost. And so every look and expression of his which testified to a fine and sweet and strong character, which proved him greatly ennobled and beautified beyond what she had remembered him; and all his words, which showed the gentleman, the man of education and the man of ability; while they greatly delighted Esther, they began oddly to make her feel alone and poor. Still, she would use her opportunity, and make the most of this interview.

'And what are you going to be, Pitt?' she asked, when both of them had been quite still for a few minutes. He turned his face quick towards her with a look of question.

'Now you are a man of property,' said Esther, 'what do you think to do?

You were going to read law.'

'I have been reading law for two or three years.'

'And are you going to give it up?'

'Why should I give it up?'

'The question seems rather, why should you go on with it?'

'Put it so,' he said. 'Ask the question. Why should I go on with it?'

'I have asked the question,' said Esther, laughing. 'You seem to come to me for the answer.'

'I do. What is the answer? Give it, please. Is there any reason why a man who has money enough to live upon should go to the bar?'

'I can think of but one,' said Esther, grave and wondering now.

'Perhaps there is one reason.'

'And that?' said Pitt, without looking at her.

'I can think of but one,' Esther repeated. 'It is not a man's business view, I know, but it is mine. I can think of no reason why, for itself, a man should plunge himself into the strifes and confusions of the law, supposing that he need not, except for the one sake of righting the wrong and delivering the oppressed.'

'That is my view,' said Pitt quietly.

'And is that what you are going to do?' she said with smothered eagerness, and as well a smothered pang.

'I do not propose to be a lawyer merely,' he said, in the same quiet way, not looking at her. 'But I thought it would give me an advantage in the great business of righting the wrong and getting the oppressed go free. So I propose to finish my terms and be called to the bar.'

'Then you will live in England?' said Esther, with a most unaccountable feeling of depression at the thought.

'For the present, probably. Wherever I can do my work best.'

'Your work? That is – ?'

'Do you ask me?' said he, now looking at her with a very bright and sweet smile. The sweetness of it was so unlike the Pitt Dallas she used to know, that Esther was confounded. 'Do you ask me? What should be the work in life of one who was once a slave and is now Christ's freeman?'

Esther looked at him speechless.

'You remember,' he said, 'the Lord's word – "This is my commandment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you." And then He immediately gave the gauge and measure of that love, the greatest possible, – "that a man lay down his life for his friends."'

'And you mean – ?'

'Only that, Queen Esther. I reckon that my life is the Lord's, and that the only use of it is to do His work. I will study law for that, and practise as I may have occasion; and for that I will use all the means He may give me: so far as I can, to "break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free;" to "heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils," so far as I may. Surely it is the least I can do for my Master.'

Pitt spoke quietly, gravely, with the light of a settled purpose in his eye, and also with the peace of a fixed joy in his face. Indeed, his face said more than his words, to Esther who knew him and it; she read there the truth of what he said, and that it was no phantasy of passing enthusiasm, but a lifelong choice, grave and glad, of which he was telling her. With a sudden movement she stretched out her hand to him, which he eagerly clasped, and their hands lay so in each other for a minute, without other speech than that of the close-held fingers. Esther's other hand, however, had covered her eyes.

'What is the matter, Queen Esther?' said Pitt, seeing this.

'I am so glad – so glad! – and so sorry!' Esther took down her hand; she was not crying. 'Glad for you, – and sorry that there are so very few who feel as you do. Oh, how very strange it is!'

He still held her other hand.

'Yes,' he said thoughtfully, 'it is strange. What do you think of the old word in the Bible, that it is not good for man to be alone?'

'I suppose it is true,' said Esther, withdrawing her hand. 'Now,' she thought, 'he is going to tell me about his bride and his marriage.' And she rather wished she could be spared that special communication. At the same time, the wondering speculation seized her again, whether Betty Frere, as she had seen her, was likely to prove a good helpmeet for this man.

'You suppose it is true? There can be no doubt about that, I think, for the man. How is it for the woman?'

'I have never studied the question,' said Esther. 'By what people say, the man is the more independent of the two when he is young, and the woman when she is old.'

'Neither ought to be independent of the other!'

'They seldom are,' said Esther, feeling inclined to laugh, although not in the least merry. Pitt was silent a few minutes, evidently revolving something in his mind.

'You said you had two rooms unoccupied,' he began at last. 'I want to be some little time in New York yet; will you let me move into them?'

'You!' exclaimed Esther.

'Yes,' he said, looking at her steadfastly. 'You do not want them, – and

I do.'

'I do not believe they would suit you, Pitt,' said Esther, consumed with secret wonder.

'I am sure no other could suit me half so well!'

'What do you think your bride would say to them? you know that must be taken into consideration.'

'My bride? I beg your pardon! Did I hear you aright?'

'Yes!' said Esther, opening her eyes a little. 'Your bride – your wife.

Isn't she here?'

'Who is she?'

'Who was she, do you mean? Or are you perhaps not married yet?'

'Most certainly not married! But may I beg you to go on? You were going to tell me who the lady is supposed to be?'

'Oh, I know,' said Esther, smiling, yet perplexed. 'I believe I have seen her. And I admire her too, Pitt, very much. Though when I saw her I do not think she would have agreed with the views you have been expressing to me.'

'Where did you see her?'

'Last fall. Oh, a year ago, almost; time enough for minds to change. It was at a party here.'

'And you saw – whom?'

'Miss Frere. Isn't she the lady?'

'Miss Frere!' exclaimed Pitt; and his colour changed a little. 'May I ask how this story about me has come to your ears, and been believed? as I see you have accepted it.'

'Why very straight,' said Esther, her own colour flushing now brightly. 'It was not difficult to believe. It was very natural; at least to me, who have seen the lady.'

'Miss Frere and I are very good friends,' said Pitt; 'which state of things, however, might not long survive our proposing to be anything more. But we never did propose to be anything more. What made you think it?'

'Did papa tell you that he went up to Seaforth this summer?'

'He said nothing about it.'

'He did go, however. It was a very great thing for papa to do, too; for he goes nowhere, and it is very hard for him to move; but he went. It was in August. We had heard not a word from Seaforth for such a long, long time, – not for two or three years, I think, – and not a word from you; and papa had a mind to see what was the meaning of it all, and whether anybody was left in Seaforth or not. I thought everybody had forgotten us, and papa said he would go and see.'

'Yes,' said Pitt, as Esther paused.

'And, of course, you know, he found nobody. All our friends were gone, at least. And people told papa you had been home the year before, and had been in Seaforth a long while; and the lady was there too whom you were going to marry; and that this year they had all gone over to see you, that lady and all; and the wedding would probably be before Mr. and Mrs. Dallas came home. So papa came back and told me.'

'And you believed it! Of course.'

'How could I help believing it?' said Esther, smiling; but her eyes avoided Pitt now, and her colour went and came. 'It was a very straight story.'

'Yet not a bit of truth in it. Oh yes, they came over to see me; but I have never thought of marrying Miss Frere, nor any other lady; nor ever shall, unless – you have forgotten me, Esther?'

Esther sat so motionless that Pitt might have thought she had not heard him, but for the swift flashing colour which went and came. She had heard him well enough, and she knew what the words were meant to signify, for the tone of them was unmistakeable; but answer, in any way, Esther could not. She was a very fair image of maidenly modesty and womanly dignity, rather unmistakeable, too, in its way; but she spoke not, nor raised an eyelid.

'Have you forgotten me, Esther?' he repeated gently.

She did not answer then. She was moveless for another instant; and then, rising, with a swift motion she passed out of the room. But it was not the manner of dismissal or leave-taking, and Pitt waited for what was to come next. And in another moment or two she was there again, all covered with blushes, and her eyes cast down, down upon an old book which she held in her hand and presently held open. She was standing before him now, he having risen when she rose. From the very fair brow and rosy cheek and soft line of the lips, Pitt's eye at last went down to the book she held before him. There, on the somewhat large page, lay a dried flower. The petals were still velvety and rich coloured, and still from them came a faint sweet breath of perfume. What did it mean? Pitt looked, and then looked closer.

'It is a Cheiranthus,' he said; 'the red variety. What does it mean,

Esther? What does it say to my question?'

He looked at her eagerly; but if he did not know, Esther could not tell him. She was filled with confusion. What dreadful thing was this, that his memory should be not so good as hers! She could not speak; the lovely shamefaced flushes mounted up to the delicate temples and told their tale, but Pitt, though he read them, did not at once read the flower. Esther made a motion as if she would take it away, but he prevented her and looked closer.

'The red Cheiranthus,' he repeated. 'Did it come from Seaforth? I remember, old Macpherson used to have them in his greenhouse. Esther! – did I bring it to you?'

'Christmas' – stammered Esther. 'Don't you remember?'

'Christmas! Of course I do! It was in that bouquet? What became of the rest of it?'

'Papa made me burn all the rest,' said Esther, with her own cheeks now burning. And she would have turned away, leaving the book in his hands, with an action of as shy grace as ever Milton gave to his Eve; but Pitt got rid of the book and took herself in his arms instead.

And then for a few minutes there was no more conversation. They had reached a point of mutual understanding where words would have been superfluous.

But words came into their right again.

'Esther, do you remember my kissing you when I went away, six or seven years ago?'

'Certainly!'

'I think that kiss was in some sort a revelation to me. I did not fully recognise it then, what the revelation was; but I think, ever since I have been conscious, vaguely, that there was an invisible silken thread of some sort binding me to you; and that I should never be quite right till I followed the clue and found you again. The vagueness is gone, and has given place to the most daylight certainty.'

'I am glad of that,' said Esther demurely, though speaking with a little effort. 'You always liked certainties.'

'Did you miss me?'

'Pitt, more than I can possibly tell you! Not then only, but all the time since. Only one thing has kept me from being very downhearted sometimes, when time passed, and we heard nothing of you, and I was obliged to give you up.'

'You should not have given me up.'

'Yes; there was nothing else for it. I found it was best not to think about you at all. Happily I had plenty of duties to think of. And duties, if you take hold of them right, become pleasures.'

'Doing them for the Master.'

'Yes, and for our fellow-creatures too. Both interests come in.'

'And so make life full and rich, even in common details of it. But,

Queen Esther, – my Queen! – do you know that you will be my Queen always?

That word expresses your future position, as far as I am concerned.'

'No,' said Esther a little nervously; 'I think hardly. Where there is a queen, there is commonly also a king somewhere, you know.'

'His business is to see the queen's commands carried out.'

'We will not quarrel about it,' said Esther, laughing. 'But, after all, Pitt, that is not like you. You always knew your own mind, and always had your own way, when I used to know you.'

'It is your turn.'

'It would be a very odd novelty in my life,' said Esther. 'But now, Pitt, I really must go and see about luncheon. Papa will be down, and Mrs. Barker does not know that you are here. And it would be a sort of relief to take hold of something so commonplace as luncheon; I seem to myself to have got into some sort of unreal fairyland.'

'I am in fairyland too, but it is real.'

'Let me go, Pitt, please!'

'Luncheon is of no consequence.'

'Papa will think differently.'

'I will go out and got some oysters, to conciliate him.'

'To conciliate him!'

'Yes. He will need conciliating, I can tell you. Do you suppose he will look on complacently and see you, who have been wholly his possession and property, pass over out of his hands into mine? It is not human nature.'

Esther stood still and coloured high.

'Does papa know?'

'He knows all about it, Queen Esther; except what you may have said to me. I think he understood what I was going to say to you.'

'Poor papa!' said Esther thoughtfully.

'Not at all,' said Pitt inconsistently. 'We will take care of him together, much better than you could alone.'

Esther drew a long breath.

'Then you speak to Barker, and I will get some oysters,' said Pitt with a parting kiss, and was off in a moment.

The luncheon after all passed off quite tolerably well. The colonel took the oysters, and Pitt, with a kind of grim acquiescence. He was an old soldier, and no doubt had not forgotten all the lessons once learned in that impressive school; and as every one knows, to accept the inevitable and to make the best of a lost battle are two of those lessons. Not that Colonel Gainsborough would seriously have tried to fight off Pitt and his pretensions, if he could; at least, not as things were. Pitt had told him his own circumstances; and the colonel knew that without barbarity he could not refuse ease and affluence and an excellent position for his daughter, and condemn her to school-keeping and Major Street for the rest of her life; especially since the offer was accompanied with no drawbacks, except the one trifle, that Esther must marry. That was an undoubtedly bitter pill to swallow; but the colonel swallowed it, and hardly made a wry face. He would be glad to get away from Major Street himself. So he ate his oysters, as I said, grimly; was certainly courteous, if also cool; and Pitt even succeeded in making the conversation flow passably well, which is hard to do, when it rests upon one devoted person alone. Esther did everything but talk.