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<h2 id="id00949" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XI.</h2> <h5 id="id00950"> DISSENT.</h5> The summer months were very rich in pleasure, for all parties; even Colonel Gainsborough was a little roused by the presence of his young friend, and came much more than usual out of his reserve. So that the conversations round the tea-table, when Pitt made one of their number, were often lively and varied; such as Esther had hardly known in her life before. The colonel left off his taciturnity; waked up, as it were; told old campaigning stories, and gave out stores of information which few people knew he possessed. The talks were delightful, on subjects natural and scientific, historical and local and picturesque. Esther luxuriated in the new social life which had blossomed out suddenly at home, perhaps with even an intensified keen enjoyment from the fact that it was so transient a blossoming; a fact which the child knew and never for a moment forgot. The thought was always with her, making only more tender and keen the taste of every day's delights. And Pitt made the days full. With a mixture of motives, perhaps, which his own mind did not analyze, he devoted himself very much to the lonely little girl. She went with him in his walks and in his drives; he sat on the verandah with her daily and gave her lessons, and almost daily he went in to tea with her afterwards, and said that Christopher grew the biggest raspberries in 'town.' Pitt professed himself very fond of raspberries. And then would come one of those rich talks between him and the colonel; and when Pitt went home afterwards he would reflect with satisfaction that he had given Esther another happy day. It was true; and he never guessed what heart-aches the little girl went through, night after night, in anticipation of the days that were coming. She did not shed tears about it, usually; tears might have been more wholesome. Instead, Esther would stand at her window looking out into the moonlit garden, or sit on the edge of her bed staring down at the floor; with a dry ache at her heart, such as we are wont to say a young thing like her should not know. And indeed only one here and there has a nature deep and fine-strung enough to be susceptible of it. The intensification of this pain was the approaching certainty that Pitt was going to England. Esther did not talk of it, rarely asked a question; nevertheless she heard enough now and then to make her sure what was corning. And, in fact, if anything had been wanting to sharpen up Mrs. Dallas's conviction that such a step was necessary, it would have been the experience of this summer. She wrought upon her husband, till himself began to prick up his ears and open his eyes; and between them they agreed that Pitt had better go. Some evils are easier nipped in the bud; and this surely was one, for Pitt was known to be a persistent fellow, if once he took a thing in his head. And though Mr. Dallas laughed, at the same time he trembled. It was resolved that Pitt should make his next term at Oxford. The thought was not for a moment to be entertained, that all Mr. Dallas's money, and all the pretensions properly growing out of it, should be wasted on the quite penniless daughter of a retired army officer. For in this world the singular rule obtaining is, that the more you have the more you want. One day Pitt came, as he still often did, to read with the colonel; more for the pleasure of the thing, and for the colonel's own sake, than for any need still existing. He found the colonel alone. It was afternoon of a warm day in August, and Esther had gone with Mrs. Barker to get blackberries, and was not yet returned. The air came in faintly through the open windows, a little hindered by the blinds which were drawn to moderate the light. 'How do you do, sir, to-day?' the young man asked, coming in with something of the moral effect of a breeze. 'This isn't the sort of weather one would like for going on a forlorn-hope expedition.' 'In such an expedition it doesn't matter much what weather you have,' said the colonel; 'and I do not think it matters much to me. I am much the same in all weathers; only that I think I am failing gradually. Gradually, but constantly.' 'You do not show it, colonel.' 'No, perhaps not; but I feel it.' 'You do not care about hearing me read to-day, perhaps?' 'Yes, I do; it distracts me; but first there is a word I want to say to you, Pitt.' He did not go on at once to say it, and the young man waited respectfully. The colonel sighed, passed his hand over his brow once or twice, sighed again. 'You are going to England, William?' 'They say so, sir. My father and mother seem to have set their minds on it.' 'Quite right, too. There's no place in the world like Oxford or Cambridge for a young man. Oxford or Cambridge,—which, William?' 'Oxford, sir, I believe.' 'Yes; that would suit your father's views best. How do you expect to get there? Will you go this year?' 'Oh yes, sir; that seems to be the plan. My father is possessed with the fear that I may grow to be not enough of an Englishman—or too much of an American; I don't know which.' 'I think you will be a true Englishman. Yet, if you live here permanently, you will have to be the other thing too. A man owes it to the country of his adoption; and I think your father has no thought of returning to England himself?' 'None at all, sir.' 'How will you go? You cannot take passage to England.' 'That can be managed easily enough. Probably I should take passage in a ship bound for Lisbon; from there I could make my way somehow to London.' For, it may be mentioned, the time was the time of the last American struggle with England, early in the century; and the high seas were not safe and quiet as now. The colonel sighed again once or twice, and repeated that gesture with his hand over his brow. 'I suppose there is no telling how long you will be gone, if you once go?' 'I cannot come home every vacation,' said Pitt lightly. 'But since my father and mother have made up their minds to that, I must make up mine.' 'So you will be gone years,' said the colonel thoughtfully. 'Years. I shall not be here when you return, William.' 'You are not going to change your habitation, sir?' said the young man, though he knew what the other meant well enough. 'Not for any other upon earth,' said the colonel soberly. 'But I shall not be here, William. I am failing constantly. Slowly, if you please, but constantly. I am not as strong as I look, and I am far less well than your father believes. I should know best; and I know I am failing. If you remain in England three years, or even two years, when you come back I shall not be here.' 'I hope you are mistaken, colonel.' 'I am not mistaken.' There was silence a few minutes. Pitt did not place unqualified trust in this judgment, even although, as he could not deny, the colonel might be supposed to know best. He doubted the truth of the prognostication; yet, on the other hand, he could not be sure that it was false. What if it were not false? 'I hope you are mistaken, colonel,' he said again; 'but if you are right—if it should be so as you fear'— 'I do not fear it,' put in the colonel, interrupting him. 'Not for yourself; but if it should be so,—what will become of Esther?' 'It was of her I wished to speak. She will be here.' 'Here in this house? She would be alone.' 'I should be away. But Mrs. Barker would look after her.' 'Barker!' Pitt echoed. 'Yes, Mrs. Barker could take care of the house and of the cooking, as she does now; but Esther would be entirely alone, colonel.' 'I have no one else to leave her with,' said the colonel gloomily. 'Let my mother take charge of her, in such a case. My mother would take care of her, as if Esther were her own. Let her come to my mother, colonel!' 'No,' said the colonel quietly, 'that would not be best. I am sure of Mrs. Dallas's kindness; but I shall leave Esther under the care of Barker and her brother. Christopher will manage the place, and keep everything right outside; and Barker will do her part faithfully. Esther will be safe enough so, for a while. She is a child yet. But then, William, I'll take a promise from you, if you will give it.' 'I will give any promise you like, sir. What is it?' said Pitt, who had never been in a less pleasant mood towards his friend. In fact he was entirely out of patience with him. 'What promise do you want, colonel?' he repeated. 'When you come back from England, Will, if I am no longer here, I want you to ask Esther for a sealed package of papers, which I shall leave with her. Then open the package; and the promise I want from you is that you will do according to the wishes you will find there expressed.' Pitt looked at the colonel in much astonishment. 'May I not know what those wishes regard, sir?' 'They will regard all I leave behind me.' There was in the tone of the colonel's voice, and the manner of utterance of his words, something which showed Pitt that further explanations were not to be had from him. He hesitated, not liking to bind himself to anything in the dark; but finally he gave the promise as required. He went home, however, in a doubtful mood as regarded himself, and a very impatient one as concerned the colonel. What ridiculous, precise notion was this that had got possession of him? How little was he able to comprehend the nature or the needs of his little daughter; and what disagreeable office might he have laid upon Pitt in that connection? Pitt revolved these things in a fever of impatience with the colonel, who had demanded such a pledge from him, and with himself, who had given it. 'I have been a fool for once in my life!' thought he. Mr. and Mrs. Dallas were in the sitting-room, where Pitt went in. They had been watching for his return, though they took care not to tell him so. 'How's your friend the colonel to-day?' his father asked, willing to make sure where his son had been. 'He thinks he is dying,' Pitt answered, in no very good humour. 'He has been thinking that for the last two years.' 'Do you suppose there is anything in it?' 'Nothing but megrims. He's hipped, that's all. If he had some work to do—that he must do, I mean—it's my belief he would be a well man to-day; and know it, too.' 'He honestly thinks he's dying. Slowly, of course, but surely.' 'Pity he ever left the army,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'He is one of those men who don't bear to be idle.' 'That's all humankind!' said her husband. 'Nobody bears to be idle. Can't do it without running down.' 'Still,' said Pitt thoughtfully, 'you cannot tell. A man ought to be the best judge of his own feelings; and perhaps Colonel Gainsborough is ill, as he says.' 'What are you going to do about it?' said his father with a half sneer. 'Nothing; only, if he should turn out to be right,—if he should die within a year or two, what would become of his little daughter?' Mr. and Mrs. Dallas exchanged a scarcely perceptible glance. 'Send her home to his family,' answered the former. 'Has he a family in England?' 'So he says. I judge, not a small one.' 'Not parents living, has he?' 'I believe not; but there are Gainsboroughs enough without that.' 'What ever made him come over here?' 'Some property quarrel, I gather, though the colonel never told me in so many words.' 'Then he might not like to send Esther to them. Property quarrels are embittering.' 'Do you know any sort of quarrel that isn't? It is impossible to say beforehand what Colonel Gainsborough might like to do. He's a fidgety man. If there's a thing I hate, in the human line, it's a fidget. You can't reason with 'em.' 'Then what would become of that child, mother, if her father were really to die?' Pitt spoke now with a little anxiety; but Mrs. Dallas answered coolly. 'He would make the necessary arrangements.' 'But they have no friends here, and no relations. It would be dreadfully forlorn for her. Mother, if Colonel Gainsborough should die, wouldn't it be kind if you were to take her?' 'Too kind,' said Mr. Dallas. 'There is such a thing as being too kind, Pitt. Did you never hear of it?' 'I do not comprehend, sir. What objection could there be? The child is not a common child; she is one that anybody might like to have in the house. I should think you and my mother might enjoy it very much, especially with me away.' 'Especially,' said the elder man drily. 'Well, Pitt, perhaps you are right; but for me there is this serious objection, that she is a dissenter.' 'A dissenter!' echoed Pitt in unfeigned astonishment. 'What is a "dissenter," here in the new country?' 'Very much the same thing that he is in the old country, I suspect.' 'And what is that, sir?' 'Humph!—well, don't you know? Narrow, underbred, and pig-headed, and with that, disgustingly radical. That is what it means to be a dissenter; always did mean.' 'Underbred! You cannot find, old country or new country, a better-bred man than Colonel Gainsborough; and Esther is perfect in her manners.' 'I haven't tried her,' said the other; 'but isn't he pig-headed? And isn't he radical, think you? They all are; they always were, from the days of Cromwell and Ireton.' 'But the child?—Esther knows nothing of politics.' 'It's in the blood,' said Mr. Dallas stroking unmoveably his long whiskers. 'It's in the blood. I'll have no dissenters in my house. It is fixed in the blood, and will not wash out.' 'I don't believe she knows what a dissenter means.' 'Your father is quite right,' put in Mrs. Dallas. 'I should not like a dissenter in my family. I should not know how to get on with her. In chance social intercourse it does not so much matter—though I feel the difference even there; but in the family— It is always best for like to keep to like.' 'But these are only differences of form, mother.' 'Do you think so?' said Mrs. Dallas, drawing up her handsome person. 'I believe in form, Pitt, for my part; and when you get to England you will find that it is only the nobodies who dispense with it. But the Church is more than form, I should think. You'll find the Archbishop of Canterbury is something besides a form. And is our Liturgy a form?' Pitt escaped from the discussion, half angry and half amused, but seriously concerned about Esther. And meanwhile Esther was having her own thoughts. She had come home from her blackberrying late, after Pitt had gone home; and a little further on in the afternoon she had followed him, to get her daily lesson. As the weather was warm all windows were standing open; and the talkers within the house, being somewhat eager and preoccupied in their minds, did not moderate their voices nor pay any attention to what might be going on outside; and so it happened that Esther's light step was not heard as it came past the windows; and it followed very easily that one or two half sentences came to her ear. She heard her own name, which drew her attention, and then Mr. Dallas's declaration that he would have no dissenters in his house. Esther paused, not certainly to listen, but with a sudden check arising from something in the tone of the words. As she stood still in doubt whether to go forward or not, a word or two more were spoken and also heard; and with that Esther turned short about, left all thought of her lesson, and made her way home; walking rather faster than she had come. She laid off her hat, went into the room where her father was, and sat down in the window with a book. 'Home again, Esther?' said he. 'You have not been long away.' 'No, papa.' 'Did you have your lesson?' 'No, papa.' 'Why not?' 'Pitt was talking to somebody.' The colonel made no further remark, and the room was very still for awhile. Until after au hour or more the colonel's book went down; and then Esther from her window spoke again. 'Papa, if you please, what is a "dissenter"?' 'A what?' demanded the colonel, rousing himself. 'A "dissenter," papa.' 'What do you know about dissenters?' 'Nothing, papa. What is it?' 'What makes you ask?' 'I heard the word, papa, and I didn't know what it meant.' 'There is no need you should know what it means. A dissenter is one who dissents.' 'From what, sir?' 'From something that other people believe in.' 'But, papa, according to that, then, everybody is a dissenter; and that is not true, is it?' 'What has put the question into your head?' 'I heard somebody speaking of dissenters.' 'Whom?' 'Mrs. Dallas.' 'Ah!' The colonel smiled grimly. 'She might be speaking of you and me.' Esther knew that to have been the fact, but she did not say so. She only asked, 'What do we dissent from, papa?' 'We dissent from the notion that form is more than substance, and the kernel less valuable than the shell.' This told Esther nothing. She was mystified; at the same time, her respect for her father did not allow her to press further a question he seemed to avoid. 'Is Pitt a dissenter, papa?' 'There is no need you should trouble your head with the question of dissent, my child. In England there is an Established Church; all who decline to come into it are there called Dissenters.' 'Does it tire you to have me ask questions, papa?' 'No.' 'Who established the Church there?' 'The Government.' 'What for?' 'Wanted to rule men's consciences as well as their bodies.' 'But a government cannot do that, papa?' 'They have tried, Esther. Tried by fire and sword, and cruelty, and persecution; by fines and imprisonments and disqualifications. Some submitted, but a goodly number dissented, and our family has always belonged to that honourable number. See you do it no discredit. The Gainsboroughs were always Independents; we fought with Cromwell, and suffered under the Stuarts. We have an unbroken record of striving for the right. Keep to your traditions, my dear.' 'But why should a Government wish to rule people's consciences, papa?' 'Power, my dear. As long as men's minds are free, there is something where power does not reach.' 'I should think everybody would like Dissenters, papa?' was Esther's simple conclusion. 'Mrs. Dallas doesn't,' said the colonel grimly. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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