A Red Wallflower

'I grant it; still – it is unreasonable And was it because he was gone, that you wanted comfort?'

'I didn't want it, or I didn't know that I wanted it, while he was here.'

'People that don't know they need comfort, do not need it, I fancy. You draw fine distinctions. Well, go on, Esther. You have found it, your letter says.'

'Oh yes, papa.'

'My dear, I do not understand you; and I should like to understand. Can you tell me what you mean?'

As he raised his eyes to her, he saw a look come over her face that he could as little comprehend as he could comprehend her letter; a look of surprise at him, mingled with a sudden shine of some inner light. She was moving about the tea-table; she came round and stood in front of her father, full in view.

'Papa, I thought my letter explained it. I mean, that now I have come to know the Lord Jesus.'

'Now? My dear, I was under the impression that you had been taught and had known the truths of the gospel all your life?'

'Oh, yes, papa; so I was. The difference' —

'Well?'

'The difference, papa, is, that now I know Him.'

'Him? Whom?'

'I mean Jesus, papa.'

'How do you know Him? Do you mean that lately you have begun to think about Him?'

'No, papa, I had been thinking a great while.'

'And now?' —

'Now I have come to know Him.'

That Esther knew what she meant was evident; it was equally plain that the colonel did not. He was puzzled, and did not like to show it too fully. The one face was shining with clearness and gladness; the other was dissatisfied and perplexed.

'My dear, I do not understand you,' the colonel said, after a pause. 'Have you been reading mystical books? I did not know there were any in the house.'

'I have been reading only the Bible, papa; and that is not mystical.'

'Your language sounds so.'

'Why, no, papa! I do not mean anything mystical.'

'Will you explain yourself?'

Esther paused, thinking how she should do this. When one has used the simplest words in one's vocabulary, and is called upon to expound them by the use of others less simple, the task is somewhat critical. The colonel watched with a sort of disturbed pleasure the thoughtful, clear brow, the grave eyes which had become so sweet. The intelligence at work there, he saw, was no longer that of a child; the sweetness was no longer the blank of unconscious ignorance, but the wisdom of some blessed knowledge. What did she know that was hidden from his experience?

'Papa, it is very difficult to tell you,' Esther began. 'I used to know about the things in the Bible, and I had learned whole chapters by heart; but that was all. I did not know much more than the name of Christ, – and His history, of course, and His words.'

'What more could you know?' inquired the colonel, in increasing astonishment.

'That's just it, papa; I did not know Himself. You know what you mean when you say you don't know somebody. I mean just that.'

'But, Esther, that sounds to me very like – very like – an improper use of language,' said the colonel, stammering. 'How can you know Him, as you speak?'

'I can't tell you, papa. I think He showed Himself to me.'

'Showed Himself! Do you mean in a vision?'

'Oh no, papa!' said Esther, smiling. 'I have not seen His face, not literally. But He has somehow showed me how good He is, and how glorious; and has made me understand how He loves me, and how He is with me; so that I do not feel alone any more. I don't think I ever shall feel alone again.'

Was this extravagance? The colonel pondered. It seemed to him a thing to be rebuked or repressed; he knew nothing of this kind in his own religious experience; he feared it was visionary and fanciful. But when he looked at Esther's face, the words died on his tongue which he would have spoken. Those happy eyes were so strong in their wistfulness, so grave in their happiness, that they forbade the charge of folly or fancifulness; nay, they were looking at something which the colonel wished he could himself see, if the sight brought such contentment. They stopped his mouth. He could not say what he thought to say, and his own eyes oddly fell before them.

'What does William Dallas know about all this?' he asked.

'Nothing, papa. I don't think he knows it at all.'

'Why did you write about it to him, then?'

'I was sure he would be glad for me, papa. Once, a good while ago, I asked Pitt what could be the meaning of a verse in the Bible; that beautiful verse in Numbers; and he could not tell me, though what he said gave me a great help. So I knew he would remember, and he would be glad. And I want him to know Jesus too.'

The colonel felt a little twinge of jealousy here; but Esther did not know, he reflected, that her own father was in equal destitution of that knowledge. Or was it all visionary that she had been saying, and his view of religion the right one after all? It must be the right one. Yet his religion had never given his face the expression that shone in Esther's now. It almost hurt him.

'And now you have comfort?' he said, after a moment's pause.

'Yes, papa. More than comfort.'

'Because you think that God looks upon you with favour.'

'Because I love Him, papa. I know Him and I love Him. And I know He loves me, and will do everything for me.'

'How do you know it?' asked the colonel almost harshly. 'That sounds to me rather presuming. You may hope it; but how can you know it?'

'He has made me know it, papa. And He has said it in the Bible. I just believe what He says.'

Colonel Gainsborough gave up the argument. Before Esther's face of quiet confidence he felt himself baffled. If she were wrong, he could not prove her wrong. Uneasy and worsted, he gave up the discussion; but thought he would not have any more letters go to William Dallas.

And as the days went on, he watched furtively his daughter. He had not been mistaken in his observations that evening. A steadfastness of sweet happiness was about her, beautifying and elevating all she did and all she was. Fair quiet on the brow, loving gladness on the lips, and hands of ready ministry. She had always been a dutiful child, faithful in her ministering; but now the service was not of duty, but of love, and gracious accordingly, as the service of duty can never be. The colonel watched, and saw something of the difference, without being able, however, to come at a satisfactory understanding of it. He saw how, under this influence of love and gladness, his child was becoming the rarest of servants to him; and more still, how under it she was developing into a most exquisite personal beauty. He watched her, as if by watching he might catch something of the secret mental charm by virtue of which these changes were wrought. But 'the secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him;' and it cannot be communicated from one to another.

As has been mentioned, Pitt's letters after he got to work at Oxford became much fewer and scantier. It was only at very rare intervals that one came to Colonel Gainsborough; and Esther made no proposition of writing to England again. On that subject the colonel ceased to take any thought. It was otherwise with Pitt's family.

Mrs. Dallas sat one evening pondering over the last letter received from her son. It was early autumn; a little fire burning in the chimney, towards which the master of the house stretched out his legs, lying very much at his ease in an old-fashioned chaise lounge, and turning over an English newspaper. His attitude bespoke the comfortable ease and carelessness of his mind, on which certainly nothing lay heavy. His wife was in all things a contrast. Her handsome, stately figure was yielding at the moment to no blandishments of comfort or luxury; she sat upright, with Pitt's letter in her hand, and on her brow there was an expression of troubled consideration.

'Husband,' she said at length, 'do you notice how Pitt speaks of the colonel and his daughter?'

'No,' came slowly and indifferently from the lips of Mr. Dallas, as he turned the pages of his newspaper.

'Don't you notice how he asks after them in every letter, and wants me to go and see them?'