A Red Wallflower. Warner Susan
work,' suggested the mother.
'Work is good for a fellow. I never got hard work enough yet. But home is jolly, mother. That's the use of going away, I suppose,' said the young man, drawing a chair comfortably in front of the fire; while Mrs. Dallas rang for supper and gave orders, and then sat down to gaze at him with those mother's eyes that are like nothing else in the world. Searching, fond, proud, tender, devoted—Pitt met them and smiled.
'I am all right,' he said.
'Looks so,' said the father contentedly. 'Hold your own, Pitt?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Ahead of everybody?'
'Yes, sir,' said the young man, a little more reservedly.
'I knew it!' said the elder man, rubbing his hands; 'I thought I knew it. I made sure you would.'
'He hasn't worked too hard either,' said the mother, with a careful eye of examination. 'He looks as he ought to look.'
A bright glance of the eye came to her. 'I tell you I never had enough to do yet,' he said.
'And, Pitt, do you like it?'
'Like what, mother?'
'The place, and the work, and the people?—the students and the professors?'
'That's what I should call a comprehensive question! You expect one yes or no to cover all that?'
'Well, how do you like the people?'
'Mother, when you get a community like that of a college town, you have something of a variety of material, don't you see? The people are all sorts. But the faculty are very well, and some of them capital fellows.'
'Have you gone into society much?'
'No, mother. Had something else to do.'
'Time enough for that,' said the elder Dallas contentedly. 'When a man has the money you'll have, my boy, he may pretty much command society.'
'Some sorts,' said Pitt.
'All sorts.'
'Must be a poor kind of society, I should say, that makes money the first thing.'
'It's the best sort you can get in this world,' said the elder man, chuckling. 'There's nothing but money that will buy bread and butter; and they all want bread and butter. You'll find they all want bread and butter, whatever else they want—or have.'
'Of course they want it; but what has that to do with society?'
'You'll find out,' said the other, with an unctuous kind of complacency.
'But there's no society in this country,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'Now, Pitt, turn your chair round—here's the supper—if you want to sit by the fire, that is.'
The supper was a royal one, for Mrs. Dallas was a good housekeeper; and the tone of it was festive, for the spirits of them all were in a very gay and Christmas mood. So it was with a good deal of surprise as well as chagrin that Mrs. Dallas, after supper, saw her son handling his greatcoat in the hall.
'Pitt, you are not going out?'
'Yes, mother, for a little while.'
'Where can you be going?'
'I want to run over to Colonel Gainsborough's for a minute or two.'
'Colonel Gainsborough! You don't want to see him to-night?'
'Neither to-night nor any time—at least I can live without it; but there's somebody else there that would like to see me. I'll be back soon, mother.'
'But, Pitt, that is quite absurd! That child can wait till morning, surely; and I want you myself. I think I have a better claim.'
'You have had me a good while already, and shall have me again,' said Pitt, laughing. 'I am just going to steal a little bit of the evening, mother. Be generous!'
And he opened the hall door and was off, and the door closed behind him. Mrs. Dallas went back to the supper room with a very discomfited face.
'Hildebrand,' she said, in a tone that made her husband look up, 'there is no help for it! We shall have to send him to England.'
'What now?'
'Just what I told you. He's off to see that child. Off like the North wind!—and no more to be held.'
'That's nothing new. He never could be held. Pity we didn't name him
Boreas.'
'But do you see what he is doing?'
'No.'
'He is off to see that child.'
'That child to-day, and another to-morrow. He's a boy yet.'
'Hildebrand, I tell you there is danger.'
'Danger of what?'
'Of what you would not like.'
'My dear, young men do not fall dangerously in love with children. And that little girl is a child yet.'
'You forget how soon she will be not a child. And she is going to be a very remarkable-looking girl, I can tell you. And you must not forget another thing, husband; that Pitt is as persistent as he is wilful.'
'He's got a head, I think,' said Mr. Dallas, stroking his whiskers thoughtfully.
'That won't save him. It never saved anybody. Men with heads are just as much fools, in certain circumstances, as men without them.'
'He might fancy some other child in England, if we sent him there, you know.'
'Yes; but at least she would be a Churchwoman,' said Mrs. Dallas, with her handsome face all cloudy and disturbed.
Meanwhile her son had rushed along the village street, or road rather, through the cold and darkness, the quarter of a mile to Colonel Gainsborough's house. There he was told that the colonel had a bad headache and was already gone to his room.
'Is Miss Esther up?'
'Oh yes, sir,' said Mrs. Barker doubtfully, but she did not invite the visitor in.
'Can I see her for a moment?'
'I haven't no orders, but I suppose you can come in, Mr. Dallas. It is
Mr. Dallas, ain't it?'
'Yes, it's I, Mrs. Barker,' said Pitt, coming in and beginning at once to throw off his greatcoat. 'In the usual room? Is the colonel less well than common?'
'Well, no, sir, not to call less well, as I knows on. It's the time o' year, sir, I make bold to imagine. He has a headache bad, that he has, and he's gone off to bed; but Miss Esther's well—so as she can be.'
Pitt got out of his greatcoat and gloves, and waited for no more. He had a certain vague expectation of the delight his appearance would give, and was a little eager to see it. So he went in with a bright face to surprise Esther.
The girl was sitting by the table reading a book she had laid close under the lamp; reading with a very grave face, Pitt saw too, and it a little sobered the brightness of his own. It was not the dulness of stagnation or of sorrow this time; at least Esther was certainly busily reading; but it was sober, steady business, not the absorption of happy interest or excitement. She looked up carelessly as the door opened, then half incredulously as she saw the entering figure, then she shut her book and rose to meet him. But then she did not show the lively pleasure he had expected; her face flushed a little, she hardly smiled, she met him as if he were more or less a stranger—with much more dignity and less eagerness than he was accustomed to from her. Pitt was astonished, and piqued, and curious. However, he followed her lead, in a measure.
'How do you do, Queen Esther?' he said, holding out his hand.
'How do you do, Pitt?' she answered, taking it; but with the oddest mingling of reserve and doubt in her manner;