A Red Wallflower. Warner Susan
were lifted to his face for a moment, with, it seemed to him, something of inquiry or questioning in them.
'Are you not glad to see me?'
'Yes,' she said, with another glance.
'Then why are you not glad to see me?' he asked impetuously.
'I am glad to see you, of course,' she said. 'Won't you sit down?'
'This won't do, you know,' said the young man, half-vexed and half-laughing, but wholly determined not to be kept at a distance in this manner. 'I am not going to sit down, if you are going to treat me like that.'
'Treat you how?'
'Why, as if I were a stranger, that you didn't care a pin about. What's the matter, Queen Esther?'
Esther was silent. Pitt was half-indignant; and then he caught the shimmer of something like moisture in the eyes, which were looking away from him to the fire, and his mood changed.
'What is it, Esther?' he said kindly. 'Take a seat, your majesty, and
I'll do the same. I see there is some talking to be done here.'
He took the girl's hand and put her in her chair, and himself drew up another near. 'Now what's the matter, Esther? Have you forgotten me?'
'No,' she said. 'But I thought—perhaps—you had forgotten me.'
'What made you think that?'
'You were gone away,' she said, hesitating; 'you were busy; papa said'—
'What did he say?'
'He said, probably I would never see you much more.'
But here the tears came to view undeniably; welled up, and filled the eyes, and rolled over. Esther brushed them hastily away.
'And I hadn't the decency to write to you? Had that something to do with it?'
'I thought—if you had remembered me, you would perhaps have written, just a little word,' Esther confessed, with some hesitation and difficulty. Pitt was more touched and sorry than he would have supposed before that such a matter could make him.
'Look here, Esther,' he said. 'There are two or three things I want you to take note of. The first is, that you must never judge by appearances.'
'Why not?' asked Esther, considering him and this statement together.
'Because they are deceptive. They mislead.'
'Do they?'
'Very frequently.'
'What is one to judge by, then?'
'Depends. In this case, by your knowledge of the person concerned.'
Esther looked at him, and a warmer shine came into her eye.
'Yes,' she said, 'I thought it was not like you to forget. But then, papa said I would not be likely to see much more of you—ever'—(Esther got the words out with some difficulty, without, however, breaking down)—'and I thought, I had to get accustomed to doing without you—and I had better do it.'
'Why should you not see much more of me?' Pitt demanded energetically.
'You would be going away.'
'And coming back again!'
'But going to England, perhaps.'
'Who said that?'
'I don't know. I think Mrs. Dallas told papa.'
'Well, now look here, Queen Esther,' Pitt said, more moderately: 'I told you, in the first place, you are not to judge by appearances. Do you see that you have been mistaken in judging me?'
She looked at him, a look that moved him a good deal, there was so much wistfulness in it; so much desire revealed to find him what she had found him in times past, along with the dawning hope that she might.
'Yes,' said he, nodding, 'you have been mistaken, and I did not expect it of you, Queen Esther. I don't think I am changeable; but anyhow, I haven't changed towards you. I have but just got home this evening; and I ran away from home and my mother as soon as we had done supper, that I might come and see you.'
Esther smiled: she was pleased, he saw.
'And in the next place, as to that crotchet of your not seeing much more of me, I can't imagine how it ever got up; but it isn't true, anyhow. I expect you'll see an immense deal of me. I may go some time to England; about that I can't tell; but if I go, I shall come back again, supposing I am alive. And now, do you see that it would be very foolish of you to try to get accustomed to doing without me? for I shall not let you do it.'
'I don't want to do it,' said Esther confidingly; 'for you know I have nobody else except you and papa.'
'What put such an absurd notion in your head! You a Stoic, Queen
Esther! You look like it!'
'What is a Stoic?'
'The sort of people that bite a nail in two, and smile as if it were a stick of peppermint candy.'
'I didn't know there were any such people.'
'No, naturally. So it won't do for you to try to imitate them.'
'But I was not trying anything like that.'
'What were you trying to do, then?'
Esther hesitated.
'I thought—I must do without you; and so—I thought I had better not think about you.'
'Did you succeed?'
'Not very well. But—I suppose I could, in time.'
'See you don't! What do you think in that case I should do?'
'Oh, you!' said Esther; 'that is different. I thought you would not care.'
'Did you! You did me honour. Now, Queen Esther, let us understand this matter. I do care, and I am going to care, and I shall always care. Do you believe it?'
'I always believe what you say,' said the girl, with a happy change in her face, which touched Pitt again curiously. Somehow, the contrast between his own strong, varied, rich, and active life, with its abundance of resources and enjoyments, careless and satisfied—and this little girl alone at home with her cranky father, and no variety or change or outlook or help, struck him painfully. It would hardly have struck most young men; but Pitt, with all his rollicking waywardness and self-pleasing, had a fine fibre in him which could feel things. Then Esther's nature, he knew, was one rich in possibilities; to which life was likely to bring great joy or great sorrow; more probably both.
'What book have you got there?' he asked suddenly.
'Book?—Oh, the Bible.'
'The Bible! That's something beyond your comprehension, isn't it?'
'No,' said Esther. 'What made you think it was?'
'Always heard it wasn't the thing for children. What set you at that,
Queen Esther? Reading about your namesake?'
'I have read about her. I wasn't reading about her to-night.'
'What were you after, then?'
'It's mamma's Bible,' said Esther rather slowly; 'and she used to say it was the best place to go for comfort.'
'Comfort! What do you want comfort for, Esther?'
'Nothing, now,' she said, with a smile. 'I am so glad you are come!'
'What did you want comfort for, then?' said he, taking her hand, and holding it while he looked into her eyes.
'I don't know—papa had gone to bed, and I was alone—and somehow it seemed lonesome.'
'Will you go with me to-morrow after Christmas greens?'
'Oh,