 CHAPTER 31 MAJOR STREET According to the conclusion thus arrived at, Christopher took the opportunity of speaking to Esther the very next time he was driving her in from school. Esther immediately pricked up her ears, and demanded to know where the house was situated. Christopher told her. It was a street she was not acquainted with. Do you know how to find the place, Christopher? Oh, yes, Miss Esther. I can find the place, to be sure. But I'm afraid my little woman has made a mistake. What is the rent? Christopher named the rent. It was less than what they were paying for the house they had present occupied, and Esther once ordered Christopher to turn about and drive her to the spot. It was certainly not a fashionable quarter, not even near Broadway or State Street. Nevertheless, it was respectable, inhabited by decent people. The house itself was a small wooden one. Now it is true that at that day New York was a very different place from what it is at present, and a wooden house, and even a small wooden house, did not mean then what it means now, and a boat of Irish washerwomen or of something still less distinguished. Yet Esther startled a little at the thought of bringing her father and herself to inhabit it. Christopher had the key, and he fastened Bonaparte and let Esther in, and went all over the house with her. He was in order, truly, as its owner had said, even clean, and nothing was off the hinges or wanting paint or needing plaster. Right and tight it was, and susceptible of being made in a boat of comfort. Yet it was a very humble dwelling, comparatively, and in an insignificant neighborhood, and Esther hesitated. Was it pride, she asked herself? Why did she hesitate? Yet she lingered over the place, doubting and questioning, and almost deciding what she would not do. Then Christopher, I cannot tell whether consciously or otherwise, threw in a make-weight that fell in the scale that was threatening to rise. If you please, Miss Esther, would you speak to the master about the blacksmith's bill? I don't hardly never see the colonel these days. Esther faced round upon him. The word bill always came to her now like a sort of stab. She repeated his words. The blacksmith's bill? Yes, mom, that is crazy. The blacksmith, just on the edge of the town. It's been running along, because I never could get sight of the colonel to speak to him about it. Bill for what? Shoes, mom. Shoes, repeated Esther. The blacksmith? What do you mean? Shoes for Bonaparte, mom. He does kick off his shoes as fast as any horse ever I see, and they does wear mom on the stones. How much is the bill? Well, mom, said Christopher uneasily, it's been running along, and it's astonishing how things does run up. It's quite a good bit, mom. It's nigh on to fifty dollars. It took away Esther's breath. She turned away, that Christopher might not see her face, and began to look at the house as if a suddenly light had fallen upon it. Small and mean, and unfit for colonel Gainsborough and his daughter. That had been her judgment concerning it five minutes before, but now it suddenly presented itself as a refuge from distress. If they took it, their relief to their finances would be immediate and effectual. There was a little bit of struggle in Esther's mind. To give up their present home for this would involve a loss of all the prettiness in which she had found such refreshment. There would be here no river and no opposite shore, and no pleasant country around with grass and trees and a flower garden. There would be no garden at all, and no view, except of a very home-drum little street, built up and inhabited by mechanics and tradespeople of a humble grade. But then, no debt, and Esther remembered that in her daily prayer for daily bread she had also asked to be enabled to, oh, no man, anything. Was here the answer? And if this were the Lord's way for supplying her necessities, should she refuse to accept it and to be thankful for it? It is getting late, was Esther's conclusion as she turned away. We had better get home, Christopher, but I think we will take the house. I must speak to Papa, but I think we will take it. You may tell Mrs. Bound or so, with my thanks. It cost a little trouble, yet not much, to talk the Colonel over. He did not go to see the house, and Esther did not press that he should. He took a report of it, which was an unvarnished one, and submitted himself to it seem the inevitable. But his daughter knew that her task would have been harder if the Colonel's imagination had had the assistance of his eyesight. She was sure that the move must be made, and if it were once affected she was almost sure she could make her father comfortable. To combat his objections beforehand might have been a more difficult matter. Esther found Mrs. Barker's dismay quite enough to deal with. Indeed, the good woman was at first overwhelmed, and sat down the first time she was taken to the house, in a sort of despair, with a face wand in its anxiety. What's the matter, Barker? Esther said cheerily. You and I will soon put this in nice order with Christopher's help, and then, when we have got it fitted up, we shall be as comfortable as ever. You will see. Oh, dear Miss Esther, the housekeeper ejaculated, that ever I should see this day, the like of you and my master. What then, said Esther, smiling? Barker, shall we not take what the Lord gives us, and be thankful? I am. There ain't no use for Christopher here, as I see, Mrs. Barker went on. No, and he will not be here. Do you see now how happy it is that he has got a home of his own, which you were disposed to think so unfortunate? I haven't changed my mind, Mum, said the housekeeper. How's your horse going to be kept without Christopher? I am not going to keep the horse. Here I shall not need him. The drives you took was very good for you, Mum. I will take walks instead. Don't you be troubled. Dear Barker, do you not think our dear Lord knows what is good for us? And do you not think what he chooses is the best? I do. Esther's face was very unshadowed, but the housekeepers, on the contrary, seemed dark in more and more. She stood in the middle of the floor, in one of the small rooms, surveyed the housekeeper, alternately within and without the windows. Mrs. Esther, dear, she began again, as if irrepressibly. You're young, and you don't know how queer the world is. There's many folks that won't believe you are what you be if they see you are living in a place like this. Did not Esther know that? And was it not one of the whispers in her mind which she found it hardest to combat? She had begun already to touch the world on that side, on which Barker declared it was queer. She went, it is true, hardly at all into society. Scarce ever left the narrow track of her school routine. Yet even there, once or twice, a chance encounter had obliged her to recognize the fact that in taking the post of a teacher, she had stepped off the level of her former associates. It had hurt her a little and disappointed her. Nobody, indeed, had tried to be patronizing. That was nearly impossible towards anybody who said was set on her shoulders in the manner of Miss Gainsborough's, but she felt the sliding regard in which low-bred people held her on account of her work and position, and so large a portion of the world is deficient in breeding, that to a young person at least the desire of self-assertion comes as a very natural and tolerably strong temptation. Esther had felt it, and trodden it underfoot, and yet Mrs. Barker's words made her wince. How could anybody reasonably suppose that a gentleman would choose such a house in such a street to live in? Never mind Barker, she said cheerfully after a pause. What we have to do is the right thing, and then let all the rest go. Has the Colonel seen it, Miss Esther? No, and I do not mean he shall, till we have got it so nice for him that he will feel comfortable. The work of moving and getting settled began without delay. Mrs. Barker spent all the afternoons at the new house, and the other came Esther also every day as soon as school was out at three o'clock. The girl worked very hard in these times, for after her long morning in school she gave the rest of the daylight hours to arranging and establishing furniture, hanging draperies, putting up hooks, and the like, and after that she went home to make her father's tea, and give him as much cheery talk as she could lend. In the business of moving, however, she found unexpected assistance. When Christopher told his wife of the decision about the house, the answer in her mark, made approvingly, was, That's a spunky little girl. What do you mean, said Christopher, not approving such an irreverent expression? She's got stuff in her, I like that sort. But that house ain't really a place for her, you know. That's what I'm looking at, returned Mrs. Bounder, with a broad smile at him. She ain't scared by no nonsense from doing what she's got to do. Don't you be scared, either. Houses don't make the folks that live in them. But what I'm thinking of is, they'll want less of help to get along with their moving. Christopher, do you know there's a big box wagon in the barn? I know it. Wow, that'll carry their thing's first rate, if you can tackle up your fine steppe and fringe emperor there with our dolly. Will he draw in double harness? Will he? Well, I'll try to persuade him. And you needn't to let on anything about it. They ain't obliged to know where the wagon comes from. You're as clever a woman as any I know, said Mr. Bounder, with a smile of complacency. Sally up there can't beat you, and she's a smart woman, too. A few minutes were given to the business of the supper table, and the Mrs. Bounder asked, what are they going to do with the French emperor? Bonaparte? Christopher called that Bonaparte. Well, they'll have to get rid of him somehow. I suppose that job will come on me. I was thinking, our dolly's gettin' old. Bonaparte was old some time ago, returned Christopher, with a slight twinkle of his eyes as he looked at his wife. There's workin' him yet, ain't there? Lots. Then two old ones would be as good as one young one, and better, for they'd draw the double wagon. What'll they ask for him? It'll be what I can get, I'm thinkin'. What did you pay for him? Christopher named the sum the colonel had given. It was not a high figure, however he knew, and she knew, that a common draft worth for their garden work could be had for something less. Mrs. Bounder meditated a little and finally concluded, it won't break us. Save me lots of trouble, said Christopher, if you don't mind paying so much. If you don't mind, Christopher, his wife returned, with a grin, I've got the money here in the house. You might hand it over to Miss Esther tomorrow. I'll betcha she'll know what to do with it. Christopher nodded. She'll be uncommon glad of it, to be sure. There ain't much cash comin' in her hands for a good bit, and I see sometimes she's been real worried. So Esther's path was smooth and more recent one, and even in more ways than I have indicated. For Mrs. Bounder went over and insinuated herself, with some difficulty. So far into Mrs. Barker's good graces, that she was allowed to give her help in the multifarious business and cares of the moving. She was capital help. Mrs. Barker soon found that any packing entrusted to her was sure to be safely done, and the little woman's wits were of the first order, always at hand, cool, keen, and comprehensive. She followed, or rather went with the wagon to the house in Major Street, helped unpack, helped put down carpets, helped clear away litter and arranged things in order, and further still, she constantly brought something with her for the bodily refreshment and comfort of Esther and the housekeeper. Her delicious rye bread came, loaf after loaf, sweet butter, eggs, and at last some golden honey. There was no hindering her, and her presence and ministry grew to be a great assistance and pleasure also to Esther. Esther tried to tell her something of this. You cannot think how your kindness has helped me, she said, with a look which told more than her words. Don't, said Mrs. Bounder, when this had happened a second time. I was reading in the Bible the other day. You sent me reading the Bible, Mrs. Esther, where it says something about a good woman ministering to the saints. I ain't no saint myself, and I guess it'll never be said of me, but I suppose the next thing to be a saint is minister into the saints, and I'd like to do that anyhow, if I only know how. You have been kind ever since I knew you, said Esther. I am glad to know our Christopher has got such a good wife. Mrs. Bounder laughed a little slyly, as she retorted. Ain't there nothing to be glad of on my side, too? Indeed, yes, answered Esther. Christopher is as true and faithful as it is possible to be. And as to business, but you do not need that I should tell you what Christopher is. She broke off, laughing. There was a pleasant look in the little woman's eyes as she stood up for a moment and faced Esther. I guess I took him most of all because he belonged to you, she said. End of Chapter 31, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. CHAPTER 32 OF A RED WALL FLOWER. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. A RED WALL FLOWER by Susan Warner, Chapter 32. MOVIE Esther made to herself a pleasure of getting the little dwelling in order. With two such helpers as she had, the work went unbravely, and Christopher got in coal and shop put enough to last all winter. The ready money from the sale of one apartment had given her the means for that and for some other things. She was intent upon making the new home look so home-like that her father should be in some measure consoled for the shock which she knew its exterior would give him. The Colonel liked no fire so well as one of his native sea coal. The house had open fireplaces only, so Esther had some neat grates put in the two lower rooms and in her father's sleeping chamber. They had plenty of carpets and the two little parlors were soon looking quite habitable. We will keep the back one for a dining room, she said to Mrs. Barker. That will be convenient for you, being nearest the kitchen stairs, and this will be for Papa's study. But it has a bear look yet. I must make some curtains and put up to hide the view of that dreadful street. That'll cost money, Mom, observed the housekeeper. Wouldn't some of them old ones at home be passable if they was made over a bit? The color would not fit here. No, that would not do. I'll get some chins that is dark and bright at once. I have money. Oh, we are going to be rich now, Barker, and you shall not be stinted in your marketing any more. And this is going to be very nice. Inside. To the outside Esther could not get accustomed. It gave her a kind of prick of dismay every time she saw it anew. What would her father say when he saw it? Yet she had done right and wisely. Of that she had no doubt at all. It was very unreachable that, her judgment being satisfied, her feelings should rebel. Yet it did rebel. When did ever one in her family live in such a place before? They had come down surely very far to make it possible. Only in the matter of money, to be sure, but then money has to do largely with the outward appearance one makes, and upon the appearance depends much of the effect upon one's fellow creatures. The whisper would come back in Esther's mind. Who will believe you are what you are if they see you coming out of such a house? And what then? She answered the whisper. If the Lord has given us this place to dwell in, that and all other effects and consequences of it are part of His will and matter. What if we are to be overlooked and looked down upon? What have I to do with it? What matters it? Let pride be quiet and faith be very thankful. Here are all my difficulties set aside, and no danger of not paying our debts any more. She reasoned so, and fought against pride, if pride it were, which took the other side. She would be thankful, and she was. Nevertheless a comparison would arise known then with the former times and with their state at Seaforth, and further back still, with the beauties and glories of the old menor house in England. Sometimes Esther felt a strange wave of regret come over her at the thought of the gay circle of relations she did not know, who were warm in the shelter of prosperity and the cheer of numbers. She knew herself in a better shelter, yes, and in a better cheer, and yet sometimes, as I said, an odd feeling of loss and dissent would come over her as she entered Major Street. Esther was working hard these days, which no doubt had something to do with this. She rushed from her morning duties to the school, then at three o'clock rushed to Major Street, and from there, when it grew too dark to work, drove home to minister to her father, probably her times of discouragement or times when she was a little tired. The thought was very far from her, usually. In her healthy and happy youth, busy life, and mental and spiritual growth and thrift, Esther's wants seemed to be all satisfied, and so long as things ran their ordinary course she felt no deficiency, but there are conditions in which one is warm so long as one does not move, while the first year of change brings a chill over one. And so sometimes now, as Esther entered Major Street or said her face towards it, she would think of her far off-circle of Gainsborough Cousins with a half-wish that her father could have born with them a little more patiently, and once or twice the thought came too that the Dallasans never let themselves be heard from any more. Not even pit. She would not have thought in of him, but he was away in a foreign country, and it must be that he had forgotten them. His father and mother were near, and could not forget. Was not the old house there before them always to remind them? But they were rich and prosperous and abounding in everything. They had no need of the lonely two who had gone out of their sight and who did need them. It was the way of the world, so the world said. Esther wondered if that were really true, and also wondered now then if Major Street were to be henceforth not only the sphere but the limit of her existence. She never gave such thoughts harbor. They came and they went, and she remained a cheerful, brave, busy girl she had long been. The small house at last looked home like. On the front room Esther put a warm, dark-looking carpet. The chintz curtains were up and in harmony with the carpet, and the colonel's lounge was new covered with the same stuff. The old furniture had been arranged so as to give that pleasant, cosier to the room, which is such a welcome to the person entering it, making the impression of comfort and good taste, and of the habit of good living, not good living in matters of the table, but in those other matters which concern the mind's nourishment and social well-being. Everything was right in an order, and Esther surveyed her work with much content. "'It looks very nice,' she said to her good friend the housekeeper. "'It do, mom,' Mrs. Barker answered with a reservation. "'But I'm thinking, Mrs. Esther. "'I can't stop thinking. "'Whatever all the colonels say when he sees the outside.' "'You shall see the inside first. "'I have arranged that. "'And, Barker, we must have a capital supper ready for him. "'We can afford it now. "'Have a pheasant, Barker. "'There is nothing he likes better. "'And some of that beautiful honey Mrs. Bounder has brought us. "'I never saw such rich honey, I think. "'And I have good hope Papa will be pleased and put up "'with things, as I do.' "'Your Papa remembers Gainsborough Manor, mom, "'and that's what you don't.' "'What then?' "'Mrs. Barker, do you really think the Lord does not know "'what is good for us? "'That is sheer unbelief. "'Take what he gives and be thankful.' "'Barker, why do you suppose the angels came "'to the sepulchre so, as they did the morning "'of the resurrection?' "'Mum,' said Mrs. Barker, quite taken aback "'by the sudden change of subject. "'But Esther went on in a pleasant, "'pleased tone of interest. "'I was reading the last chapter of Matthew this morning, "'and it set me to thinking. "'You know a number of them, the angels, came, "'and were seen about the sepulchre. "'And I suppose there was just a crowd of them "'coming and going that morning. "'What for, do you suppose?' "'Mrs. Esther,' said the housekeeper open mouth. "'I'm sure I can't say. "'Why, they came to see the place, Barker, just for that. "'They knew what had been done, "'and they just came in crowds "'as soon as Jesus had left the sepulchre, "'perhaps before, to look at the spot "'where that wonder of all wonders had been. "'But it never occurred to me before how like it was "'to the way we human creatures feel and do. "'That was what they came for. "'And don't you remember what one of them, "'with his lightning face and his ropes of whiteness, "'sitting on the stone, said to the women? "'He told them to do what he had been doing. "'Come see the place. "'It brought the angels nearer to me "'than ever they had seemed to be before.' "'Mrs. Barker stood there spellbound, silenced. "'To be sure, if Mrs. Esther's head "'was so busy with the angels, "'she was in a sort lifted up above the small matters "'or accidents of common earthly life. "'And as much as the words, the girl's face awed her too. "'His expression was so consonant with them. "'Now, Barker, Christopher may bring up some coal "'and make a fire before he drives back for Papa "'in both rooms, Barker. "'And, Hark, what is that?' "'A long-drawn musical cry "'with sounding a little distance off, "'slowly come nearer as it was repeated. "'A cry that New York never hears now, "'but that used to come through the streets "'in the evening with a sonorous, "'half-melancholy intonation, pleasant to hear. "'Oye, stirs, oye, stirs, here's your fresh oye, stirs. "'That's just what we want, Barker. "'Get Christopher to stop the man.' "'Aster had arranged that her father's room "'and belongings at home should not be disturbed "'until the very day when he himself "'should make the transfer from the one house to the other. "'So until that morning, even the Colonel's sofa "'had not been moved. "'Now it was brought over and placed in position "'between the fireplace and the window, "'where the occupant would have plenty of light and warm. "'The new chance cover had been put on it, "'the table was placed properly, "'and the books, which the Colonel liked to have at hand, "'laid in their usual position. "'In the back room the table was set for supper. "'The rooms communicated, though indeed not by folding doors, "'still the eye could go through "'and catch the glow of the fire "'and see the neat green drug it on the floor "'and the pleasant array on the supper table. "'It looks very nice, Barker.' "'Aster could not help saying again. "'It certainly do, Mom,' was the answer, "'in which, nevertheless, "'Aster heard the aforementioned mental reservation. "'If her father liked it, "'yes, that could not be known till he came, "'and she drew a breath of patient anxiety. "'It was too dark for him to take the effect "'of anything outside. "'She had arranged that. "'One thing at a time,' she thought, "'the house to-day, major street tomorrow.' "'She met him in the hall when he came, "'giving him a kiss and a welcome, "'helped him to take off his great coat "'and conducted him into the small apartment "'so carefully made ready for him. "'It offered as much tasteful comfort "'as it was possible for a room of its inches to do. "'Aster waited anxiously for the effect. "'The Colonel warmed his hands at the blaze "'and took his seat on the sofa, "'ying things, suspiciously. "'What sort of a place is this we have come to?' "'were his first words. "'Don't you think it is a comfortable place, Papa? "'This chimney draws beautifully and the coal is excellent. "'It is really a very nice little house, Papa. "'I think it will be comfortable.' "'Not very large,' said the Colonel, "'taking with his eye the measure of the room. "'No, Papa, and none the worse for that. "'Room enough for you and room enough for me, "'and quite room enough for Barker, "'who has to take care of it all. "'I like the house very much. "'What sort of a street is it? "'Must that question come up tonight?' "'Aster hesitated. "'I thought, sir, the street was of less importance "'to us than the home. "'It is very comfortable, and the rent is so moderate "'that we can pay our way and be at ease. "'Papa, I would not like the finest house in the world "'if I had to run in debt to live in it. "'What is the name of the street?' "'Major Street.' "'Whereabouts is it? "'In the darkness I could not see where we were going. "'Papa, it is in the east part of the city, "'not very far from the river. "'Fulton Market is not very far off either, "'which is convenient. "'Who lives here?' asked the Colonel, "'with a gathering frown on his brow. "'I know none of the people, nor even their names. "'Of course not, but you know, I suppose, "'what sort of people they are? "'They are plain people, Papa. "'They are none of our class. "'They seem to be decent people.' "'Decent? "'What do you mean by decent? "'Papa, I mean not disorderly people, not disreputable, "'and is not that enough for us, Papa? "'Oh, Papa, does it matter what the people are "'so long as our house is nice and pretty and warm, "'and the low rent just relieves us "'from all our difficulties? "'Papa, do be pleased with it. "'I think it is the very best thing we could have done.' "'Ester, there are certain things "'that one owes to oneself.' "'Yes, sir, but must we not pay our debts "'to other people first?' "'Dets? "'We were not in debt to anybody.' "'Yes, Papa, to more than one, "'and I saw no way out of the difficulty "'till I heard of this house, "'and I am so relieved now. "'You cannot think with what a relief. "'If only you are pleased, dear Papa.' "'He must know so much of the truth,' "'Ester said to herself with rapid calculation. "'The Colonel did not look pleased. "'It must be confessed. "'All the prettiness and pleasantness "'on which Esther had counted to produce "'a favorable impression seemed to fail of its effect. "'Indeed, seemed not to be seen. "'The Colonel leaned his head on his hand "'and uttered something very like a groan. "'So this is what we have come to?' "'He said. "'You do not know what you have done, Esther.' "'Ester said nothing to that. "'Her throat seemed to be choked. "'She looked at her beautiful little fire "'and had some trouble to keep tears from starting. "'My dear, you did it for the best. "'I do not doubt,' her father added presently. "'I only regret that I was not consulted "'before an irrevocable step was taken.' "'Ester could find nothing to answer. "'It is quite true that a man remains himself, "'whatever he does, that is not morally wrong. "'It is true that our real dignity has not changed. "'Nevertheless, people pass in the world "'not for what they are or for what they seem to be. "'Oh, Papa, do you think that?' Esther cried, "'but the Colonel went on, not heeding her. "'So, if you take to making shoes, "'it will be supposed that you are no better than a cobbler. "'And if you choose your boat among washerwomen, "'you will be credited with tastes and associations "'that fit you for your surroundings. "'Have we that sort of a neighborhood?' He asked suddenly. "'I do not know, Papa,' Esther said me, Klee. "'The Colonel fairly groaned again. "'It was getting to be more than she could stand.' "'Papa,' she said gently, "'we have done the best we knew. "'At least I have, and the necessity "'is not one of our own making. "'Let us take what the Lord gives. "'I think he has given us a great deal. "'And I would rather, for my part, "'that people thought anything of us, "'rather than that we should miss our own good opinion. "'I do not know just what the inhabitants are "'ground about here, "'but the street is at least clean and decent, "'and within our own walls we need not think about it. "'Inside it is very comfortable, Papa.' The Colonel was silent now, not, however, seeming to see the comfort. "'There was a little interval "'during which Esther struggled for calmness "'and a clear voice. "'When she spoke, her voice was very clear. "'Barker has tea ready, Papa, I see. "'I hope that will be as good as ever, "'and better, for we have got something you like. "'Shall we go in? "'It is in the other room. "'Why is it not here, as usual, in my room? "'I do not see any reason for the change.' "'It saves the mess of crumbs on the floor in this room, "'and then it saves Barker a good deal of trouble "'to have the table there. "'Why should Barker be safe trouble here "'more than where we have come from? "'I do not understand.' "'We had Christopher there, Papa. "'Here Barker has no one to help her, "'except what I can do. "'It must be the same thing, "'do I have tea in one room or in another, I should think.' Esther could have represented that the other room was just at the head of the kitchen stairs, while to serve the tea on the Colonel's table would cost a good many more steps, but she had no heart for any further representations. With her own hands and with her own feet, which were by this time weirly tired, she patiently went back and forth between the two rooms, bringing plates and cups and knives and forks, and tea tray, and bread and butter and honey and partridge and salt and pepper, from the one table to the other, which, by the way, had first to be cleared of its own load of books and writing materials. Esther deposited these on the floor and on chairs and arranged the table for tea and pushed it into the position her father was accustomed to like. The tea kettle she left on its trivet before the grape in the other room and now made journeys uncounted between that room and this to take and fetch the teapot. Talk languished meanwhile, for the spirit of talk was gone from Esther, and the Colonel, in spite of his discomforture, developed a remarkably good appetite. When he had done, Esther carried everything back again. Why do you do that? Where is Parker, her father demanded at last? Parker has been exceedingly busy all day, putting down carpets and arranging her storeroom. I am sure she is tired. I suppose you are tired too, are you not? Yes, Papa. He said no more, however, and Esther finished her work and then sat down on a cushion at the corner of the fireplace in one of those moons belonging to tired mind and body, in which one does not seem at the moment to care any longer about anything, the lively blazing coal fire shown on a warm, cozy little room and onto somewhat despondent figures. For his supper had not brightened the Colonel up a bit. He sat brooding. Perhaps his thoughts took the road that Esther's had often followed lately, for he suddenly came out with a name narrowly spoken between them. It is a long while that we have heard nothing from the Dallas's. Yes, said Esther apathetically. Mr. Dallas used to write to me now and then. They are busy with their own concerns and we are out of sight. Why should they remember us? They used to be good neighbors in Seaforth. Pit, Papa, I do not think his father and mother were ever especially fond of us. Pit never writes to me now, the Colonel went on after a pause. He is busy with his concerns. He has forgotten us too. I suppose he has plenty of other things to think of. Oh, I have given up Pit long ago. The Colonel brooded over his thoughts a while, then raised his head and looked again over the small room. My dear, it would have been better to stay where we were, he said regretfully. Esther could not bear to pain him by again reminding him that their means would not allow it. And as her father laid back upon his sofa and closed his eyes, she went away into the other room and sat down at the corner of that fire where the partition wall screened her from view. For she wanted to let her head drop on her knees and be still and a few tears that she could not help came hot to her eyes. She had worked so hard to get everything in nice order for her father. She had so hoped to see him pleased and contented and now he was so illogically discontented. Truly he could tell her nothing she did not already know about the disadvantages of their new position. And they all rushed upon Esther's mind at this minute with renewed force. The pleasant country and the shining river were gone. She would no longer see the lights on the Jersey shore when she got up in the morning. The air would not come sweet and fresh to her windows. There would be no singing of birds or fragrance of flowers around her even in summer. She would have only the streets and the street cries and noises and dust and unsweet breath. The house would do inside but outside what a change. And though Esther was not very old in the world nor very worldly wise for her years, she knew, if not as well as her father, yet she knew that in major street she was pretty nearly cut off from all social intercourse with her kind. Her school experience and observation had taught her so much. She knew that her occupation as a teacher in a school was enough of itself to put her out of the way of invitations and that an abode in major street pretty well finished the matter. Esther had not been a favorite among her school companions in the best of times. She was of too uncommon a beauty, perhaps. Perhaps she was too different from them in other respects. Pleasant as she always was, she was nevertheless separate from her fellows by great separation of nature. And that is the thing not only felt on both sides but never forgiven by the inferiors. Miss Gainsborough, daughter of a rich and influential retired officer, would, however, have been sought eagerly and welcomed universally. Miss Gainsborough, the school teacher, daughter of an unknown somebody who lived in major street was another matter, hardly a desirable acquaintance. For what should she be desired? Esther had not been without a certain dim perception of all this and it came to her with special disagreeableness just then when every thought came that could make her dissatisfied with herself and with her lot. Why had her father ever come away from England where friends and relations could not have failed? Why had he left Seaport where at least they were living like themselves and where they would not have dropped out of the knowledge of Pitt Dallas? The feeling of loneliness crept again over Esther and the feeling of having to fight her way as it were single-handed Was this little house and major street henceforth to be the scene and sphere of her life and labors? How could she ever work up out of it into anything better? Esther was tired and felt blue which was the reason why all these thoughts and others chased through her mind and more than one tear rolled down and dropped on her stuffed gown. Then she gathered herself up. How had she come to major street and school teaching? Not by her own will or fault. Therefore it was part of the training assigned for her by a wisdom that is perfect and a love that never forgets and Esther began to be ashamed of herself. What does she mean by saying? The Lord is my shepherd if she could not trust him to take care of his sheep. And now, how had she been helped out of her difficulties, enabled to pay her debts, brought to a home where she could live and be clear of the world? Yes, and live pleasantly too and as for being alone, Esther rose with a smile. Can I not trust the Lord for that too, she thought? If it is his will I should be alone then that is the very best thing for me and perhaps he will come nearer than if I had other distractions to take my eyes in another direction. Barker came in to remove the teethings and Esther met her with a smile the brightness of which much cheered the good woman. Was the pheasant good, mom? She asked in a whisper. Capital Barker and the honey and papa made a very good supper. And I am so thankful Barker for the house is very nice and we are moved. End of chapter 32, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 33 of A Red Wall Flower. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. A Red Wall Flower by Susan Marner, chapter 33. Betty. It was summer again and on the broad grassy street of Seaford the sunshine poured in its full power. The place lay silent under the heat of midday. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the big elms and no passing wheels stirred the dust of the roadway which was ready to rise at any provocation. It was very dry and very hot. Yet at Seaford those two facts, the proclaim from everybody's mouth must be understood with the qualification. The heat and the dryness were not as elsewhere. So near the sea as the town was a continual freshness came from this and vapors and cool airs and mitigated what in other places was found oppressive. However, the Seaford people said it was oppressive too and things are so relative in the affairs of life that I do not know if they were more contented than their neighbors. But everybody said the heat was fine for the hay and as most of the inhabitants had more or less of that crop to get in they criticized the weather only at times when they were thinking of it in some other connection. At Mrs. Dallas's there was no criticism of anything. In the large comfortable rooms where windows were all open and blinds tempering the two ardent light and cool mats on the floors and chins furniture, the light and summary there was an atmosphere of pure enjoyment and expectation or pit was coming home again and his mother was looking for him with every day. She was sitting now awaiting him. No one could tell at what hour he might arrive and his mother's face was beautiful with hope. She was her old self not changed at all by the four or five years of his absence as handsome and as young and as stately as ever. She made no demonstration now. Did not worry either herself or others with questions and speculations and hopes and fears respecting her son's coming yet you could see on her fine face if you were clever at reading faces the lines of pride and joy and now and then a quiver of tenderness. It was seen by one who was sitting with her whose interest and curiosity involuntarily moved. This second person was a younger lady indeed a young lady not by comparison but absolutely a very attractive person too. She had an exceedingly good figure which the trying dress of those times showed in its full beauty. Woe to the lady then whose shoulders were not straight or the lines of her figure not flowing or the proportions of it not satisfactory. Every ungracefulness must have shown its full deformity with no possibility of disguise. Every angle must have been aggravated and every untoward movement made doubly fatal but the dress only set off and developed the beauty that could bear it and the lady sitting with Mrs. Dallas neither feared nor had need to fear criticism. Something of that fact appeared in her graceful posture and in the brow of habitual superiority and in the look of the eyes that were now and then lifted from her work to her companion. The eyes were beautiful and they were also queenly at least their calm fearlessness was not due to absence of self-consciousness. She was a pretty picture to see. The low cut dress and fearfully short waist revealed a white skin and a finely molded bust in shoulders. The very scant and clinging rope was a fine white muslin with a narrow dainty border of embroidery at the bottom and a scarf of the same was thrown on her shoulders. The round-bite arms were bare. The little tufty white sleeves making a pretty break between them and the soft shoulders and the little hands were busy with a strip of embroidery which looked as if it might be destined for the armitation of another similar dress. The lady's face was delicate, intelligent and attractive rather than beautiful. Her eyes, however, as I said, were fine and over her head and upon her neck curled ringlets of black lustrous hair. You think he will be here today? She said, breaking the familiar silence that had reigned for a while. She had caught one of Mrs. Dallas's glances towards the window. He may be here any day. It is impossible to tell. He would come before his letter. You are very fond of him, I can see. What made you send him away from you? England is so far off. Mrs. Dallas hesitated, put up the end of her knitting needle under her cap and gently moved it up and down in meditated fashion. We wanted him to be an Englishman, Betty. Why, Mrs. Dallas? Is he not going to live in America? Probably. Then why make an Englishman of him? That will make him discontented with things here. I hope not. He was not changed enough for that when he was here last. Pitt does not change. He must be an extraordinary character, said the young lady, with a glance at Pitt's mother. Dear Mrs. Dallas, how might you understand that? Pitt does not change, repeated the other. But one ought to change, that it's a dreadful sort of people that go on straight over the heads of circumstances just because they laid out the road there before the circumstances arose. I have seen such people. They tread down everything in their way. Pitt does not change, Mrs. Dallas said again. Her companion thought she said it with a certain satisfied confidence. And perhaps it was true, but the moment after Mrs. Dallas remembered that if the proposition were universal, it might be inconvenient. At least he is hard to change, she went on. Therefore his father and I wished him to be educated in the old country and to form his notions according to the standard of things there. I think a republic is very demoralizing. Is the standard of morals lower here? Inquired the younger lady demurely. I'm not speaking of morals in the usual sense. Of course, that. But there is a little too much freedom here. And besides, I wanted Pitt to be a true Church of England then. Isn't he that? Oh yes, I have no doubt he is now, but he had formed some associations I was afraid of. With my son's peculiar character, I thought there might be danger. I rely on you, Betty, said Mrs. Dallas, smiling, to remove the last vestige. The young lady gave a glance of quick, keen curiosity and understanding in which sparkled a little amusement. What can I do? She asked him early. Be with him, as you do everybody. Be with him and hand him over to you, she remarked. No, said Mrs. Dallas, not necessarily. You must see him before you can know what you would like to do with him. Do I understand then? He is supposed to be in some danger of lapsing from the true faith. Oh no, my dear, I did not say that. I meant only if he had stayed in America. It seems to me there is a general loosening of all bonds here. Boys and girls do their own way. Was it only the general spirit of the air, Mrs. Dallas, or was it a particular influence that you feared? Well, both, said Mrs. Dallas, again applying her knitting needles under her cap. The younger lady was silent a few minutes. Going on with her embroidery, this is getting to be very interesting, she remarked. It is very interesting to me, replied the mother with a thoughtful look. Before, as I told you, Hit is a very fast friend and persistent in all his likings and dislikings. Here he had none but the company of dissenters and I did not want him to get in with people of that persuasion. Is there much society about here? I fancied not. No society for him, country people, farmers, people of that stamp, nothing else. I should have thought, dear Mrs. Dallas, that you would have been quite a sufficient counteraction to temptation from such a source. Mrs. Dallas hesitated, boys will be boys, she said. But he is not a boy now. He is 24. Not a boy, certainly, but do you know that is an age when men are very hard to manage? It is easier earlier or later. Not difficult to you at any time, said the other flatteringly. The conversation dropped there. At least there came an interval of quiet working on the young lady's part and of rather listless knitting on the part of the mother whose eyes went wistfully to the window without seeing anything. And this last detail stepped us hard at the front door. Mrs. Dallas let fall her needles in her yard and rose hurriedly, crying out, that is not Mr. Dallas. And so speaking rushed into the hall. There was a little bustle, a smothered word or two, and then a significant silence, which lasted long enough to let the watcher left behind in the dry room conclude on the very deep relations subsisting between mother and son. Steps were heard moving at length, but they moved and stopped. There was lingering and slow progress and words were spoken, broken questions from Mrs. Dallas and brief responses in a stronger voice that was low-pitched and pleasant. The figures appeared at the doorway at last, but even there lingered still. The mother and son were looking into one another's faces and speaking those absorb little utterances of first meeting, which are insignificant enough if they were not weighed with such a burden of feeling. Miss Betty, sitting at her embroidery, cast successive rapid glances of curiosity and interest at the newcomer. His voice had already made her pulses quick and a little, for the tone of it touched her fancy. The first glance showed him tall and straight. The second caught a smile which was both merry and sweet. A third saw that the level brows expressed character and then the two people turned their faces towards her and came into the room and Mrs. Dallas presented her son. The young lady rose and made a reverence according to the more stately and more elegant fashion of the day. The gentleman's obeisance was profound in its demonstration of respect. Immediately after, however, he turned to his mother again, a look of affectionate joy shining upon her out of his eyes and smile. Two years, she was exclaiming, Pitt, how you have changed. Have I? I think not much. No, in one way, not much. I see you are your old self, but two years have made you older. So they should. Somehow I had not expected it, said the mother, passing her hand across her eyes with a gesture a little as if there were tears in them. I thought I should see my boy again and he is gone. Not at all, said Pitt, laughing. Mistaken, mother. There is all of him here that there ever was. The difference is that now there is something more. What, she asked. A little more experience, a little more knowledge, let us hope, a little more wisdom. There is more than that, said the mother, looking at him fondly. What? It is the difference I might have looked for, she said. Only, somehow, I had not looked for it. And the swift passage of her hand across her eyes gave again the same testimony of a few minutes before. Her son rose hereupon and proposed to withdraw to his room. And as his mother accompanied him, Miss Betty noticed how his arm was thrown around her and he was bending to her and talking to her as they went. Miss Betty stitched away busily, thus keeping time with her needle for some time thereafter. Yet she did not quite know what she was thinking of. There was a little stir in her mind, which was so unaccustomed that it was delightful. It was also vague and its provoking elements were not clearly discernible. The young lady was conscious of a certain pleasant thrill in the view of the task to which she had been invited. It promised her possible difficulty, for even in the few short minutes just passed, she had gained an inkling that Mrs. Dallas's words might be true and pit not persist in man that you could turn over your finger. It threatened her possible danger, which she did not admit. Nevertheless, the stinging sense of it made itself felt and pricked the pleasure into livelier existence. This was something out of the ordinary. This was a man not just cut after the common work-a-day pattern. Miss Betty recalled involuntarily one trait after another that had fastened on her memory. Eyes of bright intelligence and hidden power, a very frank smile, and especially, with all that, the great tenderness which had been shown in every word and looked to his mother. The good breathing and ease of manner Miss Betty had seen before. This other trait was something new, and perhaps she was conscious of the little pull it gave at her heartstrings. This was not the manner she'd seen at home, where her father had treated her mother as a sort of queen consort, certainly, co-region of the house. But where they had lived upon terms of mutual diplomatic respect, and her brothers, if they cared much for anybody but number one, gave small proof of the fact. What a brother this man would be. What a something else. Miss Betty sheared off a little from just this idea, not that she was averse to it, or that she had not often entertained it. Indeed, she had entertained it not two hours ago about Pitt himself. But the presence of the man and the recognition of what was in him had stirred in her a kindred delicacy which was innate as in every true woman, although her way of life and some of her associates had not fostered it. Betty Frear was a true woman, originally. Alas, she was also not a woman of the world. Also, she was poor, and to make a good marriage she had known for some years was very desirable for her. What a very good marriage this would be. Poor girl, she could not help the thought now, and she must not be judged hardly for it. It was in the air she breathed and that all her associates breathed. Betty had not been in a hurry to get married, having small doubt of her power to do it in any case that pleased her. Now somehow, she was suddenly confronted by a doubt of her power. I am pulling out the threads of what was to Betty only a web of very confused pattern. She did not try to unravel it. Her consciousness of just two things was clear. The pleasant stimulus of the task set before her and a little sharp premonition of its danger. She dismissed that. She could perform the task and detach Pitt from any imaginary times that his mother was afraid of, without herself thereby becoming entangled. It would be a game of uncommon interest in entertainment and a piece of benevolence, too. But Betty's pulses, as I said, were quickened a little. End of chapter 33, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 34 of A Red Wall Flower. This is the Limberbox recording. All Limberbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit liverbox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. A Red Wall Flower by Susan Marner, chapter 34. Holidays. She did not hear no acquaintance again until they met at the supper table. She behaved herself then in an extremely well-bred way, was dignified and reserved and quiet, hardly said anything, as with a nice recognition that her words were not wanted. Scarce ever seemed to look at the new arrival of whom, nevertheless, not a word nor a look escaped her, and was simply an elegant, quiet figure at the table, so lovely to look at that words from her seemed to be superfluous. Whether the stranger saw it, or whether he missed anything, there was no sign. He seemed to be provokingly and exclusively occupied with his father and mother. Hardly, she thought, giving to herself all the attention which is due from a gentleman to a lady, yet he fulfilled his duties in that regard, albeit only as one does it to whom they are a matter of course, that he listened attentively to everything that was said, while she was to all appearance indifferently busy with her supper. But the conversation ran, as it is want to run at such times, when hearts long absent have found each other again, and fling trifles about, knowing that their stores of treasure must wait for a quieter time to be unpacked. They talked of weather and crops and pits for age, and the neighbors and the changes in the village, and the improvements about the place, not as if any of these things much cared for, they were bubbles floating on their cups of joy. Questions asked and questions answered, as if in the pleasure of speaking to one another again the subject of their words did not matter, or as if the supreme content of the moment could spare little benevolence even for these outside things. At last a question was asked, which made Betty pick up her ears. This must have been due to something indefinable in the tone of the speakers, for the words were nothing. Have you heard anything of the Gainsborough's? No. It was the Elder Dolls who answered. What has become of them? I am not in condition to tell. Have you written to them? No, not since the last time, and that was a good while ago. Then you do not know how things are with them, of course. I do not see how you have let them drop out of knowledge so. They were not exactly people to the sight of. Why not when they went out of sight? You do not even know, sir, whether Colonel Gainsborough's still living? How should I? But he was as likely to live as any other man. He did not think so. For which very reason he would probably live longer than many other men. There is nothing like a hypochondriac for tough holding out. Well, I must search in York for them this time until I find them. What possible occasion, Kett, said his mother, with a tone of uneasiness which Betty noted. Duty, Mama, and also pleasure, but duty is imperative. I do not see the duty. You tried to look them up the last time you were here and failed. I shall not fail this time. If it depended on your will, remarked his father coolly. But I think the probability is that they have gone back to England and are consequently no longer in New York. What are the grounds of that probability? When last I heard from the Colonel, he was proposing the question of reconciliation with his family. And as I have heard no more from him since then, I think the likely thing is that he has made up his quarrel and gone home. I can easily determine that question by looking over the shipping lists. Perhaps not, said Mr. Dallas, or being his chin. If he has gone, I think it will have been under another name. The one he bore here was, I suspect, assumed. What for, demanded Pitt, somewhat sharply. Reasons of family pride, no doubt. That is enough to make men do foolisher things. It would be difficult to find a foolisher thing to do, replied his son. But then the conversation turned. It had given Miss Betty something to think of. She drew her own conclusions without asking anybody. And in some indefinite, inscrutable way, it stimulated and confirmed her desire for the game Mrs. Dallas had begged her to play. Human hearts are certainly strange things. What were the gains borrows to Miss Betty Frear? Nothing in the world, half an hour before. Now? Now there was a vague suspicion of an enemy somewhere, a scent of rivalry in the air, an immediate rising of partisanship. Were these the people of whom Mrs. Dallas was afraid, against whom she craved help? She should have help. Was it not even a meritorious thing to withdraw young men from untoward influences and keep them in the path marked out by his mother? Miss Frear sent in a battle like Job's warhorse, in spirit that is, outwardly, nothing could show less signs of war. She was equal to Pitt, in her seeming careless appartness. The difference was that with her it was seeming, and with him, reality. She lost not a word. She failed not to observe and regard every movement. She knew, without being seen to look, just what his play of feature in various expressions were. All the while she was calmly embroidery or idly gazing out of the window, or skillfully playing chess with Mr. Dallas, whom she inevitably beat. Pitt, the while, his mother thought, and so thought the young lady herself, was provoking the careless of her attractions. He was going hither and thither, over the farm with his father, about the village, to see the changes and look up his old acquaintances. Often, too, busy in his room where he had been wanting to spend so many hours in the old time. He was greater than he used to be, with a manner of a man and a thoughtful one. He showed not the least inclination to amuse himself with his mother's elegant visitor. Mrs. Dallas became as nearly fidgety as it was her nature to be. What do you think of my young friend? She asked Pitt when he had been a dear to at home. The lady? She is a very satisfactory person, to the eye. To the eye? It is only in my eyes you will remember, mother, that know anything about her. That is your fault. Why do you let it be true? Very naturally, I have had something else to think of. But she is a guest in the house and you really seem to forget it, Pitt. Can't you take her for a drive? Where shall I take her? Where? There is all the country to choose from. What a question! You never used to be at a loss as I remember in old times when you went driving about with that little protégé of yours. It was very imprudent of Mrs. Dallas and she knew it immediately and was beyond measure vexed with herself but the subject was started. Hora Esther, said Pitt thought fully. Mama, I can't understand how you and my father should have lost sight of those people, so. They went out of our way. But you sometimes go to New York. Passing through to Washington. I could not have time to search for people whose address I did not know. I cannot understand why you did not know it. They were not the sort of people to be left to themselves. A hypochondriac father who thought he was dying and a young girl just growing up to need a kind mother's care, which she had not. I would give more than I can tell you to find her again. What could you possibly do for her, Pitt? You, reading law and living in chambers in the temple, in London, and she a grown young woman by this time and living in New York, no doubt her father is quite equal to taking care of her. Pitt made no reply. His mother repeated her question. What could you do for her? She was looking at him keenly and did not at all like a faint smile which hovered for a second upon his lips. That is a secondary question, he said. The primary is, where is she? I must go and find out. Your father thinks they have gone back to England. It would just be lost labor, Pitt. Not if I found that was true. What could you do for them if you could discover them? Mother, that would depend on what condition they were in. I made a promise once to Colonel Gainsborough to look after his daughter. A very extraordinary promise for him to ask or for you to give, seeing you were but a boy at the time. Somewhat extraordinary, perhaps. However, that is nothing to the matter. There was a little vex pause, and then Mrs. Dallas said, in the meanwhile, instead of busying yourself with faraway claims, which are no claims, what do you think of paying a little attention to a guest in your own house? Pitt lifted his head and seemed to prick up his ears. Miss Frear, you wish me to take her to drive? I am willing, Mama. In sensible boy, you ought to be very glad of the privilege. I would rather take you, Mother. The drive accordingly was proposed that very day. Did not, however, come off. It was too hot, Miss Frear said. She was sitting in the broad veranda at the back of the house, which looked out over the garden. It was an orderly wilderness of cherry trees and apple trees and plum trees, raspberry vines and gooseberry bushes, with marigolds and four clocks and lovin' a puzzle, and hollyhocks and daisies in Larkspur, and a great many more sweet homely groves that nobody makes any count of nowadays. Sunlight just now lay glowing upon it and made the shade of the veranda doubly pleasant, the veranda being further shaded by honeysuckle and trumpet creeper, which breathed round the pillars and stretched up to the eaves. And the scent of the honeysuckle was mingled with the smell of roses, which came up from the garden. In the sweet and powered place, Miss Frear was sitting when she declared it was too hot to dry. She was in an India garden chair and had an embroidery as usual in her hand. She always had something in her hand, bit lingered, languidly contemplating the picture she made. It is hot, he assented. When it is hot, I keep myself quiet, she went on. You seem to be of another mind. I make no difference for the weather. Don't you? What energy? Then you are always at work? Who said so? I said so as an inference. When the weather has been cool enough to allow me to take notice, I have noticed that you were busy about something. You tell me now that weather makes no difference. Life is too short to allow weather to cut it shorter, said Pett, throwing himself down on a mat. I think I have observed that you too always have some work in hand whenever I have seen you. My work amounts to nothing, said the young lady. At least you would say so, I presume. What is it? Miss Pettie displayed her role of Muslim on the free portion of which an elegant line of embroidery was slowly growing, multiplying and reproducing its white buds and leaves and twining shoots. Pett regarded it with an unenlightened eye. I am as wise as I was before, he said. Why, look here, said the young lady, with a slight movement of her little foot calling her attention to the edge of her skirt, where a somewhat similar line of embroidery was visible, I am making a border for another gown. Pett sigh went from the one embroidery to the other. He said nothing. You are not complimentary, said Miss Freer. I am not yet sure that there is anything to compliment. The young lady gave him a full view of her fine eyes for half a second, or perhaps it was only that they took a good look at him. Don't you see, she said, that it is economy and thrift and all the household virtues? Not having the money to buy trimming, I am manufacturing it. And the gown must be trimmed? Unquestionably, you would not like it so well if it were not. That is possible. The question remains, what question? Whether life is not worth more than a bit of trimming? Life, echoed the young lady a little scornfully, and our now and then is not life. It is the stuff of which life is made. What is life good for? That is precisely the weightiest question that can occupy the mind of a philosopher. Are you a philosopher, Mr. Dallas? Insofar as a philosopher means a lover of knowledge, a philosopher who has attained unto knowledge, I am not. That sort of knowledge. You have been studying it? I have been studying it for years. What life is good for? Said the young lady, with again a lift of her eyes which expressed a little disdain and a little impatience. But she saw Pitt's face with a thoughtful earnestness upon it. He was not watching her eyes as he ought to have been, or somewhat petulant words he answered simply. What question of more moment can there be? I am here, a human creature with such and such powers and capacities. I am here for so many years, not numerous. What is the best thing I can do with them and myself? Get all the good out of them you can. Certainly, but you observe that is no answer to my question of how. Good is pleasure, isn't it? Is it? I think so. Make pleasure lasting and perhaps I should agree with you. But how can you do that? You cannot do it, that ever I heard. It is not in the nature of things. Then what is the good of pleasure when it is over and you have given your life for it? Well, if pleasure won't do, take greatness then. What sort of greatness, Pitt asked in the same tone. It was the tone of one who had gone over the ground. Any sort will do, I suppose, said Miss Frear with half a smile. The thing is, I believe, to be great no matter how. I never had that ambition myself, but that is the idea, isn't it? What is it worth supposing it gained? People seem to think it is worth a good deal by the efforts they make and the things they undergo for it. Yes, said Pitt thoughtfully, they pay a great price and they have their reward. And I say, what is it worth? Why Mr. Dallas said the young lady throwing up her head. It is worth a great deal, all it costs, to be noble, to be distinguished, to be great and remembered in the world. What is a worthy ambition if that is not? That is a general opinion. But what is it worth when all is done? Name any great men you think of especially great. Napoleon Bonaparte, said the young lady immediately. Do not name him, said Pitt. He wore a brilliant crown, but he got it out of the dirt of low passions and cold-hearted selfishness. His name will be remembered, but as a splendid example of wickedness, name some other. Name one yourself, said Betty. I have succeeded so ill. Name them all, said Pitt. Take all the conquerors, from Ramses the Great down to our time. Take all the statesmen from Moses and onward. Take appels at the head of a long list of wonderful painters, philosophers from Socrates to Francis Bacon, discoverers and inventors from the man who first made musical instruments in the lifetime of Adam our forefather, to what and the steam engine? Take any or all of them. We are very glad they lived and worked. We are the better for remembering them. But I ask you, what are they the better for it? This appeal, which was evidently met in deep earnest, moved the mind of the young lady with so great astonishment that she looked at Pitt as a lucous naturally, but he was quite serious in simply matter of fact in his way of putting things. He looked at her, waiting for an answer, but got none. We speak of Alexander and praise him to the skies, him of Macedon, I mean. What is that, do you think, to Alexander now? If it is nothing to him, then what is the use of being great, said Ms. Freer in her bewilderment? You are coming back to my question. There in suit of paws, during which the stitches of embroidery were taken slowly. What do you intend to do with your life, Mr. Dallas, since pleasure and fame are ruled out the young lady asked? You see, that decision was on the previous question, he answered, but it has got to be decided, said Ms. Freer, or you will be nothing. Yes, I am aware of that. There was again a pause. Ms. Freer, Pitt then began again. Did you ever see a person whose happiness rested on a lasting foundation? The young lady looked at her companion anew as if you were to her a very odd character. What do you mean, she said? I mean a person who was thoroughly happy, not because of circumstances, but in spite of them. To begin with, I never saw anybody that was thoroughly happy. I do not believe in the experience. I am obliged to believe in it. I have known a person who seemed to be clean lifted up out of the mud and mire of troublesome circumstances and who have got up to a region of permanent clear air and sunshine. I have been envying that person ever since. May I ask, was it a man or a woman? Neither, it was a young girl. It is easy to be happy at that age. Not for her, she had been very unhappy. And got over it? Yes, but not by virtue of her youth or childishness as you suppose. She was one of those natures that are born with a great capacity for suffering and she had begun to find it out early. And it was from the depths of unhappiness that she came out into clear and peaceful sunshine with nothing to help her either in her external surroundings. Couldn't you follow her steps and attain her experience as Ms. Fair Mockingly? Pitt rose up from the man where he had been lying, laughed and shook himself. As you will not go to drive, he said, I believe I will go alone. But he went on horseback and rode hard. End of chapter 34, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 35 of A Red Wallflower. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. A Red Wallflower by Susan Warner, chapter 35. Antiquities. As Pitt went off, Mrs. Dallas came on the veranda. You would not go to drive, she said to Betty. It is so hot, dear Mrs. Dallas. I had what was much better than a drive, a good, long talk. What do you think of my boy? asked the mother, with an accent of happy confidence in which there was also a vibration of pride. He puzzles me. Has he not some peculiar opinions? Have you found that out already? said Mrs. Dallas, with a change of tone. That shows he must like you very much, Betty. My son is not given to letting himself out on those subjects. Even to me he very seldom speaks of them. What subjects do you mean, dear Mrs. Dallas? inquired the young lady softly. I mean, said Mrs. Dallas, uneasily and hesitating. Some sort of religious questions. I told you he had had to do at one time with dissenting people, and I think their influence has been bad for him. I hoped in England he would forget all that and become a true churchman. What did he say? Nothing about the church or about religion. I do not believe it would be easy for anyone to influence him, Mrs. Dallas. You can do it, Betty. If anyone, I am hoping in you. The young lady, as I have intimated, was not averse to the task, all the rather that it promised some difficulty, all the rather too that she was stimulated by the idea of counter-influence. She recalled more than once what Pitt had said of that young girl and tried to make out what had been in his tone at the time. No passion, certainly. He had spoken easily and frankly, too easily to favor the supposition of any very deep feeling. And yet, not without a certain cadence of tenderness and undoubtedly with the confidence of intimate knowledge, undoubtedly also the influence of that young person, whatever its nature, had not died out. Miss Betty had a little question in her own mind that she must have been one of the persons referred to and dreaded by Mrs. Dallas as dissenters and the young lady determined to do what she could in case. She had a definite point of resistance now and felt stronger for the fray. The fray, however, could not be immediately entered upon. Pitt departed to New York, avowedly to look up the Gainsborough's. And there, as two years before, he spent unwavering pains in pursuit of his object, also as then in vain. He returned after more than a week of absence, a baffled man. His arrival was just in time to allow him to sit down to dinner with the family so that Betty heard his report. Have you found the Gainsborough's? His father asked. No, sir. Where did you look? Everywhere. What have you done? His father asked. Everything. I told you I thought they were gone back to England. If they are, there is no sign of it and I do not believe it. I have spent hours and hours at the shipping offices looking over the lists of passengers and of one thing I am certain, they have not sailed from that port this year. Not under the name by which you know them and not under any other. Colonel Gainsborough was not a man to hide his head under an alias, but they know nothing of any Colonel Gainsborough at the post office. That is strange. They never had any letters, you know, sir, and the Colonel had given up his English paper. I think I know all the people that take the London Times in New York and he is not one of them. He has gone home, said Mr. Dallas comfortably. I can find that out when I go back to England and I will. Miss Betty said nothing and asked never a word, but she lost none of all this. Pitt was becoming a problem to her. All this eagerness and painstaking would seem to look towards some very close relations between the young men and these missing people. Yet Pitt showed no annoyance nor signs of trouble at missing them. Was it that he did not really care? Was it that he had not accepted failure and did not mean to fail? In either case he must be a peculiar character and in either case there was brought to light an uncommon strength of determination. There is hardly anything which women like better in the other sex than force of character. Not because it is a quality in which their own sex is apt to be lacking, on the contrary, but because it gives a woman what she wants in a man, something to lean upon and somebody to look up to. Miss Betty found herself getting more and more interested in Pitt and in her charge concerning him how it was to be executed she did not yet see. She must leave that to chance. Nothing could be forced here. Where lacking begins to grow, there also begins fear. She retreated to the veranda after dinner with her embroidery. By and by Mrs. Dallas came there too. It was a pleasant place in the afternoon for the sun was on the other side of the house and the sea breeze swept this way giving it saltiness to the odors of rose and honeysuckle and mignonette. Mrs. Dallas sat down and took her knitting. Then before a word could be exchanged they were joined by Pitt. That is he came on the veranda but for some time there was no talking. The ladies would not begin and Pitt did not. His attention wherever it might be was not given to his companions. He sat thoughtful and determinately silent. Mrs. Dallas's knitting needles clicked. Mrs. Betty's embroidery thread went noiselessly in and out. Bees hummed and flitted about the honeysuckle vines. There was a soft, sweet, luxurious atmosphere to the senses and to the mind. This went on for a while. Mr. Pitt said, Mrs. Betty, you are giving me no help at all. He brought himself and his attention around her at once and asked how he could be of service. Your mother, began this Betty stitching away, has given me a commission concerning you. She desires me to see to it that Ennui does not creep upon you during your vacation in this unexciting place. How do I know but it is creeping upon you already and you give me no chance to drive it away. Pitt laughed a little. I was never attacked by Ennui in my life, he said. So you do not want my services. Not to fight an enemy that is nowhere in sight, perhaps use your enemy and I might be helpful in another way. It occurred to him that he had been charged to make Miss Frère Sojourn in Seaforth Pleasant and some fake sense of what this mutual charge might mean dawned upon him with a rising light of amusement. I don't know, said the young lady. You did once propose a drive. If you would propose it again, perhaps I would go. We cannot help us being hot. So they went for a drive. The roads were capital, the evening was lovely, the horses went well, and the Fayetan was comfortable. If that was not enough, it was all. Miss Frère bore it for a while patiently. Do you dislike talking? She asked at length meekly. When a soft bit of road and the slow movement of the horses gave her a good opportunity. I, not at all, said Pitt, browsing himself as out of amuse. Then I wish you would talk. This is Dallas' desires that I should entertain you and how am I to do that unless I know you better? So you think people's characters come out and talking? If not their characters, at least something of what is in their heads, what they know and don't know, what they can talk about in short. I do not know anything to talk about. Oh, fine, Mr. Dallas. You who have been to Oxford and London, tell me, what is London like? An overgrown New York, I suppose. No, neither. Overgrown means grown beyond strength or usefulness. London is large, but not overgrown in any sense. Well, like New York, only larger? No more than a mushroom is like a great old oak. London is like that. An old oak, gnarled and twisted and weatherworn, with plenty of hail life and young vigor springing out of its rugged old roots. That sounds poetical. If you mean not true, you are under a mistake. Then it seems you know London. I suppose I do better than many of those who live in it. When I am there, Ms. Fair, I am with an old uncle who is an antiquary and an enthusiast on the subject of the city. From the first, it has been his pleasure to go with me all over London and tell me the secrets of its old streets and show me what was worth looking at. London was my picture book, my theater, where I saw tragedy and comedy together, my museum of antiquities. I never tire of it, and my uncle's stray hand is never tired of showing it to me. Why, what is it to see? asked Ms. Fair with some real curiosity. For one thing, it is an epitome of English history strikingly illustrated. Oh, you mean Westminster Abbey? Yes, I have heard of that, of course, but I should think that was not interminable. I do not mean Westminster Abbey. What then, please? I cannot tell you here, said Pitt smiling, as the horses, having fallen firm ground, set off again at a gay trot. Wait till we get home and I will show you a map of London. The young lady, satisfied with having gained her object, waited very patiently and told Mrs. Dallas on reaching home that the drive had been delightful. Next day, Pitt was as good as his word. He brought his map of London into the cool, matted room where the ladies were sitting, rolled up a table and spread the map out before Ms. Fair. The young lady dropped her embroidery and gave her attention. What have you there, Pitt, is mother inquired. London, Mama. London, Mrs. Dallas drew up her chair, too, where she could look on while Pitt briefly gave an explanation of the map, showed where was the city and where the fashionable quarter. I suppose, said Ms. Fair, studying the map, the parts of London that delight you are over here, indicating the West End. No return, Pitt, by no means. The city and the strand are infinitely more interesting. My dear, said his mother, I do not see how that can be. It is true, though, mother, all this, drawing his finger around a certain portion of the map, is crowded with the witnesses of human life and history, full of remains that tell of the men of the past and their doings and their sufferings. Ms. Fair's fine eyes were lifted to him in inquiry, meeting them, he smiled, and went on. I must explain. Where shall I begin? Suppose, for instance, we take our stand here at Whitehall. We are looking at the banqueting house of the palace, built by Inigo Jones for James I. The other buildings of the palace, wide and splendid as they were, have mostly perished. This stands yet. I need not tell you the thoughts that come up as we look at it. Charles I was executed there, I know. What else? There is a whole swarm of memories and a whole crowd of images belonging to the palace of which this was a part. Before the time you speak of, there was Cardinal Woolsey. Oh, Woolsey, I remember. His outrageous luxury and pomp of living and his disgrace. Then comes Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, and their marriage. Henry's splendors and his death. All that was here. In those days, the buildings of Whitehall were very extensive, and they were further enlarged afterwards. Here Elizabeth held her court, and here she lay in state after death. James I comes next. He built the banqueting house. And in his son's time, the royal magnificence displayed in Whitehall was incomparable. All the gaities and splendors and luxury of living that then were possible were known here. And here was the scaffold where he died. The next figure is Cromwell's. Leave him out, said Mrs. Dallas, with a sort of groan of impatience. What shall I do with the next following, Mama? That is Charles II. He had a right there, at least. He abused it. At least he was a king and a gentleman. If I could show you Whitehall as it was in his day, mother, I think you would not want to look long, but I shall not try. We will go on to Charon Cross, the old palace extended once nearly so far. Here is the place, he pointed to a certain spot on the map. What is there now, asked Betty? Not in the old cross, that is gone. But of course, I cannot stand there without in thought going back to Edward I and his queen. In his place is a brazen statue of Charles I. And in fact, when I stand there, the wind seems to sweep down upon me from many a mountain peak of history. Edward and his rugged greatness. And Charles and his weak folly, and the protectorate, and the restoration. Or here, where the statue stands, stood once the gallows where Harrison and his companions were executed when the king had his own again. Sometimes I can hardly see the present when I am there for looking at the past. You are enthusiastic, said Ms. Freer. But I understand it. Yes, that is not like New York, not much. What became of the cross, Pitt? Pull down, mother, like everything else in its day. Who pulled it down? The Republicans. The Republicans. Yes, it was like them, said Mrs. Alice. Rebellion, dissent, and a one-up feeling for whatever is noble and refined all go together. That was the Puritans. Pretty strong, said Pitt. And not quite fair either, is it? How much feeling for what is noble and refined was there in the court of the second Charles? And how much of either, if you look below the surface, was in the policy or the character of the first Charles? He did not destroy pictures and pull down statues, said Mrs. Dallas. He was at least a gentleman. But the Puritans were a low set, always. I cannot forgive them for the work they did in England. You may think happened for some of the work they did, but for them you would not be here today in a land of freedom. Too much freedom, said Mrs. Dallas. I believe it is good to have a king over a country. Well, go on from Charring Cross, won't you? Said Mrs. Fair. I am interested. I never studied a map of London before. I am not sure I ever saw one. I do not know which way to go, said Pitt. Every step brings us to new associations. Every street opens up a chapter of history. Here is Northumberland House, a grand old building, full of its records. Howard's and Percy's and Seymour's have owned it and built it, and there are General Monk planned the bringing back of the stewards. Going along the Strand, every step is full of interest. Just here used to be the palace of Sir Nicholas Barron and his son. Then James I's favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, lived in it, and the beautiful Watergate is yet standing which Inigo Jones built for him. All the Strand was full of palaces which have passed away, leaving behind the names of their owners in the streets which remain or have been built since. Here Sir Walter Raleigh lived. Here the Dudleys had their boat, and Lady Jane Gray was married. Here was the house of Lord Burley, but let us go on to the church of St. Mary Le Strand. Here once stood a great maypole, round which there used to be merry-doings. The Puritans took that down too, mother. What for? They held it to be, in some sort, a relic of heathen manners. Then under Charles II it was set up again, and here, once, four thousand children were gathered and sang hymn on some public occasion of triumph in Queen Anne's reign. Is it not there now? Oh no, it was given to Sir Isaac Newton and made to subserve the uses of a telescope. How do you know all these things, Mr. Pitt? Every London antiquary knows them, I suppose, and I told you, I have an old uncle who is a great antiquary. London is his particular hobby. He must have had an abscolar, though. Much liking makes good learning, I suppose, said the young men. A little further on is the church of St. Clement Danes, where Dr. Johnson used to attend divine service. About here stands Temple Bar. Temple Bar, said Ms. Fair, I have heard of Temple Bar all my life and never connected any clear idea with the name. What is Temple Bar? It is not very much of a building. It is the barrier which marks the bound of the city of London. Isn't it London on both sides of Temple Bar? London, but not the city, the city proper begins here. On the west of this limit is Westminster. There are ugly associations with Temple Bar, I know, said Ms. Fair. There are ugly associations with everything. Down here stood Essex House, where Essex defended himself and from which he was carried off to the tower. There, in Lincoln's infields, Thomas Bavington and his party died for high treason, and there Russell died, and just up here is Smithfield. It is all over, the record of violence and tolerance and brutality. It meets you at every turn. It is only what would be in any other place as old as London, said Mrs. Dallas. In old times people were rough, of course, but they were rough everywhere. I was thinking, said Ms. Fair, Mr. Dallas gives a somewhat singular justification of his liking for London. Is it, said Pitt? It would be singular if the violence were there now, but to read the record and look on the scene is interesting and for me fascinating. The record is of other things too. See, in this place Milton lived and wrote. Here Franklin abode. Here Charles Lamb. From in in this street Bishop Hooper went away to die, and so I might go on and on. At every step there is the memorial of some great man's life or some noted man's death. And with all that, there are also the most exquisite bits of material antiquity. Old picturesque houses, old crypts of former churches of which stands now a modern representative of the name, old monuments many, old doorways and courts and corners and gateways. Come over to London and I will take you down into the crypt of St. Paul's and show you how history is presented to you there. The crypt, said Ms. Fair, doubting somewhat of this invitation. Yes, the old monuments are in the crypt. My dear, said Mrs. Dallas, I do not understand how all these things you've been talking about should have so much charm for you. I should think the newer and hasmer parts of the city, the parks and the gardens and the fine squares will be a great deal more agreeable to live in, mother. And don't you go to the British Museum and to the tower and to Hyde Park? I have been there hundreds of times and like these old corners still, I am very fond of the museum. There is nothing like that in this country said Mrs. Dallas with an accent of satisfaction. End of chapter 35, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona.