"I should like to follow that rule, papa; but"--
"Then follow it," said the colonel, going back to his book, as if the subject were dismissed.
"But, papa, there are some things one _must_ have."
"Very well. Get those things. That is precisely what I mean."
"Papa, flour is one of them."
"Yes. Very well. What then?"
"Our last barrel of flour is not paid for."
"Not paid for! Why not?"
"Barker could not, papa."
"Barker should not have got it, then. I allow no debts."
"But, papa, we must have bread, you know. That is one of the things that one cannot do with out. What should she do?" Esther said gently.
"She could go to the baker"s, I suppose, and get a loaf for the time."
"But, papa, the bread costs twice as much that way; or one third more, if not twice as much. I do not know the exact proportion; but I know it is very greatly more expensive so."
The colonel was well enough acquainted with details of the commissary department to know it also. He was for a moment silenced.
"And, papa, Buonaparte, too, must eat; and his oats and hay are not paid for." It went sharp to Esther"s heart to say the words, for she knew how keenly they would go to her father"s heart; but she was standing in the breach, and must fight her fight. The colonel flew out in hot displeasure; sometimes, as we all know, the readiest disguise of pain.
"Who dared to get hay and oats in my name and leave it unpaid for?"
"Christopher had not the money, papa; and the horse must eat."
"Not without my order!" said the colonel. "I will send Christopher about his own business. He should have come to me."
There was a little pause here. The whole discussion was exceedingly painful to Esther; yet it must be gone through, and it must be brought to some practical conclusion. While she hesitated, the colonel began again.
"Did you not tell me that the fellow had some ridiculous foolery with the market woman over here?"
"I did not put it just so, papa, I think," said Esther, smiling in spite of her pain. "Yes, he is married to her."
"Married!" cried the colonel. "_Married_, do you say? Has he had the impudence to do that?"
"Why not, sir? Why not Christopher as well as another man?"
"Because he is my servant, and had no permission from me to get married while he was in my service. He did not _ask_ permission."
"I suppose he dared not, papa. You know you are rather terrible when you are displeased. But I think it is a good thing for us that he is married. Mrs. Blumenfeld is a good woman, and Christopher is disposed of, whatever we do."
"Disposed of!" said the colonel. "Yes! I have done with him. I want no more of him."
"Then, papa," said Esther, sinking down on her knees beside her father, and affectionately laying one hand on his knee, "don"t you see this makes things easy for us? I have a proposition. Will you listen to it?"
"A proposition! Say on."
"It is evident that we must take some step to bring our receipts and expenses into harmony. Your going without fruit and fish will not do it, papa; and I do not like that way of saving, besides. I had rather make one large change--cut off one or two large things--than a mult.i.tude of small ones. It is easier, and pleasanter. Now, so long as we live in this house we are obliged to keep a horse; and so long as we have a horse we must have Christopher, or some other man; and so long as we keep a horse and a man we _must_ make this large outlay, that we cannot afford. Papa, I propose we move into the city."
"Move! Where?" asked the colonel, with a very unedified expression.
"We could find a house in the city somewhere, papa, from which I could walk to Miss Fairbairn"s. That could not be difficult."
"Who is to find the house?"
"Could not you, papa? Buonaparte would take you all over; the driving would not do you any harm."
"I have no idea where to begin," said the colonel, rubbing his head in uneasy perplexity.
"I will find out that, papa. I will speak to Miss Fairbairn; she is a great woman of business. She will tell me."
The colonel still rubbed his head thoughtfully. Esther kept her position, in readiness for some new objection. The next words, however, surprised her.
"I have sometimes thought,"--the colonel"s fingers were all the while going through and through his hair; the action indicating, as such actions do, the mental movement and condition, "I have sometimes thought lately that perhaps I was doing you a wrong in keeping you here."
"_Here_, papa?--in New York?"
"No. In America."
"In America! Why, sir?"
"Your family, my family, are all on the other side. You would have friends if you were there,--you would have opportunities,--you would not be alone. And in case I am called away, you would be in good hands.
I do not know that I have the right to keep you here."
"Papa, I like to be where you like to be. Do not think of that. Why did we come away from England in the first place?"
The colonel was silent, with a gloomy brow.
"It was nothing better than a family quarrel," he said.
"About what? Do you mind telling me, papa?"
"No, child; you ought to know. It was a quarrel on the subject of religion."
"How, sir?"
"Our family have been Independents from all time. But my father married a second wife, belonging to the Church of England. She won him over to her way of thinking. I was the only child of the first marriage; and when I came home from India I found a houseful of younger brothers and sisters, all belonging, of course, to the Establishment, and my father with them. I was a kind of outlaw. The advancement of the family was thought to depend very much on the stand I would take, as after my father"s death I would be the head of the family. At least my stepmother made that a handle for her schemes; and she drove them so successfully that at last my father declared he would disinherit me if I refused to join him."
"In being a Church of England man?"
"Yes."