'But, papa, that was very unjust!'

'So I thought. But the injustice was done.'

'And you disinherited?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, papa! Just because you followed your own conscience!'

'Just because I held to the traditions of the family. We had _always_ been Independents--fought with Cromwell and suffered under the Stuarts.

I was not going to turn my back on a glorious record like that for any possible advantages of place and favour.'

'What advantages, papa? I do not understand. You spoke of that before.'

'Yes,' said the colonel a little bitterly, 'in that particular my stepmother was right. You little know the social disabilities under which those lie in England who do not belong to the Established Church.

For policy, n.o.body should be a Dissenter.'

'Dissenter?' echoed Esther, the word awaking a long train of old a.s.sociations; and for a moment her thoughts wandered back to them.

'Yes,' the colonel went on; 'my father bade me follow him; but with more than equal right I called on him to follow a long line of ancestors. Rather hundreds than one!'

'Papa, in such a matter surely conscience is the only thing to follow,'

said Esther softly. 'You do not think a man ought to be either Independent or Church of England, just because his fathers have set him the example?'

'You do not think example and inheritance are anything?' said the colonel.

'I think they are everything, for the right;--most precious!--but they cannot decide the right. _That_ a man must do for himself, must he not?'

'Republican doctrine!' said the colonel bitterly. 'I suppose, after I am gone, you will become a Church of England woman, just to prove to yourself and others that you are not influenced by me!'

'Papa,' said Esther, half laughing, 'I do not think that is at all likely; and I am sure you do not. And so that was the reason you came away?'

'I could not stay there,' said the colonel, 'and see my young brother in my place, and his mother ruling where your mother should by right have ruled. They did not love me either,--why should they?--and I felt more a stranger there than anywhere else. So I took the little property that came to me from my mother, to which my father in his will had made a small addition, and left England and home for ever.'

There was a pause of some length.

'Who is left there now, of the family?' Esther asked.

'I have not heard.'

'Do they never write to you?'

'Never.'

'Nor you to them, papa?'

'No. Since I came away there has been no intercourse whatever between our families.'

'Oh, papa!'

'I am inclined to regret it now, for your sake.'

'I am not thinking of that. But, papa, it must be sixteen or seventeen years now; isn't it?'

'Something like so much.'

'Oh, papa, do write to them! do write to them, and make it up. Do not let the quarrel last any longer.'

'Write to them and make it up?' said the colonel, rubbing his head again. In all his life Esther had hardly ever seen him do it before.

'They have forgotten me long ago; and I suppose they are all grown out of my remembrance. But it might be better for you if we went home.'

'Never mind that, papa; that is not what I am thinking of. Why, who could be better off than I am? But write and make it all up, papa; do!

It isn't good for families to live so in hostility. Do what you can to make it up.'

The colonel sat silent, rubbing the hair of his head in every possible direction, while Esther's fancy for a while busied itself with images of an unknown crowd of relations that seemed to flit before her. How strange it would be to have aunts and cousins; young and old family friends, such as other girls had; instead of being so entirely set apart by herself, as it were. It was fascinating, the mere idea. Not that Esther felt her loneliness now; she was busy and healthy and happy; yet this sudden vision made her realise that she _was_ alone.

How strange and how pleasant it would be to have a crowd of friends, of one's own blood and name! She mused a little while over this picture, and then came back to the practical present.

'Meanwhile, papa, what do you think of my plan? About getting a house in the city, and giving up Buonaparte and his oats? Don't you think it would be comfortable?'

The colonel considered the subject now in a quieter mood, discussed it a little further, and finally agreed to drive into town and see what he could find in the way of a house.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

_A HOUSE_.

Yet the colonel did not go. Days pa.s.sed, and he did not go. Esther ventured some gentle reminders, which had no effect. And the winter was gone and the spring was come, before he made the first expedition to the city in search of a house. Once started on his quest, it is true the colonel carried it on vigorously, and made many journeys for it; but they were all in vain. Rents in the city were found to be so much higher than rents in the country as fully to neutralize the advantage hoped for in a smaller household and the dismissal of the horse. Not a dwelling could be found where this would not be true. The search was finally given up; and things in the little family went on as they had been going for some time past.

Esther at last, under stress of necessity, made fresh representations to her father, and besought leave to give lessons. They were running into debt, with no means of paying. It went sorely against the grain with the colonel to give his consent; pride and tenderness both rebelled; he hesitated long, but circ.u.mstances were too much for him.

He yielded at last, not with a groan, but with many groans.

'I came here to take care of you,' he said; 'and _this_ is the end of it!'

'Don't take it so, papa,' cried Esther. 'I like to do it. It is not a hardship.'

'_It_ is a hardship,' he retorted; 'and you will find it so. I find it so now.'

'Even so, papa,' said the girl, with infinite sweetness; 'suppose it be a hardship, the Lord has given it to me; and so long as I am sure it is something He has given, I want no better. Indeed, papa, you know I _could have_ no better.'

'I know nothing of the kind. You are talking folly.'

'No, papa, if you please. Just remember,--look here, papa,--here are the words. Listen: "The Lord G.o.d is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; _no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly_."'

'Do you mean to tell me,' said the colonel angrily, 'that--well, that all the things that you have not just now, and ought to have, are not good things?'