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Esther Waters

by George Moore · English · Gutenberg #8157 · 761,933 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Esther Waters

Author: George Moore


        
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8157]
                Most recently updated: May 20, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8157

Credits: Produced by Eric Eldred, Clay Massei, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESTHER WATERS ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, Clay Massei, Charles Franks, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team










Esther Waters

by

GEORGE MOORE






1899


I


She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid
the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in
the pale evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of
sight. The white gates swung forward slowly and closed over the line.

An oblong box painted reddish brown and tied with a rough rope lay on the
seat beside her. The movement of her back and shoulders showed that the
bundle she carried was a heavy one, the sharp bulging of the grey linen
cloth that the weight was dead. She wore a faded yellow dress and a black
jacket too warm for the day. A girl of twenty, short, strongly built, with
short, strong arms. Her neck was plump, and her hair of so ordinary a
brown that it passed unnoticed. The nose was too thick, but the nostrils
were well formed. The eyes were grey, luminous, and veiled with dark
lashes. But it was only when she laughed that her face lost its habitual
expression, which was somewhat sullen; then it flowed with bright humour.
She laughed now, showing a white line of almond-shaped teeth. The porter
had asked her if she were afraid to leave her bundle with her box. Both,
he said, would go up together in the donkey-cart. The donkey-cart came
down every evening to fetch parcels.... That was the way to Woodview,
right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge gate in
that clump of trees. The man lingered, for she was an attractive girl, but
the station-master called him away to remove some luggage.

It was a barren country. Once the sea had crawled at high tide half-way up
the sloping sides of those downs. It would do so now were it not for the
shingle bank which its surging had thrown up along the coast. Between the
shingle bank and the shore a weedy river flowed and the little town stood
clamped together, its feet in the water's edge. There were decaying
shipyards about the harbour, and wooden breakwaters stretched long, thin
arms seawards for ships that did not come. On the other side of the
railway apple blossoms showed above a white-washed wall; some market
gardening was done in the low-lying fields, whence the downs rose in
gradual ascents. On the first slope there was a fringe of trees. That was
Woodview.

The girl gazed on this bleak country like one who saw it for the first
time. She saw without perceiving, for her mind was occupied with personal
consideration. She found it difficult to decide whether she should leave
her bundle with her box. It hung heavy in her hand, and she did not know
how far Woodview was from the station. At the end of the platform the
station-master took her ticket, and she passed over the level-crossing
still undecided. The lane began with iron railings, laurels, and French
windows. She had been in service in such houses, and knew if she were
engaged in any of them what her duties would be. But the life in Woodview
was a great dream, and she could not imagine herself accomplishing all
that would be required of her. There would be a butler, a footman, and a
page; she would not mind the page--but the butler and footman, what would
they think? There would be an upper-housemaid and an under-housemaid, and
perhaps a lady's-maid, and maybe that these ladies had been abroad with
the family. She had heard of France and Germany. Their conversation would,
no doubt, turn on such subjects. Her silence would betray her. They would
ask her what situations she had been in, and when they learned the truth
she would have to leave disgraced. She had not sufficient money to pay for
a ticket to London. But what excuse could she give to Lady Elwin, who had
rescued her from Mrs. Dunbar and got her the place of kitchen-maid at
Woodview? She must not go back. Her father would curse her, and perhaps
beat her mother and her too. Ah! he would not dare to strike her again,
and the girl's face flushed with shameful remembrance. And her little
brothers and sisters would cry if she came back. They had little enough to
eat as it was. Of course she must not go back. How silly of her to think
of such a thing!

She smiled, and her face became as bright as the month: it was the first
day of June. Still she would be glad when the first week was over. If she
had only a dress to wear in the afternoons! The old yellow thing on her
back would never do. But one of her cotton prints was pretty fresh; she
must get a bit of red ribbon--that would make a difference. She had heard
that the housemaids in places like Woodview always changed their dresses
twice a day, and on Sundays went out in silk mantles and hats in the
newest fashion. As for the lady's-maid, she of course had all her
mistress's clothes, and walked with the butler. What would such people
think of a little girl like her! Her heart sank at the thought, and she
sighed, anticipating much bitterness and disappointment. Even when her
first quarter's wages came due she would hardly be able to buy herself a
dress: they would want the money at home. Her quarter's wages! A month's
wages most like, for she'd never be able to keep the place. No doubt all
those fields belonged to the Squire, and those great trees too; they must
be fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwin--finer, for she lived in a house
like those near the station.

On both sides of the straight road there were tall hedges, and the
nursemaids lay in the wide shadows on the rich summer grass, their
perambulators at a little distance. The hum of the town died out of the
ear, and the girl continued to imagine the future she was about to enter
on with increasing distinctness. Looking across the fields she could see
two houses, one in grey stone, the other in red brick with a gable covered
with ivy; and between them, lost in the north, the spire of a church. On
questioning a passer-by she learnt that the first house was the Rectory,
the second was Woodview Lodge. If that was the lodge, what must the house
be?

Two hundred yards further on the road branched, passing on either side of
a triangular clump of trees, entering the sea road; and under the leaves
the air was green and pleasant, and the lungs of the jaded town girl drew
in a deep breath of health. Behind the plantation she found a large
white-painted wooden gate. It opened into a handsome avenue, and the
gatekeeper told her to keep straight on, and to turn to the left when she
got to the top. She had never seen anything like it before, and stopped
to admire the uncouth arms of elms, like rafters above the roadway; pink
clouds showed through, and the monotonous dove seemed the very heart of
the silence.

Her doubts returned; she never would be able to keep the place. The avenue
turned a little, and she came suddenly upon a young man leaning over the
paling, smoking his pipe.

"Please sir, is this the way to Woodview?"

"Yes, right up through the stables, round to the left." Then, noticing the
sturdily-built figure, yet graceful in its sturdiness, and the bright
cheeks, he said, "You look pretty well done; that bundle is a heavy one,
let me hold it for you."

"I am a bit tired," she said, leaning the bundle on the paling. "They told
me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box later on."

"Ah, then you are the new kitchen-maid? What's your name?"

"Esther Waters."

"My mother's the cook here; you'll have to mind your p's and q's or else
you'll be dropped on. The devil of a temper while it lasts, but not a bad
sort if you don't put her out."

"Are you in service here?"

"No, but I hope to be afore long. I could have been two years ago, but
mother did not like me to put on livery, and I don't know how I'll face
her when I come running down to go out with the carriage."

"Is the place vacant?" Esther asked, raising her eyes timidly, looking at
him sideways.

"Yes, Jim Story got the sack about a week ago. When he had taken a drop
he'd tell every blessed thing that was done in the stables. They'd get him
down to the 'Red Lion' for the purpose; of course the squire couldn't
stand that."

"And shall you take the place?"

"Yes. I'm not going to spend my life carrying parcels up and down the
King's Road, Brighton, if I can squeeze in here. It isn't so much the
berth that I care about, but the advantages, information fresh from the
fountain-head. You won't catch me chattering over the bar at the 'Red
Lion' and having every blessed word I say wired up to London and printed
next morning in all the papers."

Esther wondered what he was talking about, and, looking at him, she saw a
low, narrow forehead, a small, round head, a long nose, a pointed chin,
and rather hollow, bloodless cheeks. Notwithstanding the shallow chest, he
was powerfully built, the long arms could deal a swinging blow. The low
forehead and the lustreless eyes told of a slight, unimaginative brain,
but regular features and a look of natural honesty made William Latch a
man that ten men and eighteen women out of twenty would like.

"I see you have got books in that bundle," he said at the end of a long
silence. "Fond of readin'?"

"They are mother's books," she replied, hastily. "I was afraid to leave
them at the station, for it would be easy for anyone to take one out, and
I should not miss it until I undid the bundle."

"Sarah Tucker--that's the upper-housemaid--will be after you to lend them
to her. She is a wonderful reader. She has read every story that has come
out in _Bow Bells_ for the last three years, and you can't puzzle her, try
as you will. She knows all the names, can tell you which lord it was that
saved the girl from the carriage when the 'osses were tearing like mad
towards a precipice a 'undred feet deep, and all about the baronet for
whose sake the girl went out to drown herself in the moonlight, I 'aven't
read the books mesel', but Sarah and me are great pals,"

Esther trembled lest he might ask her again if she were fond of reading;
she could not read. Noticing a change in the expression of her face, he
concluded that she was disappointed to hear that he liked Sarah and
regretted his indiscretion.

"Good friends, you know--no more. Sarah and me never hit it off; she will
worry me with the stories she reads. I don't know what is your taste, but
I likes something more practical; the little 'oss in there, he is more to
my taste." Fearing he might speak again of her books, she mustered up
courage and said--

"They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box."

"The donkey-cart isn't going to the station to-night--you'll want your
things, to be sure. I'll see the coachman; perhaps he is going down with
the trap. But, golly! it has gone the half-hour. I shall catch it for
keeping you talking, and my mother has been expecting you for the last
hour. She hasn't a soul to help her, and six people coming to dinner. You
must say the train was late."

"Let us go, then," cried Esther. "Will you show me the way?"

Over the iron gate which opened into the pleasure-ground, thick branches
of evergreen oaks made an arch of foliage, and between the trees a glimpse
was caught of the angles and urns of an Italian house--distant about a
hundred yards. A high brick wall separated the pleasure-ground from the
stables, and as William and Esther turned to the left and walked up the
roadway he explained that the numerous buildings were stables. They passed
by many doors, hearing the trampling of horses and the rattling of chains.
Then the roadway opened into a handsome yard overlooked by the house, the
back premises of which had been lately rebuilt in red brick. There were
gables and ornamental porches, and through the large kitchen windows the
servants were seen passing to and fro. At the top of this yard was a gate.
It led into the park, and, like the other gate, was overhung by bunched
evergreens. A string of horses came towards this gate, and William ran to
open it. The horses were clothed in grey cloth. They wore hoods, and
Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through the eyelet holes. They
were ridden by small, ugly boys, who swung their little legs, and struck
them with ash plants when they reached their heads forward chawing at the
bits. When William returned he said, "Look there, the third one; that's
he--that's Silver Braid."

An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted his admiration,
and William, turning quickly, said, "Mind you say the train was late;
don't say I kept you, or you'll get me into the devil of a pickle. This
way." The door let into a wide passage covered with coconut matting. They
walked a few yards; the kitchen was the first door, and the handsome room
she found herself in did not conform to anything that Esther had seen or
heard of kitchens. The range almost filled one end of the room, and on it
a dozen saucepans were simmering; the dresser reached to the ceiling, and
was covered with a multitude of plates and dishes. Esther thought how she
must strive to keep it in its present beautiful condition, and the elegant
white-capped servants passing round the white table made her feel her own
insignificance.

"This is the new kitchen-maid, mother."

"Ah, is it indeed?" said Mrs. Latch looking up from the tray of tartlets
which she had taken from the oven and was filling with jam. Esther noticed
the likeness that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron grey, and,
as in William's face, the nose was the most prominent feature.

"I suppose you'll tell me the train was late?"

"Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour late," William chimed in.

"I didn't ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond. I suppose it
was you who kept the girl all this time. Six people coming to dinner, and
I've been the whole day without a kitchen-maid. If Margaret Gale hadn't
come down to help me, I don't know where we should be; as it is, the
dinner will be late."

The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening. Esther's face
clouded, and when Mrs. Latch told her to take her things off and set to
and prepare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was made of,
Esther did not answer at once. She turned away, saying under her breath,
"I must change my dress, and my box has not come up from the station yet."

"You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale will lend you her apron."

Esther hesitated.

"What you've got on don't look as if it could come to much damage. Come,
now, set to."

The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen look of dogged
obstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's face, even to the point of
visibly darkening the white and rose complexion.




II


A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and through a broad, single
pane the early sunlight fell across a wall papered with blue and white
flowers. Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were two
pictures--a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured supplement of an
illustrated newspaper, and an old and dilapidated last century print. On
the chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale family in Sunday
clothes, and the green vases that Sarah had given Margaret on her
birthday.

And in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against the wall in the full
glare of the sunlight, Esther lay staring half-awake, her eyes open but
still dim with dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time to get
up, and she raised her arms as if to cross them behind her head, but a
sudden remembrance of yesterday arrested her movement, and a sudden shadow
settled on her face. She had refused to prepare the vegetables. She hadn't
answered, and the cook had turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushed
from the house under the momentary sway of hope that she might succeed in
walking back to London; but William had overtaken her in the avenue, he
had expostulated with her, he had refused to allow her to pass. She had
striven to tear herself from him, and, failing, had burst into tears.
However, he had been kind, and at last she had allowed him to lead her
back, and all the time he had filled her ears with assurances that he
would make it all right with his mother. But Mrs. Latch had closed her
kitchen against her, and she had had to go to her room. Even if they paid
her fare back to London, how was she to face her mother? What would father
say? He would drive her from the house. But she had done nothing wrong.
Why did cook insult her?

As she pulled on her stockings she stopped and wondered if she should
awake Margaret Gale. Margaret's bed stood in the shadow of the obliquely
falling wall; and she lay heavily, one arm thrown forward, her short,
square face raised to the light. She slept so deeply that for a moment
Esther felt afraid. Suddenly the eyes opened, and Margaret looked at her
vaguely, as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes she said--

"What time is it?"

"It has just gone six."

"Then there's plenty of time; we needn't be down before seven. You get on
with your dressing; there's no use in my getting up till you are
done--we'd be tumbling over each other. This is no room to put two girls
to sleep in--one glass not much bigger than your hand. You'll have to get
your box under your bed.... In my last place I had a beautiful room with a
Brussels carpet, and a marble washstand. I wouldn't stay here three days
if it weren't----" The girl laughed and turned lazily over.

Esther did not answer.

"Now, isn't it a grubby little room to put two girls to sleep in? What was
your last place like?"

Esther answered that she had hardly been in service before. Margaret was
too much engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the curtness of the
answer.

"There's only one thing to be said for Woodview, and that is the eating;
we have anything we want, and we'd have more than we want if it weren't
for the old cook: she must have her little bit out of everything and she
cuts us short in our bacon in the morning. But that reminds me! You have
set the cook against you; you'll have to bring her over to your side if
you want to remain here."

"Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I came in the house, before
even I had time to change my dress."

"It was hard on you. She always gets as much as she can out of her
kitchen-maid. But last night she was pressed, there was company to dinner.
I'd have lent you an apron, and the dress you had on wasn't of much
account."

"It isn't because a girl is poor----"

"Oh, I didn't mean that; I know well enough what it is to be hard up."
Margaret clasped her stays across her plump figure and walked to the door
for her dress. She was a pretty girl, with a snub nose and large, clear
eyes. Her hair was lighter in tone than Esther's, and she had brushed it
from her forehead so as to obviate the defect of her face, which was too
short.

Esther was on her knees saying her prayers when Margaret turned to the
light to button her boots.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Do you think prayers any good?"

Esther looked up angrily.

"I don't want to say anything against saying prayers, but I wouldn't
before the others if I was you--they'll chaff dreadful, and call you
Creeping Jesus."

"Oh, Margaret, I hope they won't do anything so wicked. But I am afraid I
shan't be long here, so it doesn't matter what they think of _me_."

When they got downstairs they opened the windows and doors, and Margaret
took Esther round, showing her where the things were kept, and telling her
for how many she must lay the table. At that moment a number of boys and
men came clattering up the passage. They cried to Esther to hurry up,
declaring that they were late. Esther did not know who they were, but she
served them as best she might. They breakfasted hastily and rushed away to
the stables; and they had not been long gone when the squire and his son
Arthur appeared in the yard. The Gaffer, as he was called, was a man of
about medium height. He wore breeches and gaiters, and in them his legs
seemed grotesquely thick. His son was a narrow-chested, undersized young
man, absurdly thin and hatchet-faced. He was also in breeches and gaiters,
and to his boots were attached long-necked spurs. His pale yellow hair
gave him a somewhat ludicrous appearance, as he stood talking to his
father, but the moment he prepared to get into the saddle he seemed quite
different. He rode a beautiful chestnut horse, a little too thin, Esther
thought, and the ugly little boys were mounted on horses equally thin. The
squire rode a stout grey cob, and he watched the chestnut, and was also
interested in the brown horse that walked with its head in the air,
pulling at the smallest of all the boys, a little freckled, red-headed
fellow.

"That's Silver Braid, the brown horse, the one that the Demon is riding;
the chestnut is Bayleaf, Ginger is riding him: he won the City and
Suburban. Oh, we did have a fine time then, for we all had a bit on. The
betting was twenty to one, and I won twelve and six pence. Grover won
thirty shillings. They say that John--that's the butler--won a little
fortune; but he is so close no one knows what he has on. Cook wouldn't
have anything on; she says that betting is the curse of servants--you know
what is said, that it was through betting that Mrs. Latch's husband got
into trouble. He was steward here, you know, in the late squire's time."

Then Margaret told all she had heard on the subject. The late Mr. Latch
had been a confidential steward, and large sums of money were constantly
passing through his hands for which he was never asked for any exact
account. Contrary to all expectation, Marksman was beaten for the Chester
Cup, and the squire's property was placed under the charge of a receiver.
Under the new management things were gone into more closely, and it was
then discovered that Mr. Latch's accounts were incapable of satisfactory
explanation. The defeat of Marksman had hit Mr. Latch as hard as it had
hit the squire, and to pay his debts of honour he had to take from the
money placed in his charge, confidently hoping to return it in a few
months. The squire's misfortunes anticipated the realization of his
intentions; proceedings were threatened, but were withdrawn when Mrs.
Latch came forward with all her savings and volunteered to forego her
wages for a term of years. Old Latch died soon after, some lucky bets set
the squire on his legs again, the matter was half forgotten, and in the
next generation it became the legend of the Latch family. But to Mrs.
Latch it was an incurable grief, and to remove her son from influences
which, in her opinion, had caused his father's death, Mrs. Latch had
always refused Mr. Barfield's offers to do something for William. It was
against her will that he had been taught to ride; but to her great joy he
soon grew out of all possibility of becoming a jockey. She had then placed
him in an office in Brighton; but the young man's height and shape marked
him out for livery, and Mrs. Latch was pained when Mr. Barfield proposed
it. "Why cannot they leave me my son?" she cried; for it seemed to her
that in that hateful cloth, buttons and cockade, he would be no more her
son, and she could not forget what the Latches had been long ago.

"I believe there's going to be a trial this morning," said Margaret;
"Silver Braid was stripped--you noticed that--and Ginger always rides in
the trials."

"I don't know what a trial is," said Esther. "They are not
carriage-horses, are they? They look too slight."

"Carriage-horses, you ninny! Where have you been to all this while--can't
you see that they are race-horses?"

Esther hung down her head and murmured something which Margaret didn't
catch.

"To tell the truth, I didn't know much about them when I came, but then
one never hears anything else here. And that reminds me--it is as much as
your place is worth to breathe one syllable about them horses; you must
know nothing when you are asked. That's what Jim Story got sacked
for--saying in the 'Red Lion' that Valentine pulled up lame. We don't know
how it came to the Gaffer's ears. I believe that it was Mr. Leopold that
told; he finds out everything. But I was telling you how I learnt about
the race-horses. It was from Jim Story--Jim was my pal--Sarah is after
William, you know, the fellow who brought you into the kitchen last night.
Jim could never talk about anything but the 'osses. We'd go every night
and sit in the wood-shed, that's to say if it was wet; if it was fine we'd
walk in the drove-way. I'd have married Jim, I know I should, if he hadn't
been sent away. That's the worst of being a servant. They sent Jim away
just as if he was a dog. It was wrong of him to say the horse pulled up
lame; I admit that, but they needn't have sent him away as they did."

Esther was absorbed in the consideration of her own perilous position.
Would they send her away at the end of the week, or that very afternoon?
Would they give her a week's wages, or would they turn her out destitute
to find her way back to London as best she might? What should she do if
they turned her out-of-doors that very afternoon? Walk back to London? She
did not know if that was possible. She did not know how far she had
come--a long distance, no doubt. She had seen woods, hills, rivers, and
towns flying past. Never would she be able to find her way back through
that endless country; besides, she could not carry her box on her back....
What was she to do? Not a friend, not a penny in the world. Oh, why did
such misfortune fall on a poor little girl who had never harmed anyone in
the world! And if they did give her her fare back--what then?... Should
she go home?... To her mother--to her poor mother, who would burst into
tears, who would say, "Oh, my poor darling, I don't know what we shall do;
your father will never let you stay here."

For Mrs. Latch had not spoken to her since she had come into the kitchen,
and it seemed to Esther that she had looked round with the air of one
anxious to discover something that might serve as a pretext for blame. She
had told Esther to make haste and lay the table afresh. Those who had gone
were the stable folk, and breakfast had now to be prepared for the other
servants. The person in the dark green dress who spoke with her chin in
the air, whose nose had been pinched to purple just above the nostrils,
was Miss Grover, the lady's-maid. Grover addressed an occasional remark to
Sarah Tucker, a tall girl with a thin freckled face and dark-red hair. The
butler, who was not feeling well, did not appear at breakfast, and Esther
was sent to him with a cup of tea.

There were the plates to wash and the knives to clean, and when they were
done there were potatoes, cabbage, onions to prepare, saucepans to fill
with water, coal to fetch for the fire. She worked steadily without
flagging, fearful of Mrs. Barfield, who would come down, no doubt, about
ten o'clock to order dinner. The race-horses were coming through the
paddock-gate; Margaret called to Mr. Randal, a little man, wizen, with a
face sallow with frequent indigestions.

"Well, do you think the Gaffer's satisfied?" said Margaret. John made no
articulate reply, but he muttered something, and his manner showed that he
strongly deprecated all female interest in racing; and when Sarah and
Grover came running down the passage and overwhelmed him with questions,
crowding around him, asking both together if Silver Braid had won his
trial, he testily pushed them aside, declaring that if he had a race-horse
he would not have a woman-servant in the place.... "A positive curse, this
chatter, chatter. Won his trial, indeed! What business had a lot of female
folk----" The rest of John's sarcasm was lost in his shirt collar as he
hurried away to his pantry, closing the door after him.

"What a testy little man he is!" said Sarah; "he might have told us which
won. He has known the Gaffer so long that he knows the moment he looks at
him whether the gees are all right."

"One can't speak to a chap in the lane that he doesn't know all about it
next day," said Margaret. "Peggy hates him; you know the way she skulks
about the back garden and up the 'ill so that she may meet young Johnson
as he is ridin' home."

"I'll have none of this scandal-mongering going on in my kitchen," said
Mrs. Latch. "Do you see that girl there? She can't get past to her
scullery."

Esther would have managed pretty well if it had not been for the
dining-room lunch. Miss Mary was expecting some friends to play tennis
with her, and, besides the roast chicken, there were the côtelettes à la
Soubise and a curry. There was for dessert a jelly and a blancmange, and
Esther did not know where any of the things were, and a great deal of time
was wasted. "Don't you move, I might as well get it myself," said the old
woman. Mr. Randal, too, lost his temper, for she had no hot plates ready,
nor could she distinguish between those that were to go to the dining-room
and those that were to go to the servants' hall. She understood, however,
that it would not be wise to give way to her feeling, and that the only
way she could hope to retain her situation was by doing nothing to attract
attention. She must learn to control that temper of hers--she must and
would. And it was in this frame of mind and with this determination that
she entered the servants' hall.

There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, but sitting close
together they seemed more numerous, and quite half the number of faces
that looked up as she took her place next to Margaret Gale, were unknown
to her. There were the four ugly little boys whom she had seen on the race
horses, but she did not recognize them at first, and nearly opposite,
sitting next to the lady's-maid, was a small, sandy-haired man about
forty: he was beginning to show signs of stoutness, and two little round
whiskers grew out of his pallid cheeks. Mr. Randal sat at the end of the
table helping the pudding. He addressed the sandy-haired man as Mr.
Swindles; but Esther learnt afterwards his real name was Ward, and that he
was Mr. Barfield's head groom. She learnt, too, that "the Demon" was not
the real name of the little carroty-haired boy, and she looked at him in
amazement when he whispered in her ear that he would dearly love a real
go-in at that pudding, but that it was so fattening that he didn't ever
dare to venture on more than a couple of sniffs. Seeing that the girl did
not understand, he added, by way of explanation, "You know that I must
keep under the six stone, and at times it becomes awful 'ard."

Esther thought him a nice little fellow, and tried to persuade him to
forego his resolution not to touch pudding, until Mr. Swindles told her to
desist. The attention of the whole table being thus drawn towards the boy,
Esther was still further surprised at the admiration he seemed so easily
to command and the important position he seemed to occupy, notwithstanding
his diminutive stature, whereas the bigger boys were treated with very
little consideration. The long-nosed lad, with weak eyes and sloping
shoulders, who sat on the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles' left,
was everybody's laughing-stock, especially Mr. Swindles', who did not
cease to poke fun at him. Mr. Swindles was now telling poor Jim's
misadventures with the Gaffer.

"But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his name is Mr. Randal?" Esther
ventured to inquire of the Demon.

"On account of Leopold Rothschild," said the Demon; "he's pretty near as
rich, if the truth was known--won a pile over the City and Sub. Pity you
weren't there; might have had a bit on."

"I have never seen the City," Esther replied innocently.

"Never seen the City and Sub!... I was up, had a lot in hand, so I came
away from my 'orses the moment I got into the dip. The Tinman nearly
caught me on the post--came with a terrific rush; he is just hawful, that
Tinman is. I did catch it from the Gaffer--he did give it me."

The plates of all the boys except the Demon's were now filled with
beefsteak pudding, potatoes, and greens, likewise Esther's. Mr. Leopold,
Mr. Swindles, the housemaid, and the cook dined off the leg of mutton, a
small slice of which was sent to the Demon. "That for a dinner!" and as he
took up his knife and fork and cut a small piece of his one slice, he
said, "I suppose you never had to reduce yourself three pounds; girls
never have. I do run to flesh so, you wouldn't believe it. If I don't walk
to Portslade and back every second day, I go up three or four pounds. Then
there's nothing for it but the physic, and that's what settles me. Can you
take physic?"

"I took three Beecham's pills once."

"Oh, that's nothing. Can you take castor-oil?"

Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side. Swindles had
overheard the question and burst into a roar of laughter. Everyone wanted
to know what the joke was, and, feeling they were poking fun at her,
Esther refused to answer.

The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken the edge off their
appetites, and before sending their plates for more they leaned over the
table listening and laughing open-mouthed. It was a bare room, lit with
one window, against which Mrs. Latch's austere figure appeared in
dark-grey silhouette. The window looked on one of the little back courts
and tiled ways which had been built at the back of the house; and the
shadowed northern light softened the listening faces with grey tints.

"You know," said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as if to assure himself
that the boy was there and unable to escape from the hooks of his sarcasm,
"how fast the Gaffer talks, and how he hates to be asked to repeat his
words. Knowing this, Jim always says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir.' 'Now do you
quite understand?' says the Gaffer. 'Yes, sir; yes, sir,' replies Jim, not
having understood one word of what was said; but relying on us to put him
right. 'Now what did he say I was to do?' says Jim, the moment the Gaffer
is out of hearing. But this morning we were on ahead, and the Gaffer had
Jim all to himself. As usual he says, 'Now do you quite understand?' and
as usual Jim says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir.' Suspecting that Jim had not
understood, I said when he joined us, 'Now if you are not sure what he
said you had better go back and ask him,' but Jim declared that he had
perfectly understood. 'And what did he tell you to do?' said I. 'He told
me,' says Jim, 'to bring the colt along and finish up close by where he
would be standing at the end of the track.' I thought it rather odd to
send Firefly such a stiff gallop as all that, but Jim was certain that he
had heard right. And off they went, beginning the other side of Southwick
Hill. I saw the Gaffer with his arms in the air, and don't know now what
he said. Jim will tell you. He did give it you, didn't he, you old
Woolgatherer?" said Mr. Swindles, slapping the boy on the shoulder.

"You may laugh as much as you please, but I'm sure he did tell me to come
along three-quarter speed after passing the barn," replied Jim, and to
change the conversation he asked Mr. Leopold for some more pudding, and
the Demon's hungry eyes watched the last portion being placed on the
Woolgatherer's plate. Noticing that Esther drank no beer, he exclaimed--

"Well, I never; to see yer eat and drink one would think that it was you
who was a-wasting to ride the crack at Goodwood."

The remark was received with laughter, and, excited by his success, the
Demon threw his arms round Esther, and seizing her hands, said, "Now yer a
jest beginning to get through yer 'osses, and when you get on a level----"
But the Demon, in his hungry merriment, had bestowed no thought of finding
a temper in such a staid little girl, and a sound box on the ear threw him
backwards into his seat surprised and howling. "Yer nasty thing!" he
blubbered out. "Couldn't you see it was only a joke?" But passion was hot
in Esther. She had understood no word that had been said since she had sat
down to dinner, and, conscious of her poverty and her ignorance, she
imagined that a great deal of the Demon's conversation had been directed
against her; and, choking with indignation, she only heard indistinctly
the reproaches with which the other little boys covered her--"nasty,
dirty, ill-tempered thing, scullery-maid," etc.; nor did she understand
their whispered plans to duck her when she passed the stables. All looked
a little askance, especially Grover and Mr. Leopold. Margaret said--

"That will teach these impertinent little jockey-boys that the servants'
hall is not the harness-room; they oughtn't to be admitted here at all."

Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the Demon to leave off blubbering. "You can't
be so much hurt as all that. Come, wipe your eyes and have a piece of
currant tart, or leave the room. I want to hear from Mr. Swindles an
account of the trial. We know that Silver Braid won, but we haven't heard
how he won nor yet what the weights were."

"Well," said Mr. Swindles, "what I makes out is this. I was riding within
a pound or two of nine stone, and The Rake is, as you know, seven pounds,
no more, worse than Bayleaf. Ginger rides usually as near as possible my
weight--we'll say he was riding nine two--I think he could manage
that--and the Demon, we know, he is now riding over the six stone; in his
ordinary clothes he rides six seven."

"Yes, yes, but how do we know that there was any lead to speak of in the
Demon's saddle-cloth?"

"The Demon says there wasn't above a stone. Don't you, Demon?"

"I don't know nothing! I'm not going to stand being clouted by the
kitchen-maid."

"Oh, shut up, or leave the room," said Mr. Leopold; "we don't want to hear
any more about that."

"I started making the running according to orders. Ginger was within
three-quarters of a length of me, being pulled out of the saddle. The
Gaffer was standing at the three-quarters of the mile, and there Ginger
won fairly easily, but they went on to the mile--them were the orders--and
there the Demon won by half a length, that is to say if Ginger wasn't
a-kidding of him."

"A-kidding of me!" said the Demon. "When we was a hundred yards from 'ome
I steadied without his noticing me, and then I landed in the last fifty
yards by half a length. Ginger can't ride much better than any other
gentleman."

"Yer see," said Mr. Swindles, "he'd sooner have a box on the ear from the
kitchen-maid than be told a gentleman could kid him at a finish. He
wouldn't mind if it was the Tinman, eh, Demon?"

"We know," said Mr. Leopold, "that Bayleaf can get the mile; there must
have been a lot of weight between them. Besides, I should think that the
trial was at the three-quarters of the mile. The mile was so much kid."

"I should say," replied Mr. Swindles, "that the 'orses were tried at
twenty-one pounds, and if Silver Braid can beat Bayleaf at that weight,
he'll take a deal of beating at Goodwood."

And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with large pieces of cheese
at the end of their knives, the maid-servants and the jockey listened
while Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles discussed the chances the stable had of
pulling off the Stewards' Cup with Silver Braid.

"But he will always keep on trying them," said Mr. Swindles, "and what's
the use, says I, of trying 'orses that are no more than 'alf fit? And them
downs is just rotten with 'orse watchers; it has just come to this, that
you can't comb out an 'orse's mane without seeing it in the papers the day
after. If I had my way with them gentry----" Mr. Swindles finished his
beer at a gulp, and he put down his glass as firmly as he desired to put
down the horse watchers. At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said--

"Come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. Arthur will be down presently.
Perhaps he'll tell us what weight he was riding this morning."

"Cunning old bird," said Mr. Swindles, as he rose from the table and wiped
his shaven lips with the back of his hand; "and you'd have us believe that
you didn't know, would you? You'd have us believe, would you, that the
Gaffer don't tell you everything when you bring up his hot water in the
morning, would you?"

Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking mysterious and very
rat-like he led the way to his pantry. Esther watched them in strange
trouble of soul. She had heard of racecourses as shameful places where men
were led to their ruin, and betting she had always understood to be
sinful, but in this house no one seemed to think of anything else. It was
no place for a Christian girl.

"Let's have some more of the story," Margaret said. "You've got the new
number. The last piece was where he is going to ask the opera-singer to
run away with him."

Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket and began to read
aloud.




III


Esther was one of the Plymouth Brethren. In their chapel, if the house in
which they met could be called a chapel, there were neither pictured
stories of saints, nor vestments, nor music, nor even imaginative
stimulant in the shape of written prayers. Her knowledge of life was
strictly limited to her experience of life; she knew no drama of passion
except that which the Gospels relate: this story in the _Family Reader_
was the first representation of life she had met with, and its humanity
thrilled her like the first idol set up for worship. The actress told
Norris that she loved him. They were on a balcony, the sky was blue, the
moon was shining, the warm scent of the mignonette came up from the garden
below, the man was in evening dress with diamond shirt studs, the
actress's arm was large and white. They had loved each other for years.
The strangest events had happened for the purpose of bringing them
together, and, fascinated against her will, Esther could not but listen.
But at the end of the chapter the racial instinct forced reproval from
her.

"I am sure it is wicked to read such tales."

Sarah looked at her in mute astonishment. Grover said--

"You shouldn't be here at all. Can't Mrs. Latch find nothing for you to do
in the scullery?"

"Then," said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situation, "I suppose that
where you come from you were not so much as allowed to read a tale;
... dirty little chapel-going folk!"

The incident might have closed with this reproval had not Margaret
volunteered the information that Esther's box was full of books.

"I should like to see them books," said Sarah. "I'll be bound that they
are only prayer-books."

"I don't mind what you say to me, but you shall not insult my religion."

"Insult your religion! I said you never had read a book in your life
unless it was a prayer-book."

"We don't use prayer-books."

"Then what books have you read?"

Esther hesitated, her manner betrayed her, and, suspecting the truth,
Sarah said:

"I don't believe that you can read at all. Come, I'll bet you twopence
that you can't read the first five lines of my story."

Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of the room in a tumult of
grief and humiliation. Woodview and all belonging to it had grown
unbearable, and heedless to what complaint the cook might make against her
she ran upstairs and shut herself into her room. She asked why they should
take pleasure in torturing her. It was not her fault if she did not know
how to read. There were the books she loved for her mother's sake, the
books that had brought such disgrace upon her. Even the names she could
not read, and the shame of her ignorance lay upon her heavier than a
weight of lead. "Peter Parley's Annual," "Sunny Memories of Foreign
Lands," "Children of the Abbey," "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Lamb's "Tales of
Shakespeare's Plays," a Cooking Book, "Roda's Mission of Love," the Holy
Bible and the Common Prayer Book.

She turned them over, wondering what were the mysteries that this print
held from her. It was to her mysterious as the stars.

Esther Waters came from Barnstaple. She had been brought up in the
strictness of the Plymouth Brethren, and her earliest memories were of
prayers, of narrow, peaceful family life. This early life had lasted till
she was ten years old. Then her father died. He had been a house-painter,
but in early youth he had been led into intemperance by some wild
companions. He was often not in a fit state to go to work, and one day the
fumes of the beer he had drunk overpowered him as he sat in the strong
sunlight on his scaffolding. In the hospital he called upon God to relieve
him of his suffering; then the Brethren said, "You never thought of God
before. Be patient, your health is coming back; it is a present from God;
you would like to know Him and thank Him from the bottom of your heart?"

John Waters' heart was touched. He became one of the Brethren, renouncing
those companions who refused to follow into the glory of God. His
conversion and subsequent grace won for him the sympathies of Mary
Thornby. But Mary's father would not consent to the marriage unless John
abandoned his dangerous trade of house-painter. John Waters consented to
do this, and old James Thornby, who had made a competence in the curiosity
line, offered to make over his shop to the young couple on certain
conditions; these conditions were accepted, and under his father-in-law's
direction John drove a successful trade in old glass, old jewellery, and
old furniture.

The Brethren liked not this trade, and they often came to John to speak
with him on the subject, and their words were----

"Of course this is between you and the Lord, but these things" (pointing
to the old glass and jewellery) "often are but snares for the feet, and
lead weaker brethren into temptation. Of course, it is between you and the
Lord."

So John Waters was tormented with scruples concerning the righteousness of
his trade, but his wife's gentle voice and eyes, and the limitations that
his accident, from which he had never wholly recovered, had set upon his
life, overruled his scruples, and he remained until he died a dealer in
artistic ware, eliminating, however, from his dealings those things to
which the Brethren most strongly objected.

When he died his widow strove to carry on the business, but her father,
who was now a confirmed invalid, could not help her. In the following year
she lost both her parents. Many changes were taking place in Barnstaple,
new houses were being built, a much larger and finer shop had been opened
in the more prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found herself
obliged to sell her business for almost nothing, and marry again. Children
were born of this second marriage in rapid succession, the cradle was
never empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse.

Her great solicitude was for her poor mother, who had lost her health,
whose blood was impoverished by constant child-bearing. Mother and
daughter were seen in the evenings, one with a baby at her breast, the
other with an eighteen months old child in her arms. Esther did not dare
leave her mother, and to protect her she gave up school, and this was why
she had never learnt how to read.

One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. Saunders and her husband
was her attendance at prayer-meetings when he said she should be at home
minding her children. He used to accuse her of carrying on with the
Scripture-readers, and to punish her he would say, "This week I'll spend
five bob more in the public--that'll teach you, if beating won't, that I
don't want none of your hypocritical folk hanging round my place." So it
befell the Saunders family to have little to eat; and Esther often
wondered how she should get a bit of dinner for her sick mother and her
hungry little brothers and sisters. Once they passed nearly thirty hours
without food. She called them round her, and knelt down amid them: they
prayed that God might help them; and their prayers were answered, for at
half-past twelve a Scripture lady came in with flowers in her hands. She
asked Mrs. Saunders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders answered that it
was more than she could afford, for there was nothing to eat in the house.
Then the Scripture lady gave them eighteen pence, and they all knelt down
and thanked God together.

But although Saunders spent a great deal of his money in the public-house,
he rarely got drunk and always kept his employment. He was a painter of
engines, a first-rate hand, earning good money, from twenty-five to thirty
shillings a week. He was a proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped at
nothing to get money. He was an ardent politician, yet he would sell his
vote to the highest bidder, and when Esther was seventeen he compelled her
to take service regardless of the character of the people or of what the
place was like. They had left Barnstaple many months, and were now living
in a little street off the Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the factory where
Saunders worked; and since they had been in London Esther had been
constantly in service. Why should he keep her? She wasn't one of his
children, he had quite enough of his own. Sometimes of an evening, when
Esther could escape from her drudgery for a few minutes, her mother would
step round, and mother and daughter, wrapped in the same shawl, would walk
to and fro telling each other their troubles, just as in old times. But
these moments were few. In grimy lodging-houses she worked from early
morning till late at night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs,
cooking chops, and making beds. She had become one of those London girls
to whom rest, not to say pleasure, is unknown, who if they should sit down
for a few moments hear the mistress's voice, "Now, Eliza, have you nothing
to do, that you are sitting there idle?" Two of her mistresses, one after
the other, had been sold up, and now all the rooms in the neighbourhood
were unlet, no one wanted a "slavey," and Esther was obliged to return
home. It was on the last of these occasions that her father had taken her
by the shoulders, saying----

"No lodging-houses that want a slavey? I'll see about that. Tell me,
first, have you been to 78?"

"Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place was taken when I
arrived."

"I wonder what you were doing that you didn't get there sooner; dangling
about after your mother, I suppose! Well, what about 27 in the Crescent?"

"I couldn't go there--that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad woman."

"Bad woman! Who are you, I should like to know, that you can take a lady's
character away? Who told you she was a bad woman? One of the
Scripture-readers, I suppose! I knew it was. Well, then, just get out of
my house."

"Where shall I go?"

"Go to hell for all I care. Do you hear me? Get out!"

Esther did not move--words, and then blows. Esther's escape from her
stepfather seemed a miracle, and his anger was only appeased by Mrs.
Saunders promising that Esther should accept the situation.

"Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a better woman than you
think for. For my sake, dearie. If you don't he may kill you and me too."

Esther looked at her one moment, then she said, "Very well, mother,
to-morrow I'll take the place."

No longer was the girl starved, no longer was she made to drudge till the
thought of another day was a despair and a terror. And seeing that she was
a good girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected her scruples. Indeed, she was very
kind, and Esther soon learnt to like her, and, through her affection for
her, to think less of the life she led. A dangerous point is this in a
young girl's life. Esther was young, and pretty, and weary, and out of
health; and it was at this critical moment that Lady Elwin, who, while
visiting, had heard her story, promised Mrs. Saunders to find Esther
another place. And to obviate all difficulties about references and
character, Lady Elwin proposed to take Esther as her own servant for a
sufficient while to justify her in recommending her.

And now, as she turned over her books--the books she could not read--her
pure and passionate mind was filled with the story of her life. She
remembered her poor little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, and
that tyrant revenging himself upon them because of the little she might
eat and drink. No, she must bear with all insults and scorn, and forget
that they thought her as dirt under their feet. But what were such
sufferings compared to those she would endure were she to return home? In
truth they were as nothing. And yet the girl longed to leave Woodview. She
had never been out of sight of home before. Amid the violences of her
stepfather there had always been her mother and the meeting-house. In
Woodview there was nothing, only Margaret, who had come to console and
persuade her to come downstairs. The resolution she had to call out of her
soul to do this exhausted her, and she went downstairs heedless of what
anyone might say.

Two and three days passed without anything occurring that might suggest
that the Fates were for or against her remaining. Mrs. Barfield continued
to be indisposed, but at the end of the week Esther, while she was at work
in the scullery, heard a new voice speaking with Mrs. Latch. This must be
Mrs. Barfield. She heard Mrs. Latch tell the story of her refusal to go to
work the evening she arrived. But Mrs. Barfield told her that she would
listen to no further complaints; this was the third kitchen-maid in four
months, and Mrs. Latch must make up her mind to bear with the faults and
failings of this last one, whatever they were. Then Mrs. Barfield called
Esther; and when she entered the kitchen she found herself face to face
with a little red-haired woman, with a pretty, pointed face.

"I hear, Waters--that is your name, I think--that you refused to obey
cook, and walked out of the kitchen the night you arrived."

"I said, ma'am, that I would wait till my box came up from the station, so
that I might change my dress. Mrs. Latch said my dress didn't matter, but
when one is poor and hasn't many dresses----"

"Are you short of clothes, then?"

"I have not many, ma'am, and the dress I had on the day I came----"

"Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of clothes?--for if you are
I daresay my daughter might find you something--you are about the same
height--with a little alteration----"

"Oh, ma'am, you are too good. I shall be most grateful. But I think I
shall be able to manage till my first quarter's wages come to me."

And the scowl upon Mrs. Latch's long face did not kill the pleasure which
the little interview with that kind, sweet woman, Mrs. Barfield, had
created in her. She moved about her work, happy at heart, singing to
herself as she washed the vegetables. Even Mrs. Latch's harshness didn't
trouble her much. She felt it to be a manner under which there might be a
kind heart, and she hoped by her willingness to work to gain at least the
cook's toleration. Margaret suggested that Esther should give up her beer.
A solid pint extra a day could not fail, she said, to win the old woman's
gratitude, and perhaps induce her to teach Esther how to make pastry and
jellies.

True that Margaret joined in the common laugh and jeer that the knowledge
that Esther said her prayers morning and evening inspired. She sometimes
united with Grover and Sarah in perplexing Esther with questions regarding
her previous situations, but her hostilities were, on the whole, gentle,
and Esther felt that this almost neutral position was the best that
Margaret could have adopted. She defended her without seeming to do so,
and seemed genuinely fond of her, helping her sometimes even with her
work, which Mrs. Latch made as heavy as possible. But Esther was now
determined to put up with every task they might impose upon her; she would
give them no excuse for sending her away; she would remain at Woodview
until she had learned sufficient cooking to enable her to get another
place. But Mrs. Latch had the power to thwart her in this. Before
beginning on her jellies and gravies Mrs. Latch was sure to find some
saucepans that had not been sufficiently cleaned with white sand, and, if
her search proved abortive, she would send Esther upstairs to scrub out
her bedroom.

"I cannot think why she is so down upon me," Esther often said to
Margaret.

"She isn't more down upon you than she was on the others. You needn't
expect to learn any cooking from her; her plan has always been to take
care that she shall not be supplanted by any of her kitchen-maids. But I
don't see why she should be always sending you upstairs to clean out her
bedroom. If Grover wasn't so stand-offish, we might tell her about it, and
she could tell the Saint--that's what we call the missis; the Saint would
soon put a stop to all that nonsense. I will say that for the Saint, she
do like everyone to have fair play."

Mrs. Barfield, or the Saint, as she was called, belonged, like Esther, to
the sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one of
the farmers on the estate--a very old man called Elliot. He had spent his
life on his barren down farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hard
bargains with all, especially the squire and the poor flint-pickers. He
could be seen still on the hill-sides, his long black coat buttoned
strictly about him, his soft felt hat crushed over the thin, grey face.
Pretty Fanny Elliot had won the squire's heart as he rode across the down.
Do you not see the shy figure of the Puritan maiden tripping through the
gorse, hastening the hoofs of the squire's cob? And, furnished with some
pretext of estate business, he often rode to the farm that lay under the
shaws at the end of the coombe. The squire had to promise to become one of
the Brethren and he had to promise never to bet again, before Fanny Elliot
agreed to become Mrs. Barfield. The ambitious members of the Barfield
family declared that the marriage was social ruin, but more dispassionate
critics called it a very suitable match; for it was not forgotten that
three generations ago the Barfields were livery-stable keepers; they had
risen in the late squire's time to the level of county families, and the
envious were now saying that the Barfield family was sinking back whence
it came.

He was faithful to his promises for a time. Race-horses disappeared from
the Woodview stables. It was not until after the birth of both his
children that he entered one of his hunters in the hunt steeplechase. Soon
after the racing stable was again in full swing at Woodview. Tears there
were, and some family disunion, but time extorts concessions from all of
us. Mrs. Barfield had ceased to quarrel with her husband on the subject of
his racehorses, and he in his turn did not attempt to restrict her in the
exercise of her religion. She attended prayer-meetings when her soul moved
her, and read the Scriptures when and where she pleased.

It was one of her practices to have the women-servants for half-an-hour
every Sunday afternoon in the library, and instruct them in the life of
Christ. Mrs. Barfield's goodness was even as a light upon her little oval
face--reddish hair growing thin at the parting and smoothed back above the
ears, as in an old engraving. Although nearly fifty, her figure was slight
as a young girl's. Esther was attracted by the magnetism of racial and
religious affinities; and when their eyes met at prayers there was
acknowledgment of religious kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther's
soul, for she knew she was no longer wholly among strangers; she knew they
were united--she and her mistress--under the sweet dominion of Christ. To
look at Mrs. Barfield filled her, somehow, with recollections of her pious
childhood; she saw herself in the old shop, moving again in an atmosphere
of prayer, listening to the beautiful story, in the annunciation of which
her life had grown up. She answered her mistress's questions in sweet
light-heartedness of spirit, pleasing her with her knowledge of the Holy
Book. But in turn the servants had begun to read verses aloud from the New
Testament, and Esther saw that her secret would be torn from her. Sarah
had read a verse, and Mrs. Barfield had explained it, and now Margaret was
reading. Esther listened, thinking if she might plead illness and escape
from the room; but she could not summon sufficient presence of mind, and
while she was still agitated and debating with herself, Mrs. Barfield
called to her to continue. She hung down her head, suffocated with the
shame of the exposure, and when Mrs. Barfield told her again to continue
the reading Esther shook her head.

"Can you not read, Esther?" she heard a kind voice saying; and the sound
of this voice loosed the feelings long pent up, and the girl, giving way
utterly, burst into passionate weeping. She was alone with her suffering,
conscious of nothing else, until a kind hand led her from the room, and
this hand soothed away the bitterness of the tittering which reached her
ears as the door closed. It was hard to persuade her to speak, but even
the first words showed that there was more on the girl's heart than could
be told in a few minutes. Mrs. Barfield determined to take the matter at
once in hand; she dismissed the other servants and returned to the library
with Esther, and in that dim room of little green sofas, bookless shelves,
and bird-cages, the women--mistress and maid--sealed the bond of a
friendship which was to last for life.

Esther told her mistress everything--the work that Mrs. Latch required of
her, the persecution she received from the other servants, principally
because of her religion. In the course of the narrative allusion was made
to the race-horses, and Esther saw on Mrs. Barfield's face a look of
grief, and it was clear to what cause Mrs. Barfield attributed the
demoralisation of her household.

"I will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sunday after our Bible
instruction you shall remain when the others have left for half-an-hour.
It is not difficult; you will soon learn."

Henceforth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Barfield devoted half-an-hour to
the instruction of her kitchen-maid. These half-hours were bright spots of
happiness in the serving-girl's weeks of work--happiness that had been and
would be again. But although possessing a clear intelligence, Esther did
not make much progress, nor did her diligence seem to help her. Mrs.
Barfield was puzzled by her pupil's slowness; she ascribed it to her own
inaptitude to teach and the little time for lessons. Esther's
powerlessness to put syllables together, to grasp the meaning of words,
was very marked. Strange it was, no doubt, but all that concerned the
printed page seemed to embarrass and elude her.




IV


Esther's position in Woodview was now assured, and her fellow-servants
recognised the fact, though they liked her none the better for it. Mrs.
Latch still did what she could to prevent her from learning her trade, but
she no longer attempted to overburden her with work. Of Mr. Leopold she
saw almost as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed along
the passages or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go there to
smoke; and when the door stood ajar Esther saw his narrow person seated on
the edge of the table, his leg swinging. Among the pantry people Mr.
Leopold's erudition was a constant subject of admiration. His
reminiscences of the races of thirty years ago were full of interest; he
had seen the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horses
the Gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of anecdote
concerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of his father's horsemanship always
caused a cloud to gather on Ginger's face, and when he left the pantry
Swindles chuckled. "Whenever I wants to get a rise out of Ginger I says,
'Ah, we shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip at a
finish like the Governor in his best days.'"

Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold comfortable Mr.
Swindles used to bring in the wolf-skin rug that went out with the
carriage, and wrap it round Mr. Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallow
little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss the
weights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he would go
to the press and extract from its obscurity a package of _Bell's Life_ or
a file of the _Sportsman_.

Mr. Leopold's press! For forty years no one had looked into that press.
Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-varied
repository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any trifle
that might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware
shop and a drug store.

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey boys were rarely
admitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for the
cleaning of boots or knives. William was very proud of his right of entry.
For that half-hour in the pantry he would willingly surrender the pleasure
of walking in the drove-way with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learnt that he
was there her face darkened, and the noise she then made about the range
with her saucepans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook's horror of
the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as "that little man." Although
outwardly the family butler, he had never ceased to be the Gaffer's
private servant; he represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs.
Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it not been for his
influence Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would never have returned to
his vice. Had it not been for Mr. Leopold Mrs. Latch felt that her husband
would never have taken to betting. Legends and mystery had formed around
Mr. Leopold and his pantry, and in Esther's unsophisticated mind this
little room, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on the table, became a
symbol of all that was wicked and dangerous; and when she passed the door
she closed her ears to the loud talk and instinctively lowered her eyes.

The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in Esther--love of
God, and love of God in the home. But above this Protestantism was human
nature; and at this time Esther was, above all else, a young girl. Her
twentieth year thrilled within her; she was no longer weary with work, and
new, rich blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, gladdened by the
sights and sounds of the yard; the young rooks cawing lustily in the
evergreens, the gardener passing to and fro with plants in his hands, the
white cats licking themselves in the sun or running to meet the young
ladies who brought them plates of milk. Then the race-horses were always
going to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered with
white mud that part of their toilette was accomplished in the yard; and
from her kitchen window she could see the beautiful creature haltered to
the hook fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirtsleeves
and hitched-up trousers, not a bit afraid, but shouting and quieting him
into submission with the stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by the
washing brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling, sparring,
ball-playing of the lads when their work was done, the pale, pathetic
figure of the Demon watching them. He was about to start for Portslade and
back, wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat.

Esther often longed for a romp with these boys; she was now prime
favourite with them. Once they caught her in the hay yard, and fine sport
it was in the warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her wayward
temper would get the better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at the
sound of laughter. And after their tussling they would walk a little while
pensively, until perhaps one, with an adroit trip, would send the other
rolling over on the grass, and then, with wild cries, they would run down
the drove-way. Then there was the day when the Wool-gatherer told her he
was in love, and what fun they had had, and how well she had led him into
belief that she was jealous! She had taken a rope as if she were going to
hang herself, and having fastened it to a branch, she had knelt down as if
she were saying her prayers. The poor Wool-gatherer could stand it no
longer; he had rushed to her side, swearing that if she would promise not
to hang herself he would never look at another girl again. The other boys,
who had been crouching in the drove-way, rose up. How they did chaff the
Wool-gatherer! He had burst into tears and Esther had felt sorry for him,
and almost inclined to marry him out of pity for his forlorn condition.

Her life grew happier and happier. She forgot that Mrs. Latch would not
teach her how to make jellies, and had grown somewhat used to Sarah's
allusions to her ignorance. She was still very poor, had not sufficient
clothes, and her life was full of little troubles; but there were
compensations. It was to her that Mrs. Barfield always came when she
wanted anything in a hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to apply
to Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or bran and oats for her
rabbits.

The Gaffer and his race-horses, the Saint and her greenhouse--so went the
stream of life at Woodview. What few visitors came were entertained by
Miss Mary in the drawing-room or on the tennis lawn. Mrs. Barfield saw no
one. She desired to remain in her old gown--an old thing that her daughter
had discarded long ago--pinned up around her, and on her head an old
bonnet with a faded poppy hanging from the crown. In such attire she
wished to be allowed to trot about to and fro from her greenhouse to her
potting-shed, watering, pruning, and syringing her plants. These plants
were dearer than all things to her except her children; she seemed,
indeed, to treat them as if they were children, and with the sun pouring
through the glass down on her back she would sit freeing them from
devouring insects all the day long. She would carry can after can of water
up the long path and never complain of fatigue. She broke into complaint
only when Miss Mary forgot to feed her pets, of which she had a great
number--rabbits, and cats, and rooks, and all the work devolved upon her.
She could not see these poor dumb creatures hungry, and would trudge to
the stables, coming back laden with trusses of hay. But it was sometimes
more than a pair of hands could do, and she would send Esther with scraps
of meat and bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks that Mary had so
unmercifully forgotten. "I'll have no more pets," she'd say, "Miss Mary
won't look after them, and all the trouble falls upon me. See these poor
cats, how they come mewing round my skirts." She loved to expatiate on her
inexhaustible affection for dumb animals, and she continued an anecdotal
discourse till, suddenly wearying of it, she would break off and speak to
Esther about Barnstaple and the Brethren.

The Saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and the little shop in
Barnstaple, of the prayer-meetings and the simple earnestness and
narrowness of the faith of those good Brethren. Circumstances had effaced,
though they had not obliterated, the once sharply-marked confines of her
religious habits. Her religion was like a garden--a little less sedulously
tended than of yore, but no whit less fondly loved; and while listening to
Esther's story she dreamed her own early life over again, and paused,
laying down her watering-can, penetrated with the happiness of gentle
memories. So Esther's life grew and was fashioned; so amid the ceaseless
round of simple daily occupations mistress and maid learned to know and to
love one another, and became united and strengthful in the tender and
ineffable sympathies of race and religion.




V


The summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, and after every gallop
the Gaffer passed his fingers along the fine legs of the crack, in fear
and apprehension lest he should detect any swelling. William came every
day for news. He had five shillings on; he stood to win five pounds
ten--quite a little fortune--and he often stopped to ask Esther if there
was any news as he made his way to the pantry. She told him that so far as
she knew Silver Braid was all right, and continued shaking the rug.

"You'll never get the dust out of that rug," he said at last, "here, give
it to me." She hesitated, then gave it him, and he beat it against the
brick wall. "There," he said, handing it back to her, "that's how I beats
a mat; you won't find much dust in it now."

"Thank you.... Sarah went by an hour and a half ago."

"Ah, she must have gone to the Gardens. You have never been to those
gardens, have you? Dancing-hall, theatre, sorcerers--every blessed thing.
But you're that religious, I suppose you wouldn't come?"

"It is only the way you are brought up."

"Well, will you come?"

"I don't think I should like those Gardens.... But I daresay they are no
worse than any other place. I've heard so much since I was here, that
really----"

"That really what?"

"That sometimes it seems useless like to be particular."

"Of course--all rot. Well, will you come next Sunday?"

"Certainly not on Sunday."

The Gaffer had engaged him as footman: his livery would be ready by
Saturday, and he would enter service on Monday week. This reminded them
that henceforth they would see each other every day, and, speaking of the
pain it would give his mother when he came running downstairs to go out
with the carriage, he said--

"It was always her idea that I shouldn't be a servant, but I believe in
doing what you gets most coin for doing. I should like to have been a
jockey, and I could have ridden well enough--the Gaffer thought better at
one time of my riding than he did of Ginger's. But I never had any luck;
when I was about fifteen I began to grow.... If I could have remained like
the Demon----"

Esther looked at him, wondering if he were speaking seriously, and really
wished away his splendid height and shoulders.

A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a ticket in a shilling
sweepstakes which he was getting up among the out and the indoor servants.
She pleaded poverty--her wages would not be due till the end of August.
But William offered to lend her the money, and he pressed the hat
containing the bits of paper on which were written the horses' names so
insinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to oblige him came over her,
and before she had time to think she had put her hand in the hat and taken
a number.

"Come, none of your betting and gambling in my kitchen," said Mrs. Latch,
turning from her work. "Why can't you leave that innocent girl alone?"

"Don't be that disagreeable, mother; it ain't betting, it's a
sweepstakes."

"It is all the same," muttered Mrs. Latch; "it always begins that way, and
it goes on from bad to worse. I never saw any good come from it, and
Heaven knows I've seen enough misfortune."

Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open-mouthed, a little
perplexed, holding the numbers they had drawn in both hands. Esther had
not unfolded hers. She looked at Mrs. Latch and regretted having taken the
ticket in the lottery. She feared jeers from Sarah, or from Grover, who
had just come in, for her inability to read the name of the horse she had
drawn. Seeing her dilemma, William took her paper from her.

"Silver Braid.... by Jingo! She has got the right one."

At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the yard, and the servants
flew to the window.

"He'll win," cried William, leaning over the women's backs, waving his
bony hand to the Demon, who rode past on Silver Braid. "The Gaffer will
bring him to the post as fit as a fiddle."

"I think he will," said Mr. Leopold. "The rain has done us a lot of good;
he was beginning to go a bit short a week ago. We shall want some more
rain. I should like to see it come down for the next week or more."

Mr. Leopold's desires looked as if they were going to be fulfilled. The
heavens seemed to have taken the fortunes of the stable in hand. Rain fell
generally in the afternoon and night, leaving the mornings fine, and
Silver Braid went the mile gaily, becoming harder and stronger. And in the
intermittent swish of showers blown up from the sea Woodview grew joyous,
and a conviction of ultimate triumph gathered and settled on every face
except Mrs. Barfield's and Mrs. Latch's. And askance they looked at the
triumphant little butler. He became more and more the topic of
conversation. He seemed to hold the thread of their destiny in his press.
Peggy was especially afraid of him.

And, continuing her confidences to the under-housemaid, the young lady
said, "I like to know things for the pleasure of talking about them, but
he for the pleasure of holding his tongue." Peggy was Miss Margaret
Barfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich brewer. "If he brings in your
letters in the morning he hands them to you just as if he knew whom they
are from. Ugly little beast; it irritates me when he comes into the room."

"He hates women, Miss; he never lets us near his pantry, and he keeps
William there talking racing."

"Ah, William is very different. He ought never to have been a servant. His
family was once quite as good as the Barfields."

"So I have heard, Miss. But the world is that full of ups and downs you
never can tell who is who. But we all likes William and 'ates that little
man and his pantry. Mrs. Latch calls him the 'evil genius.'"

A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his women-folk and
keeping them out of sight as much as possible. His wife a pale, dim woman,
tall as he was short, preserving still some of the graces of the
lady's-maid, shy either by nature or by the severe rule of her lord,
always anxious to obliterate herself against the hedges when you met her
in the lane or against the pantry door when any of the family knocked to
ask for hot water, or came with a letter for the post. By nature a
bachelor, he was instinctively ashamed of his family, and when the
weary-looking wife, the thin, shy girl, or the corpulent, stupid-faced son
were with him and he heard steps outside, he would come out like a little
wasp, and, unmistakably resenting the intrusion, would ask what was
wanted.

If it were Ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, "Can I do anything for you, Mr.
Arthur?"

"Oh, nothing, thank you; I only thought that----" and Ginger would invent
some paltry excuse and slink away to smoke elsewhere.

Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went out for his morning
walk; every day if it were fine you would meet him at that hour in the
lane either coming from or going to Shoreham. For thirty years he had done
his little constitutional, always taking the same road, always starting
within a few minutes of twelve, always returning in time to lay the cloth
for lunch at half-past one. The hour between twelve and one he spent in
the little cottage which he rented from the squire for his wife and
children, or in the "Red Lion," where he had a glass of beer and talked
with Watkins, the bookmaker.

"There he goes, off to the 'Red Lion,'" said Mrs. Latch. "They try to get
some information out of him, but he's too sharp for them, and he knows it;
that's what he goes there for--just for the pleasure of seeing them
swallow the lies he tells them.... He has been telling them lies about the
horses for the last twenty years, and still he get them to believe what he
says. It is a cruel shame! It was the lies he told poor Jackson about Blue
Beard that made the poor man back the horse for all he was worth."

"And the horse didn't win?"

"Win! The master didn't even intend to run him, and Jackson lost all he
had, and more. He went down to the river and drowned himself. John Randal
has that man's death on his conscience. But his conscience don't trouble
him much; if it did he'd be in his grave long ago. Lies, lies, nothing but
lies! But I daresay I'm too 'ard on him; isn't lies our natural lot? What
is servants for but to lie when it is in their master's interest, and to
be a confidential servant is to be the Prince of liars!"

"Perhaps he didn't know the 'orse was scratched."

"I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the trade."

"Oh," replied Esther, laughing; "one never hears anything else; one picks
it up without knowing. Mr. Leopold is very rich, so they say. The boys
tell me that he won a pile over the City and Suburban, and has thousands
in the bank."

"So some says; but who knows what he has? One hears of the winnings, but
they say very little about the losings."




VI


The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she did not feel as if she
wanted to romp with them. There was a stillness and a sweetness abroad
which penetrated and absorbed her. She moved towards the paddock gate; the
pony and the donkey came towards her, and she rubbed their muzzles in
turn. It was a pleasure to touch anything, especially anything alive. She
even noticed that the elm trees were strangely tall and still against the
calm sky, and the rich odour of some carnations which came through the
bushes from the pleasure-ground excited her; the scent of earth and leaves
tingled in her, and the cawing of the rooks coming home took her soul away
skyward in an exquisite longing; she was, at the same time, full of
romantic love for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with the
innermost essence of things. The beauty of the evening and the sea breeze
instilled a sensation of immortal health, and she wondered if a young man
came to her as young men came to the great ladies in Sarah's books, how it
would be to talk in the dusk, seeing the bats flitting and the moon rising
through the branches.

The family was absent from Woodview, and she was free to enjoy the beauty
of every twilight and every rising moon for still another week. But she
wearied for a companion. Sarah and Grover were far too grand to walk out
with her; and Margaret had a young man who came to fetch her, and in their
room at night she related all he had said. But for Esther there was
nothing to do all the long summer evenings but to sit at the kitchen
window sewing. Her hands fell on her lap, and her heart heaved a sigh of
weariness. In all this world there was nothing for her to do but to
continue her sewing or to go for a walk on the hill. She was tired of that
weary hill! But she could not sit in the kitchen till bedtime. She might
meet the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, and she put a piece of
bread in her pocket for his dogs and strolled up the hill-side. Margaret
had gone down to the Gardens. One of these days a young man would come to
take her out. What would he be like? She laughed the thought away. She did
not think that any young man would bother much about her. Happening at
that moment to look round, she saw a man coming through the hunting gate.
His height and shoulders told her that he was William. "Trying to find
Sarah," she thought. "I must not let him think I am waiting for him." She
continued her walk, wondering if he were following, afraid to look round.
At last she fancied she could hear footsteps; her heart beat faster. He
called to her.

"I think Sarah has gone to the Gardens," she said, turning round.

"You always keep reminding me of Sarah. There's nothing between us;
anything there ever was is all off long ago.... Are you going for a walk?"

She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of fresh air, and they went
towards the hunting gate. William held it open and she passed through.

The plantations were enclosed by a wooden fence, and beyond them the bare
downs rose hill after hill. On the left the land sloped into a shallow
valley sown with various crops; and the shaws about Elliot's farm were the
last trees. Beyond the farmhouse the downs ascended higher and higher,
treeless, irreclaimable, scooped into long patriarchal solitudes, thrown
into wild crests.

There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock trotted past them in
good order, followed by the shepherd, a huge hat and a crook in his hand,
and two shaggy dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose out of the
sainfoin, and flew down the hills; and watching their curving flight
Esther and William saw the sea under the sun-setting, and the string of
coast towns.

"A lovely evening, isn't it?"

Esther acquiesced; and tempted by the warmth of the grass they sat down,
and the mystery of the twilight found way into their consciousness.

"We shan't have any rain yet awhile."

"How do you know?"

"I'll tell you," William answered, eager to show his superior knowledge.
"Look due south-west, straight through that last dip in that line of
hills. Do you see anything?"

"No, I can see nothing," said Esther, after straining her eyes for a few
moments.

"I thought not.... Well, if it was going to rain you would see the Isle of
Wight."

For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther asked him where the
race-course was.

"There, over yonder. I can't show you the start, a long way behind that
hill, Portslade way; then they come right along by that gorse and finish
up by Truly barn--you can't see Truly barn from here, that's Thunder's
barrow barn; they go quite half a mile farther."

"And does all that land belong to the Gaffer?"

"Yes, and a great deal more, too; but this down land isn't worth much--not
more than about ten shillings an acre."

"And how many acres are there?"

"Do you mean all that we can see?"

"Yes."

"The Gaffer's property reaches to Southwick Hill, and it goes north a long
way. I suppose you don't know that all this piece, all that lies between
us and that barn yonder, once belonged to my family."

"To your family?"

"Yes, the Latches were once big swells; in the time of my
great-grandfather the Barfields could not hold their heads as high as the
Latches. My great-grandfather had a pot of money, but it all went."

"Racing?"

"A good bit, I've no doubt. A rare 'ard liver, cock-fighting, 'unting,
'orse-racing from one year's end to the other. Then after 'im came my
grandfather; he went to the law, and a sad mess he made of it--went
stony-broke and left my father without a sixpence; that is why mother
didn't want me to go into livery. The family 'ad been coming down for
generations, and mother thought that I was born to restore it; and so I
was, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up and down the King's
Road."

Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, feeling that he had
secured an appreciative listener, he continued his monologue regarding the
wealth and rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew forced them
to their feet. In front of them was the moon, and out of the forlorn sky
looked down the misted valleys; the crests of the hills were still touched
with light, and lights flew from coast town to coast town, weaving a
luminous garland.

The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in the greyness of this
hill-side, and beyond them the massive moonlit landscape and the vague
sea, Esther suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, of the
exceeding beauty of the world. Looking up in William's face, she said--

"Oh, how beautiful!"

As they descended the drove-way their feet raised the chalk, and William
said--

"This is bad for Silver Braid; we shall want some more rain in a day or
two.... Let's come for a walk round the farm," he said suddenly. "The farm
belongs to the Gaffer, but he's let the Lodge to a young fellow called
Johnson. He's the chap that Peggy used to go after--there was awful rows
about that, and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about Egmont."

The conversation wandered agreeably, and they became more conscious of
each other. He told her all he knew about the chap who had jilted Miss
Mary, and the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gardens who had
captivated Ginger's susceptible heart. While listening she suddenly became
aware that she had never been so happy before. Now all she had endured
seemed accidental; she felt that she had entered into the permanent; and
in the midst of vague but intense sensations William showed her the
pigeon-house with all the blue birds dozing on the tiles, a white one here
and there. They visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottages
where the bailiff and the shepherd lived; and all this inanimate
nature--the most insignificant objects--seemed inspired, seemed like
symbols of her emotion.

They left the farm and wandered on the high road until a stile leading to
a cornfield beguiled and then delayed their steps.

The silence of the moonlight was clear and immense; and they listened to
the trilling of the nightingale in the copse hard by. First they sought to
discover the brown bird in the branches of the poor hedge, and then the
reason of the extraordinary emotion in their hearts. It seemed that all
life was beating in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed to
reach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. Even William
noticed that. And the moon shone on the mist that had gathered on the long
marsh lands of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land wavered out into
down land, the river gleamed and intensely.

This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The striking of a match to
light his pipe, which had gone out, put the music to flight, and all along
the white road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by the
necessity of puffing at his pipe.

"Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride in me I wouldn't have
consented to put on the livery; but what I says to mother is, 'What's the
use of having pride if you haven't money?' I tells her that I am rotten
with pride, but my pride is to make money. I can't see that the man what
is willing to remain poor all his life has any pride at all.... But, Lord!
I have argued with mother till I'm sick; she can see nothing further than
the livery; that's what women are--they are that short-sighted.... A lot
of good it would have done me to have carried parcels all my life, and
when I could do four mile an hour no more, to be turned out to die in the
ditch and be buried by the parish. 'Not good enough,' says I. 'If that's
your pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you
'aven't got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well,'--that's what
I said to her. I saw well enough there was nothing for me but service, and
I means to stop here until I can get on three or four good things and then
retire into a nice comfortable public-house and do my own betting."

"You would give up betting then?"

"I'd give up backing 'orses, if you mean that.... What I should like would
be to get on to a dozen good things at long prices--half-a-dozen like
Silver Braid would do it. For a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds I could
have the 'Red Lion,' and just inside my own bar I could do a hundred-pound
book on all the big races."

Esther listened, hearing interminable references to jockeys, publicans,
weights, odds, and the certainty, if he had the "Red Lion," of being able
to get all Joe Walker's betting business away from him. Allusions to the
police, and the care that must be taken not to bet with anyone who had not
been properly introduced, frightened her; but her fears died in the
sensation of his arm about her waist, and the music that the striking of a
match had put to flight had begun again in the next plantation, and it
began again in their hearts. But if he were going to marry Sarah! The idea
amused him; he laughed loudly, and they walked up the avenue, his face
bent over hers.




VII


The Barfield calculation was that they had a stone in hand. Bayleaf, Mr.
Leopold argued, would be backed to win a million of money if he were
handicapped in the race at seven stone; and Silver Braid, who had been
tried again with Bayleaf, and with the same result as before, had been let
off with only six stone.

More rain had fallen, the hay-crop had been irretrievably ruined, the
prospects of the wheat harvest were jeopardized, but what did a few
bushels of wheat matter? Another pound of muscle in those superb
hind-quarters was worth all the corn that could be grown between here and
Henfield. Let the rain come down, let every ear of wheat be destroyed, so
long as those delicate fore-legs remained sound. These were the ethics
that obtained at Woodview, and within the last few days showed signs of
adoption by the little town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired of
seeing their crops rotting on the hill-sides. The fever of the gamble was
in eruption, breaking out in unexpected places--the station-master, the
porters, the flymen, all had their bit on, and notwithstanding the
enormous favouritism of two other horses in the race--Prisoner and Stoke
Newington--Silver Braid had advanced considerably in the betting. Reports
of trials won had reached Brighton, and not more than five-and-twenty to
one could now be obtained.

The discovery that the Demon had gone up several pounds in weight had
introduced the necessary alloy into the mintage of their happiness; the
most real consternation prevailed, and the strictest investigation was
made as to when and how he had obtained the quantities of food required to
produce such a mass of adipose tissue. Then the Gaffer had the boy
upstairs and administered to him a huge dose of salts, seeing him swallow
every drop; and when the effects of the medicine had worn off he was sent
for a walk to Portslade in two large overcoats, and was accompanied by
William, whose long legs led the way so effectively. On his return a
couple of nice feather beds were ready, and Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles
themselves laid him between them, and when they noticed that he was
beginning to cease to perspire Mr. Leopold made him a nice cup of hot tea.

"That's the way the Gaffer used to get the flesh off in the old days when
he rode the winner at Liverpool."

"It's the Demon's own fault," said Mr. Swindles; "if he hadn't been so
greedy he wouldn't have had to sweat, and we should 'ave been spared a
deal of bother and anxiety."

"Greedy!" murmured the little boy, in whom the warm tea had induced a new
perspiration; "I haven't had what you might call a dinner for the last
three months. I think I'll chuck the whole thing."

"Not until this race is over," said Mr. Swindles. "Supposing I was to pass
the warming-pan down these 'ere sheets. What do you say, Mr. Leopold? They
are beginning to feel a bit cold."

"Cold! I 'ope you'll never go to a 'otter place. For God's sake, Mr.
Leopold, don't let him come near me with the warming-pan, or else he'll
melt the little flesh that's left off me."

"You 'ad better not make such a fuss," said Mr. Leopold; "if you don't do
what you are told, you'll have to take salts again and go for another walk
with William."

"If we don't warm up them sheets 'e'll dry up," said Mr. Swindles.

"No, I won't; I'm teeming."

"Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of mutton when you get up,"
said Mr. Leopold.

"How much? Two slices?"

"Well, you see, we can't promise; it all depends on how much has come off,
and 'aving once got it hoff, we don't want to put it on again."

"I never did 'ear such rot," said Swindles. "In my time a boy's feelings
weren't considered--one did what one considered good for them."

Mr. Leopold strove to engage the Demon's attention with compliments
regarding his horsemanship in the City and Sub. while Mr. Swindles raised
the bedclothes.

"Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me."

"For 'eaven's sake don't let him start out from under the bed like that!
Can't yer 'old him? Burning you! I never even touched you with it; it was
the sheet that you felt."

"Then the sheet is at 'ot as the bloody fire. Will yer leave off?"

"What! a Demon like you afraid of a little touch of 'eat; wouldn't 'ave
believed it unless I 'ad 'eard it with my own ears," said Mr. Leopold.
"Come, now, do yer want to ride the crack at Goodwood or do yer not? If
you do, remain quiet, and let us finish taking off the last couple of
pounds."

"It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of one; the first lot
comes off jest like butter," said the boy, rolling out of the way of the
pan. "I know what it will be; I shall be so weak that I shall just ride a
stinking bad race."

Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. It was clear they thought
that there was something in the last words of the fainting Demon, and the
pan was withdrawn. But when the boy was got into the scale again it was
found that he was not yet nearly the right weight, and the Gaffer ordered
another effort to be made. The Demon pleaded that his feet were sore, but
he was sent off to Portslade in charge of the redoubtable William.

And as the last pounds came off the Demon's little carcass Mr. Leopold's
face resumed a more tranquil expression. It began to be whispered that
instead of hedging any part of his money he would stand it all out, and
one day a market gardener brought up word that he had seen Mr. Leopold
going into Brighton.

"Old Watkins isn't good enough for him, that's about it. If Silver Braid
wins, Woodview will see very little more of Mr. Leopold. He'll be for
buying one of them big houses on the sea road and keeping his own trap."




VIII


The great day was now fast approaching, and the Gaffer had promised to
drive his folk in a drag to Goodwood. No more rain was required, the
colt's legs remained sound, and three days of sunshine would make all the
difference in their sum of happiness. In the kitchen Mrs. Latch and Esther
had been busy for some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in the
passage there were cases packed with fruit and wine. The dressmaker had
come from Worthing, and for several days the young ladies had not left
her. And one fine morning, very early--about eight o'clock--the wheelers
were backed into the drag that had come from Brighton, and the yard
resounded with the blaring of the horn. Ginger was practising under his
sister's window.

"You'll be late! You'll be late!"

With the exception of two young gentlemen, who had come at the invitation
of the young ladies, it was quite a family party. Miss Mary sat beside her
father on the box, and looked very charming in white and blue. Peggy's
black hair seemed blacker than ever under a white silk parasol, which she
waved negligently above her as she stood up calling and talking to
everyone until the Gaffer told her angrily to sit down, as he was going to
start. Then William and the coachman let go the leaders' heads, and
running side by side swung themselves into their seats. At the same moment
a glimpse was caught of Mr. Leopold's sallow profile amid the boxes and
the mackintoshes that filled the inside of the coach.

"Oh, William did look that handsome in those beautiful new clothes!
...Everyone said so--Sarah and Margaret and Miss Grover. I'm sorry you did
not come out to see him."

Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remembered how she hated her son to
wear livery, and thought that she had perhaps made a mistake in saying
that Mrs. Latch should have come out to see him. "Perhaps this will make
her dislike me again," thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved about rapidly,
and she opened and closed the oven; then, raising her eyes to the window
and seeing that the other women were still standing in the yard and safely
out of hearing, she said--

"Do you think that he has bet much on this race?"

"Oh, how should I know, Mrs. Latch?... But the horse is certain to win."

"Certain to win! I have heard that tale before; they are always certain to
win. So they have won you round to their way of thinking, have they?" said
Mrs. Latch, straightening her back.

"I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet; but what can I do, a
poor girl like me? If it hadn't been for William I never would have taken
a number in that sweepstakes."

"Do you like him very much, then?"

"He has been very kind to me--he was kind when--"

"Yes, I know, when I was unkind. I was unkind to you when you first came.
You don't know all. I was much troubled at that time, and somehow I did
not--. But there is no ill-feeling?... I'll make it up to you--I'll teach
you how to be a cook."

"Oh, Mrs. Latch, I am sure----"

"Never mind that. When you went out to walk with him the other night, did
he tell you that he had many bets on the race?"

"He talked about the race, like everyone else, but he did not tell me what
bets he had on."

"No, they never do do that.... But you'll not tell him that I asked you?"

"No, Mrs. Latch, I promise."

"It would do no good, he'd only be angry; it would only set him against
me. I am afraid that nothing will stop him now. Once they get a taste for
it it is like drink. I wish he was married, that might get him out of it.
Some woman who would have an influence over him, some strong-minded woman.
I thought once that you were strong-minded----"

At that moment Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen talking loudly. They
asked Mrs. Latch how soon they could have dinner--the sooner the better,
for the Saint had told them that they were free to go out for the day.
They were to try to be back before eight, that was all. Ah! the Saint was
a first-rate sort. She had said that she did not want anyone to attend on
her. She would, get herself a bit of lunch in the dining-room. Mrs. Latch
allowed Esther to hurry on the dinner, and by one o'clock they had all
finished. Sarah and Margaret were going into Brighton to do some shopping,
Grover was going to Worthing to spend the afternoon with the wife of one
of the guards of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs. Latch went
upstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier and lonelier in the kitchen.
Esther's sewing fell out of her hands, and she wondered what she should
do. She thought that she might go down to the beach, and soon after she
put on her hat and stood thinking, remembering that she had not been by
the sea, that she had not seen the sea since she was a little girl. But
she remembered the tall ships that came into the harbour, sail falling
over sail, and the tall ships that floated out of the harbour, sail rising
over sail, catching the breeze as they went aloft--she remembered them.

A suspension bridge, ornamented with straight-tailed lions, took her over
the weedy river, and having crossed some pieces of rough grass, she
climbed the shingle bank. The heat rippled the blue air, and the sea, like
an exhausted caged beast, licked the shingle. Sea-poppies bloomed under
the wheels of a decaying bathing-machine, and Esther wondered. But the sea
here was lonely as a prison, and, seeing the treeless coast with its chain
of towns, her thoughts suddenly reverted to William. She wished he were
with her, and for pleasant contemplation she thought of that happy evening
when she saw him coming through the hunting gate, when, his arm about her,
William had explained that if the horse won she would take seven shillings
out of the sweepstakes. She knew now that William did not care about
Sarah; and that he cared for her had given a sudden and unexpected meaning
to her existence. She lay on the shingle, her day-dream becoming softer
and more delicate as it rounded into summer sleep.

And when the light awoke her she saw flights of white clouds--white up
above, rose-coloured as they approached the west; and when she turned, a
tall, melancholy woman.

"Good evening, Mrs. Randal," said Esther, glad to find someone to speak
to. "I've been asleep."

"Good evening, Miss. You're from Woodview, I think?"

"Yes, I'm the kitchen-maid. They've gone to the races; there was nothing
to do, so I came down here."

Mrs. Randal's lips moved as if she were going to say something. But she
did not speak. Soon after she rose to her feet. "I think that it must be
getting near tea-time; I must be going. You might come in and have a cup
of tea with me, if you're not in a hurry back to Woodview."

Esther was surprised at so much condescension, and in silence the two
women crossed the meadows that lay between the shingle bank and the river.
Trains were passing all the while, scattering, it seemed, in their noisy
passage over the spider-legged bridge, the news from Goodwood. The news
seemed to be borne along shore in the dust, and, as if troubled by
prescience of the news, Mrs. Randal said, as she unlocked the cottage
door----

"It is all over now. The people in those trains know well enough which has
won."

"Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel as if I knew too. I feel as
if Silver Braid had won."

Mrs. Randal's home was gaunt as herself. Everything looked as if it had
been scraped, and the spare furniture expressed a meagre, lonely life. She
dropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood pathetically looking at
the pieces. When Esther asked for a teaspoon she gave way utterly.

"I haven't one to give you; I had forgotten that they were gone. I should
have remembered and not asked you to tea."

"It don't matter, Mrs. Randal; I can stir up my tea with anything--a
knitting-needle will do very well--"

"I should have remembered and not asked you back to tea; but I was so
miserable, and it is so lonely sitting in this house, that I could stand
it no longer.... Talking to you saved me from thinking, and I did not want
to think until this race was over. If Silver Braid is beaten we are
ruined. Indeed, I don't know what will become of us. For fifteen years I
have borne up; I have lived on little at the best of times, and very often
have gone without; but that is nothing compared to the anxiety--to see him
come in with a white face, to see him drop into a chair and hear him say,
'Beaten a head on the post,' or 'Broke down, otherwise he would have won
in a canter.' I have always tried to be a good wife and tried to console
him, and to do the best when he said, 'I have lost half a year's wages, I
don't know how we shall pull through.' I have borne with ten thousand
times more than I can tell you. The sufferings of a gambler's wife cannot
be told. Tell me, what do you think my feelings must have been when one
night I heard him calling me out of my sleep, when I heard him say, 'I
can't die, Annie, without bidding you good-bye. I can only hope that you
will be able to pull through, and I know that the Gaffer will do all he
can for you, but he has been hit awful hard too. You mustn't think too
badly of me, Annie, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn't put up
with it any longer, and I thought the best thing I could do would be to
go.' That's just how he talked--nice words to hear your husband speak in
your ear through the darkness! There was no time to send for the doctor,
so I jumped out of bed, put the kettle on, and made him drink glass after
glass of salt and water. At last he brought up the laudanum."

Esther listened to the melancholy woman, and remembered the little man
whom she saw every day so orderly, so precise, so sedate, so methodical,
so unemotional, into whose life she thought no faintest emotion had ever
entered--and this was the truth.

"So long as I only had myself to think of I didn't mind; but now there are
the children growing up. He should think of them. Heaven only knows what
will become of them... John is as kind a husband as ever was if it weren't
for that one fault; but he cannot resist having something on any more than
a drunkard can resist the bar-room."

"Winner, winner, winner of the Stewards' Cup!"

The women started to their feet. When they got into the street the boy was
far away; besides, neither had a penny to pay for the paper, and they
wandered about the town hearing and seeing nothing, so nervous were they.
At last Esther proposed to ask at the "Red Lion" who had won. Mrs. Randal
begged her to refrain, urging that she was unable to bear the tidings
should it be evil.

"Silver Braid," the barman answered. The girl rushed through the doors.
"It is all right, it is all right; he has won!"

Soon after the little children in the lane were calling forth "Silver
Braid won!" And overcome by the excitement Esther walked along the
sea-road to meet the drag. She walked on and on until the sound of the
horn came through the crimson evening and she saw the leaders trotting in
a cloud of dust. Ginger was driving, and he shouted to her, "He won!" The
Gaffer waved the horn and shouted, "He won!" Peggy waved her broken
parasol and shouted, "He won!" Esther looked at William. He leaned over
the back seat and shouted, "He won!" She had forgotten all about late
dinner. What would Mrs. Latch say? On such a day as this she would say
nothing.




IX


Nearly everything came down untouched. Eating and drinking had been in
progress almost all day on the course, and Esther had finished washing up
before nine, and had laid the cloth in the servants' hall for supper. But
if little was eaten upstairs, plenty was eaten downstairs; the mutton was
finished in a trice, and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the larder what
remained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then they were not satisfied, and
fine inroads were made into a new piece of cheese. Beer, according to
orders, was served without limit, and four bottles of port were sent down
so that the health of the horse might be adequately drunk.

While assuaging their hunger the men had exchanged many allusive remarks
regarding the Demon's bad ending, how nearly he had thrown the race away;
and the meal being now over, and there being nothing to do but to sit and
talk, Mr. Leopold, encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate and
technical account of the race. The women listened, playing with a rind of
cheese, glancing at the cheese itself, wondering if they could manage
another slice, and the men sipping their port wine, puffing at their
pipes, William listening most avidly of all, enjoying each sporting term,
and ingeniously reminding Mr. Leopold of some detail whenever he seemed
disposed to shorten his narrative. The criticism of the Demon's
horsemanship took a long while, for by a variety of suggestive remarks
William led Mr. Leopold into reminiscences of the skill of certain famous
jockeys in the first half of the century. These digressions wearied Sarah
and Grover, and their thoughts wandered to the dresses that had been worn
that day, and the lady's-maid remembered she would hear all that
interested her that night in the young ladies' rooms. At last, losing all
patience, Sarah declared that she didn't care what Chifney had said when
he just managed to squeeze his horse's head in front in the last dozen
yards, she wanted to know what the Demon had done to so nearly lose the
race--had he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked at
her contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but at that moment Mr.
Leopold began to tell the last instructions that the Gaffer had given the
Demon. The orders were that the Demon should go right up to the leaders
before they reached the half-mile, and remain there. Of course, if he
found that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer expected, he
might come away pretty well as he liked, for the greatest danger was that
the horse might get shut out or might show temper and turn it up.

"Well," said Mr. Leopold, "there were two false starts, and Silver Braid
must have galloped a couple of 'undred yards afore the Demon could stop
him. There wasn't twopence-halfpenny worth of strength in him--pulling off
those three or four pounds pretty well finished him. He'll never be able
to ride that weight again.... He said afore starting that he felt weak;
you took him along too smartly from Portslade the last time you went
there."

"When he went by himself he'd stop playing marbles with the boys round the
Southwick public-house."

"If there had been another false start I think it would have been all up
with us. The Gaffer was quite pale, and he stood there not taking his
glasses from his eyes. There were over thirty of them, so you can imagine
how hard it was to get them into line. However, at the third attempt they
were got straight and away they came, a black line stretching right across
the course. Presently the black cap and jacket came to the front, and not
very long after a murmur went round, 'Silver Braid wins.' Never saw
anything like it in all my life. He was three lengths a'ead, and the
others were pulling off. 'Damn the boy; he'll win by twenty lengths,' said
the Gaffer, without removing his glasses. But when within a few yards of
the stand----"

At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, "There, they are wanting
their tea; I must go and get it."

"Drat their tea," said Margaret; "they can wait. Finish up; tell us how he
won."

Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye fixed on him he considered
how much remained of the story, and with quickened speech continued,
"Well, approaching the stand, I noticed that Silver Braid was not going
quite so fast, and at the very instant the Demon looked over his shoulder,
and seeing he was losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment he
struck him the horse swerved right across the course, right under the
stand, running like a rat from underneath the whip. The Demon caught him
one across the nose with his left hand, but seeing what was 'appening, the
Tinman, who was on Bullfinch, sat down and began riding. I felt as if
there was a lump of ice down my back," and Mr. Leopold lowered his voice,
and his face became grave as he recalled that perilous moment. "I thought
it was all over," he said, "and the Gaffer thought the same; I never saw a
man go so deadly pale. It was all the work of a moment, but that moment
was more than a year--at least, so it seemed to me. Well, about half-way
up the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon. It was ten to one that
Silver Braid would turn it up, or that the boy wouldn't 'ave the strength
to ride out so close a finish as it was bound to be. I thought then of the
way you used to take him along from Portslade, and I'd have given
something to've put a pound or two of flesh into his thighs and arms. The
Tinman was riding splendid, getting every ounce and something more out of
Bullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do much, was sitting nearly quite still.
It looked as if it was all up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took to
galloping of his own accord, and 'aving such a mighty lot in 'and he won
on the post by a 'ead--a short 'ead.... I never felt that queer in my life
and the Gaffer was no better; but I said to him, just afore the numbers
went up, 'It is all right, sir, he's just done it,' and when the right
number went up I thought everything was on the dance, going for swim like.
By golly, it was a near thing!" At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold
said, shaking himself out of his thoughts, "Now I must go and get their
tea."

Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on her hand. By
turning her eyes she could see William. Sarah noticed one of these
stealthy backward glances and a look of anger crossed her face, and
calling to William she asked him when the sweepstakes money would be
divided. The question startled William from a reverie of small bets, and
he answered that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money should not
be divided at once.

"There was twelve. That's right, isn't it?--Sarah, Margaret, Esther, Miss
Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and Swindles and Wall....
Well, it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to the
second, and two to the third. No one got the third 'orse, so I suppose the
two shillings that would have gone to him 'ad better be given to the
first."

"Given to the first! Why, that's Esther! Why should she get it?... What do
you mean? No third! Wasn't Soap-bubble third?"

"Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn't in the sweep."

"And why wasn't he?"

"Because he wasn't among the eleven first favourites. We took them as they
were quoted in the betting list published in the _Sportsman_."

"How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?"

"Yer needn't get so angry, Sarah, no one's cheating; it is all above
board. If you don't believe us, you'd better accuse us straight out."

"What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included?--he wasn't among
the eleven first favourites."

"Oh, don't be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we agreed to make an
exception in favour of our own 'orse--a nice sweep it would 'ave been if
we 'adn't included Silver Braid."

"And suppose," she exclaimed, tightening her brows, "that Soap-bubble had
won, what would have become of our money?"

"It would have been returned--everyone would have got his shilling back."

"And now I am to get three shillings, and that little Methodist or
Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to call her, is to get nine!"
said Sarah, with a light of inspiration flashing through her beer-clouded
mind. "Why should the two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble,
if anyone 'ad drawn 'im, go to the first 'orse rather than to the second?"

William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good reason why the
extra two shillings should be given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceiving
her advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to favour Esther.

"Don't we know that you went out to walk with her, and that you remained
out till nearly eleven at night. That's why you want all the money to go
to her. You don't take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any place I
ever was in before would such a thing be allowed--the footman going out
with the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot."

"I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare you?" And Esther
started up from her place; but William was too quick for her. He grasped
her arm.

"Never mind what Sarah says."

"Never mind what I says! ...A thing like that, who never was in a
situation before; no doubt taken out of some 'ouse. Rescue work, I think
they call it----"

"She shan't insult me--no, she shan't!" said Esther, tremulous with
passion.

"A nice sort of person to insult!" said Sarah, her arms akimbo.

"Now look you here, Sarah Tucker," said Mrs. Latch, starting from her
seat, "I'm not going to see that girl aggravated, so that she may do what
she shouldn't do, and give you an opportunity of going to the missis with
tales about her. Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on betting
if they will; I never saw no good come of it."

"That's all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, and we have to
divide the money."

"I don't want your money," said Esther, sullenly; "I wouldn't take it."

"What blooming nonsense! You must take your money. Ah, here's Mr. Leopold!
he'll decide it."

Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other circumstances
would have gone to the third horse must be divided between the first and
second; but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it was
proposed that the matter should be referred to the editor of the
_Sportsman_; and as Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offered
her choice between the _Sportsman_ and the _Sporting Life_.

"Look here," said William, getting between the women; "this evening isn't
one for fighting; we have all won our little bit, and ought to be
thankful. The only difference between you is two shillings, that were to
have gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says it
ought to be divided; you, Sarah, won't accept his decision. We have
offered to write to the _Sportsman_, and Esther has offered to give up her
claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you want?"

She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a protracted argument
with William, largely composed of insulting remarks, she declared that she
wasn't going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them; let them give
her the three she had won--that was all she wanted. William looked at her,
shrugged his shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his conviction
that women wasn't intended to have nothing to do with horse-racing, he
took up his pipe and tobacco-pouch.

"Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for to-night; I am going to
finish my smoke in the pantry. Don't scratch all your 'air out; leave
enough for me to put into a locket."

When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked some moments in
silence, William said--

"Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chesterfield Cup?"

"He'll win in a canter if he'll only run straight. If I was the Gaffer I
think I'd put up a bigger boy. He'll 'ave to carry a seven-pound penalty,
and Johnnie Scott could ride that weight."

The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straight
with another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interesting
reminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was the
Gaffer's private servant--before either of them had married--when life was
composed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short
his tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and,
not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he
did not know how to act--he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings for
the double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? William
thrilled with admiration. What a 'ead, and who'd think it? that little
'ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fifty
pounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Who
could tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity to
break into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big
enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn't come back. William
felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before been
known to let anyone know what he had on a race.

Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the "Red Lion" was
full of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the
customers were heard calling, "Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter,
three of whiskey cold." There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen,
shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had come
for their winnings.

Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, had
just run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr.
Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, into
which you could walk from the street.

"Talk of favourites!" he said; "I'd sooner pay over the three first
favourites than this one--thirty, twenty to one starting price, and the
whole town onto him; it's enough to break any man.... Now, my men, what is
it?" he said, turning to the railway porters.

"Just the trifle me and my mates 'av won over that 'ere 'orse."

"What was it?"

"A shilling at five and twenty to one."

"Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?"

"Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the clerk.

And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forth
filled with gold and silver.

"Come, come, mates, we are bound to 'ave a bet on him for the
Chesterfield--we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?"

"Done for a shilling each," said the under-porter; "finest 'orse in
training.... What price, Musser Watkins?"

"Ten to one."

"Right, 'ere's my bob."

The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into his
pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet.

"And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?"

William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten shillings to one
on one race and had lost; he had had half-a-crown on another and had lost;
in a word, three-and-sixpence had to be subtracted from his winnings on
Silver Braid. These amounted to more than five pounds. William's face
flushed with pleasure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped four
sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket. Should he
put a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for the Chesterfield?
Half-a-sovereign was enough! ...The danger of risking a sovereign--a whole
sovereign--frightened him.

"Now, Mr. Latch," said old Watkins, "if you want to back anything, make up
your mind; there are a good many besides yourself who have business with
me."

William hesitated, and then said he'd take ten half-sovereigns to one
against Silver Braid.

"Ten half-sovereigns to one?" said old Watkins.

William murmured "Yes," and Joey booked the bet.

Mr. Leopold's business demanded more consideration. The fat betting man
and the scarecrow little butler walked aside and talked, both apparently
indifferent to the impatience of a number of small customers; sometimes
Joey called in his shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to
one, or five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would then
raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold's face and nod or shake his head, or
perhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he was prepared to lay. With
no one else would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much deference.
Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery,
and the deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as if
dismissing matters of first importance, the two men approached William,
and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fifty
pounds.

"I'll take twelve to one--twenty-four pounds to two. Shall I book it?"

Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatically, said he must be
getting back. William was much impressed, and congratulated himself on his
courage in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold knew a thing
or two; he had been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn't
been all right he would have laid off some of the money.

Next day one of the Gaffer's two-year-olds won a race, and the day after
Silver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup.

The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins. He declared
that he had never been so hard hit; but as he did not ask for time and
continued to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his capacious
pockets, his lamentations only served to stimulate the happiness of the
fortunate backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self ringing in
their hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the health of the
horse.

So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit and
colourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. The
dear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lightening
the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear
gold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of
working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again.
The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship and
sorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk
laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could have
thought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird
on the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, the
colour it flaunted was bright.

The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortune
that this horse's hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a
happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life
the glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder's wife, and the
feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers on
the young man's legs, the cigar in his mouth--all is Goodwood gold. It
glitters in that girl's ears and on this girl's finger.

It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on the
race; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that
William Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won
five-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousand
pounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of the
Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call;
even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and down
the lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A golden
prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under its
elm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said
that large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and grander
entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of,
balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, many
more race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slender
creatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth
hoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commenting
crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs and
downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants' ball given at
the Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch,
were there; likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote's, and those from
Sir George Preston's--two leading county families. A great number of
servants had come from West Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing
--altogether between two and three hundred. "Evening dress is
indispensable" was printed on the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks,
ladies' maids, housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification to
keep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn Esther to play
again the part of Cinderella.




X


A group of men turned from the circular buffet when Esther entered. Miss
Mary had given her a white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleeves
reaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarks
as she passed were, "A nice, pretty girl." William was waiting, and she
went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka.

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few couples
had begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising their
legs into curious geometrical positions.

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet--they
must dance whether they knew how or not.

"The Gaffer has told me partic'lar to see that the 'gals' all had
partners, and just look down that 'ere room; 'alf of that lot 'aven't been
on their legs yet. 'Ere's a partner for you," and the butler pulled a
young gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She entered
slowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground,
and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. It was
whispered that she had never worn a low dress before, and Grover came to
the rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief.

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those who
possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousers
and red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touch
suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother's wedding
dress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue
coastguardsman's coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personal
taste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlers
seemed on the watch for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair brushes
and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars,
and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their late
husbands; and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the
lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive of ease and leisure,
made Ginger's two friends--young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote
--noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the
upper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved
London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht's bowsprit, and, his
coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who were
bobbing up and down, hardly advancing at all.

Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the ball, she had danced
with young Mr. Preston, and seeing her sitting alone Grover called her and
asked her why she was not dancing. Esther answered sullenly that she was
tired.

"Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill-feeling." Half a dozen
times William repeated his demand. At last she said--

"You've spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing."

"I'm sorry if I've done that, Esther. I was jealous, that's all."

"Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it matter what people think,
so long as I know I haven't done no wrong?"

And in silence they walked into the garden. The night was warm, even
oppressive, and the moon hung like a balloon above the trees, and often
the straying revellers stopped to consider the markings now so plain upon
its disc. There were arbours, artificial ruins, darkling pathways, and the
breathless garden was noisy in the illusive light. William showed Esther
the theatre and explained its purpose. She listened, though she did not
understand, nor could she believe that she was not dreaming when they
suddenly stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the shadows of
tall trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge at the narrowest end.

"How still the water is; and the stars, they are lovely!"

"You should see the gardens about three o'clock on Saturday afternoons,
when the excursion comes in from Brighton."

They walked on a little further, and Esther said, "What's these places?
Ain't they dark?"

"These are arbours, where we 'as shrimps and tea. I'll take you next
Saturday, if you'll come."

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four girls, ran across the
bridge. Suddenly they stopped to argue on which side the boat was to be
found. Some chose the left, some the right; those who went to the right
sent up a yell of triumph, and paddled into the middle of the water. They
first addressed remarks to their companions, and then they admired the
moon and stars. A song was demanded, and at the end of the second verse
William threw his arm round Esther.

"Oh, Esther, I do love you."

She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long interrogation.

"I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in me?"

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations. "I do, I do, I
do love you, Esther."

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly bush threw a black
shadow on the gravel path and a moment after the ornamental tin roof of
the dancing room appeared between the trees.

Even in their short absence a change had come upon the ball. About the
circular buffet numbers of men called for drink, and talked loudly of
horse-racing. Many were away at supper, and those that remained were
amusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman, dressed
like Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads round her neck, was
dancing the lancers with the Demon, and everyone shook with laughter when
she whirled the little fellow round or took him in her arms and carried
him across. William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led him
away to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken, and beer might be
had by the strong and adventurous. As they struggled through the crowd
Esther spied three young gentlemen at the other end of the room.

"Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yonder, to dance, am I to
look them straight in the face and say no?"

William considered a moment, and then he said, "I think you had better
dance with them if they asks you; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was I
who put you up to it."

"Let's have another bottle," cried Ginger. "Come, what do you say, Mr.
Thomas?"

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur wished to see him in
the hands of the police. However, he promised to drink his share. Two more
bottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that would
probably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap were
discussed. William was very proud of being admitted into such company, and
he listened, a cigar which he did not like between his teeth, and a glass
of champagne in his hand.... Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by
the cornet sounding the first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsy
and the sober hastened away.

Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they tumbled round the
room, enjoying themselves immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got on
better; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemen
joined, and all were gay and pleasant; even Sarah's usually sour face
glowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced round the men
standing in the middle. In the chain they lost themselves as in a
labyrinth and found their partners unexpectedly. But the dance of the
evening was Sir Roger de Coverley, and Esther's usually sober little brain
evaporated in the folly of running up the room, then turning and running
backwards, getting into her place as best she could, and then starting
again. It always appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see her
dear William, and such a strange excitement to run forward to meet young
Mr. Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away; and this over and over
again.

"There's the dawn."

Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she saw the little jockey
staggering about helplessly drunk. The smile died out of her eyes; she
returned to her true self, to Mrs. Barfield and the Brethren. She felt
that all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in the arbours was wicked.
But Miss Mary had sent for her, and had told her that she would give her
one of her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse Miss Mary. Then,
if she had not gone, William--Sounds of loud voices were heard in the
garden, and the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some charge.
Esther ran out to see what was happening, and there she witnessed a
disgraceful scene. The lean woman in the muslin dress and the amber beads
accused young Mr. Preston of something which he denied, and she heard
William tell someone that he was mistaken, that he and his pals didn't
want no rowing at this 'ere ball, and what was more they didn't mean to
have none.

And her heart filled with love for her big William. What a fine fellow he
was! how handsome were his shoulders beside that round-shouldered little
man whom he so easily pulled aside! and having crushed out the quarrel, he
helped her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned home
through the little town. Margaret followed with the railway porter; Sarah
was with her faithful admirer, a man with a red beard, whom she had picked
up at the ball; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the green
silk, which she held high out of the dust of the road.

When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and the
barren downs--more tin-like than ever in the shadow-less light of
dawn--stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little
birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities of
the day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, and
even at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther looked
at the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of the
first time she saw it. Some vague association of ideas--the likeness that
the morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish to
prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness,
impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were not
beautiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William neither idea nor
sensation; Esther interested him more, and while she gazed dreamily on the
hills he admired the white curve of her neck which showed beneath the
unbuttoned jacket. She never looked prettier than she did that morning,
standing on the dusty road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the blue
sash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket.




XI


For days nothing was talked of but the ball--how this man had danced, the
bad taste of this woman's dress, and the possibility of a marriage. The
ball had brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Her
happiness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, and
Sarah's ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no longer
annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper--her love seemed to induce
forgiveness for all and love for everything.

In the evenings when their work was done Esther and her lover lingered
about the farm buildings, listening to the rooks, seeing the lights die in
the west; and in the summer darkness about nine she tripped by his side
when he took the letters to post. The wheat stacks were thatching, and in
the rickyard, in the carpenter's shop, and in the whist of the woods they
talked of love and marriage. They lay together in the warm valleys,
listening to the tinkling of the sheep-bell, and one evening, putting his
pipe aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering that she was his
wife. The words were delicious in her fainting ears, and her will died in
what seemed like irresistible destiny. She could not struggle with him,
though she knew that her fate depended upon her resistance, and swooning
away she awakened in pain, powerless to free herself.... Soon after
thoughts betook themselves on their painful way, and the stars were
shining when he followed her across the down, beseeching her to listen.
But she fled along the grey road and up the stairs to her room. Margaret
was in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had kept her out so
late. She did not answer... and hearing Margaret fall asleep she
remembered the supper-table. Sarah, who had come in late, had sat down by
her; William sat on the opposite side; Mrs. Latch was in her place, the
jockeys were all together; Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table;
Margaret and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal; and Mr. Leopold had
gone to the beer cellar many times. She thought that she remembered
feeling a little dizzy when William asked her to come for a stroll up the
hill. They had passed through the hunting gate; they had wandered into the
loneliness of the hills. Over the folded sheep the rooks came home noisily
through a deepening sky. So far she remembered, and she could not remember
further; and all night lay staring into the darkness, and when Margaret
called her in the morning she was pale and deathlike.

"Whatever is the matter? You do look ill."

"I did not sleep all last night. My head aches as if it would drop off. I
don't feel as if I could go to work to-day."

"That's the worst of being a servant. Well or ill, it makes no matter."
She turned from the glass, and holding her hair in her left hand, leaned
her head so that she might pin it. "You do look bad," she remarked dryly.

Never had they been so late! Half-past seven, and the shutters still up!
So said Margaret as they hurried downstairs. But Esther thought only of
the meeting with William. She had seen him cleaning boots in the pantry as
they passed. He waited till Margaret left her, till he heard the baize
door which separated the back premises from the front of the house close,
then he ran to the kitchen, where he expected to find Esther alone. But
meeting his mother he mumbled some excuse and retreated. There were
visitors in the house, he had a good deal to do that morning, and Esther
kept close to Mrs. Latch; but at breakfast it suddenly became necessary
that she should answer him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were no
longer friends.

"Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over her tea-cup as melancholy
as a prayer-meeting."

"What is it to you?" said William.

"What's it to me? I don't like an ugly face at the breakfast-table, that's
all."

"I wouldn't be your looking-glass, then. Luckily there isn't one here."

In the midst of an angry altercation, Esther walked out of the room.
During dinner she hardly spoke at all. After dinner she went to her room,
and did not come down until she thought he had gone out with the carriage.
But she was too soon, William came running down the passage to meet her.
He laid his hand supplicatingly on her arm.

"Don't touch me!" she said, and her eyes filled with dangerous light.

"Now, Esther! ...Come, don't lay it on too thick!"

"Go away. Don't speak to me!"

"Just listen one moment, that's all."

"Go away. If you don't, I'll go straight to Mrs. Barfield."

She passed into the kitchen and shut the door in his face. He had gone a
trifle pale, and after lingering a few moments he hurried away to the
stables, and Esther saw him spring on the box.

As it was frequent with Esther not to speak to anyone with whom she had
had a dispute for a week or fifteen days, her continued sulk excited
little suspicion, and the cause of the quarrel was attributed to some
trifle. Sarah said--

"Men are such fools. He is always begging of her to forgive him. Just look
at him--he is still after her, following her into the wood-shed."

She rarely answered him a yes or no, but would push past him, and if he
forcibly barred the way she would say, "Let me go by, will you? You are
interfering with my work." And if he still insisted, she spoke of
appealing to Mrs. Barfield. And if her heart sometimes softened, and an
insidious thought whispered that it did not matter since they were going
to be married, instinct forced her to repel him; her instinct was that she
could only win his respect by refusing forgiveness for a long while. The
religion in which her soul moved and lived--the sternest
Protestantism--strengthened and enforced the original convictions and the
prejudices of her race; and the natural shame which she had first felt
almost disappeared in the violence of her virtue. She even ceased to fear
discovery. What did it matter who knew, since she knew? She opened her
heart to God. Christ looked down, but he seemed stern and unforgiving. Her
Christ was the Christ of her forefathers; and He had not forgiven, because
she could not forgive herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin, the sin
which her race had elected to fight against, and she lay down weary and
sullen at heart.

The days seemed to bring no change, and wearied by her stubbornness,
William said, "Let her sulk," and he went out with Sarah; and when Esther
saw them go down the yard her heart said, "Let him take her out, I don't
want him." For she knew it to be a trick to make her jealous, and that he
should dare such a trick angered her still further against him, and when
they met in the garden, where she had gone with some food for the cats,
and he said, "Forgive me, Esther, I only went out with Sarah because you
drove me wild," she closed her teeth and refused to answer. But he stood
in her path, determined not to leave her. "I am very fond of you, Esther,
and I will marry you as soon as I have earned enough or won enough money
to give you a comfortable 'ome."

"You are a wicked man; I will never marry you."

"I am very sorry, Esther. But I am not as bad as you think for. You let
your temper get the better of you. So soon as I have got a bit of money
together--"

"If you were a good man you would ask me to marry you now."

"I will if you like, but the truth is that I have only three pounds in the
world. I have been unlucky lately--"

"You think of nothing but that wicked betting. Come, let me pass; I'm not
going to listen to a lot of lies."

"After the Leger--"

"Let me pass. I will not speak to you."

"But look here, Esther: marriage or no marriage, we can't go on in this
way: they'll be suspecting something shortly."

"I shall leave Woodview." She had hardly spoken the words when it seemed
clear to her that she must leave, and the sooner the better. "Come, let me
pass.... If Mrs. Barfield--"

An angry look passed over William's face, and he said--

"I want to act honest with you, and you won't let me. If ever there was a
sulky pig! ...Sarah's quite right; you are just the sort that would make
hell of a man's life."

She was bound to make him respect her. She had vaguely felt from the
beginning that this was her only hope, and now the sensation developed and
defined itself into a thought and she decided that she would not yield,
but would continue to affirm her belief that he must acknowledge his sin,
and then come and ask her to marry him. Above all things, Esther desired
to see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling as it did her entire
life, unconsciously made her deem repentance an essential condition of
their happiness. How could they be happy if he were not a God-fearing man?
This question presented itself constantly, and she was suddenly convinced
that she could not marry him until he had asked forgiveness of the Lord.
Then they would be joined together, and would love each other faithfully
unto death.

But in conflict with her prejudices, her natural love of the man was as
the sun shining above a fog-laden valley; rays of passion pierced her
stubborn nature, dissolving it, and unconsciously her eyes sought
William's, and unconsciously her steps strayed from the kitchen when her
ears told her he was in the passage. But when her love went out freely to
William, when she longed to throw herself in his arms, saying, "Yes, I
love you; make me your wife," she noticed, or thought she noticed, that he
avoided her eyes, and she felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing had
obtained a footing in his mind, and she was full of foreboding.

Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of much that escaped the
ordinary eye, and she was the first to notice when the drawing-room bell
rang, and Mr. Leopold rose, that William would say, "My legs are the
youngest, don't you stir."

No one else, not even Sarah, thought William intended more than to keep in
Mr. Leopold's good graces, but Esther, although unable to guess the truth,
heard the still tinkling bell ringing the knell of her hopes. She noted,
too, the time he remained upstairs, and asked herself anxiously what it
was that detained him so long. The weather had turned colder lately....
Was it a fire that was wanted? In the course of the afternoon, she heard
from Margaret that Miss Mary and Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick to
make a call, and she heard from one of the boys that the Gaffer and Ginger
had ridden over in the morning to Fendon Fair, and had not yet returned.
It must have been Peggy who had rung the bell. Peggy? Suddenly she
remembered something--something that had been forgotten. The first Sunday,
the first time she went to the library for family prayers, Peggy was
sitting on the little green sofa, and as Esther passed across the room to
her place she saw her cast a glance of admiration on William's tall
figure, and the memory of that glance had flamed up in her brain, and all
that night Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the coal-black hair
looking at her William.

Next day Esther waited for the bell that was to call her lover from her.
The afternoon wore slowly away, and she had begun to hope she was mistaken
when the metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the baize door close
behind him; but the bell still continued to utter little pathetic notes. A
moment after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the knees
in quicksands she felt that the time had come for a decided effort. But
what could she do? She could not follow him to the drawing-room. She had
begun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by his conduct seemed to
wish that their quarrel might endure. But pride and temper had fallen from
her, and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and intensely, all
that related to him, divining all his intentions, and meeting him in the
passage when he least expected her.

"I'm always getting in your way," she said, with a low, nervous laugh.

"No harm in that; ...fellow servants; there must be give and take."

Tremblingly they looked at each other, feeling that the time had come,
that an explanation was inevitable, but at that moment the drawing-room
bell rang above their heads, and William said, "I must answer that bell."
He turned from her, and passed through the baize door before she had said
another word.

Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal of his time in
the drawing-room, and Esther started out of her moody contemplation, and,
speaking instinctively, she said, "I don't think much of ladies who go
after their servants."

Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife on the meat and
fixed her eyes on her son.

"Lady?" said Sarah; "she's no lady! Her mother used to mop out the yard
before she was 'churched.'"

"I can tell you what," said William, "you had better mind what you are
a-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind upstairs you'd lose yer
situation, and it might be some time before yer got another!"

"Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always be able to suit
mesel'; don't you fear about me. But if it comes to talking about
situations, I can tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than I
am to lose mine."

William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious reply Mrs. Latch and
Mr. Leopold, putting forth their joint authority, brought the discussion
to a close. The jockey-boys exchanged grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swindles
pursed up his mouth in consideration, and the elder servants felt that the
matter would not rest in the servant's hall; that evening it would be the
theme of conversation in the "Red Lion," and the next day it would be the
talk of the town.

About four o'clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss Mary, and Peggy walk
across the yard towards the garden, and as Esther had to go soon after to
the wood-shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom gate and
make her way through the evergreens. Esther hastened back to the kitchen
and stood waiting for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the bell
tinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, "She only just touched it; it is
a signal; he was on the look-out for it; she did not want anyone else to
hear."

Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she had heard that the young
lady possessed, and the beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope for
her. How could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress! He
would never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and wicked it was! How
could one who had so much come to steal from one who had so little? Oh, it
was very cruel and very wicked, and no good would come of it either to her
or to him; of that she felt quite sure. God always punished the wicked.
She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and shame; and after his
promises--after what had happened. Never would she have believed him to be
so false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who had
so cruelly robbed her. He had gone through that baize door, and no doubt
he was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone where she
could not follow. He had gone where the grand folk lived in idleness, in
the sinfulness of the world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking
of nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obeying their orders
and saving them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk thought
servants inferior beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood as
they? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no better; take off her dress
and they were the same, woman to woman.

She pushed through the door and walked down the passage. A few steps
brought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase, lit by a large window
in coloured glass, on either side of which there were statues. The
staircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set out with columns and
blue vases and embroidered curtains. The girl saw these things vaguely,
and she was conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and bright doors,
and of her inability to decide which door was the drawing-room door--the
drawing-room of which she had heard so much, and where even now, amid gold
furniture and sweet-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman who
had tempted him away from her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeing
Esther he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come forward. Then his
face took an expression of mixed fear and anger; and coming rapidly
towards her, he said--

"What are you doing here?"... then changing his voice, "This is against
the rules of the 'ouse."

"I want to see her."

"Anything else? What do you want to say to her? I won't have it, I tell
you.... What do you mean by spying after me? That's your game, is it?"

"I want to speak to her."

With averted face the young lady fled up the oak staircase, her
handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement as if to follow, but
William prevented her. She turned and walked down the passage and entered
the kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, strong arms hung
tremblingly, and William saw that it would be better to temporise.

"Now look here, Esther," he said, "you ought to be damned thankful to me
for having prevented you from making a fool of yourself."

Esther's eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated.

"Now, if Miss Margaret," continued William, "had--"

"Go away! go away! I am--" At that moment the steel of a large,
sharp-pointed knife lying on the table caught her eye. She snatched it up,
and seeing blood she rushed at him.

William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming suddenly in, caught her
arm. Esther threw the knife; it struck the wall, falling with a rattle on
the meat screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to secure it, but
her strength gave way, and she fell back in a dead faint.

"What have you been doing to the girl?" said Mrs. Latch.

"Nothing, mother.... We had a few words, that was all. She said I should
not go out with Sarah."

"That is not true.... I can read the lie in your face; a girl doesn't take
up a knife unless a man well-nigh drives her mad."

"That's right; always side against your son! ...If you don't believe me,
get what you can out of her yourself." And, turning on his heel, he walked
out of the house.

Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables, and when Esther
opened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable to
understand why the old woman was standing by her.

"Are you better now, dear?"

"Yes, but--but what--" Then remembrance struggled back. "Is he gone? Did I
strike him? I remember that I--"

"You did not hurt him."

"I don't want to see him again. Far better not. I was mad. I did not know
what I was doing."

"You will tell me about it another time, dear."

"Where is he? tell me that; I must know."

"Gone to the stables, I think; but you must not go after him--you'll see
him to-morrow."

"I do not want to go after him; but he isn't hurt? That's what I want to
know."

"No, he isn't hurt.... You're getting stronger.... Lean on me. You'll
begin to feel better when you are in bed. I'll bring you up your tea."

"Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how'll you manage to get the
dinner?"

"Don't you worry about that; you go upstairs and lie down."

A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that William might
be brought back to her.

In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret, Sarah, and Grover
were there, and she heard that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold had
been sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month's
wages, and see that he left the house that very instant. Sarah, Margaret,
and Grover watched Esther's face and were surprised at her indifference.
She even seemed pleased. She was pleased; nothing better could have
happened. William was now separated from her rival, and released from her
bad influence he would return to his real love. At the first sign she
would go to him, she would forgive him. But a little later, when the
dishes came down from the dining-room, it was whispered that Peggy was not
there.

Later in the evening, when the servants were going to bed, it became known
that she had left the house, that she had taken the six o'clock to
Brighton. Esther turned from the foot of the stair with a wild look.
Margaret caught her.

"It's no use, dear; you can do nothing to-night."

"I can walk to Brighton."

"No, you can't; you don't know the way, and even if you did you don't know
where they are."

Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence the servants went
to their rooms. Margaret closed the door and turned to look at Esther, who
had fallen on the chair, her eyes fixed in vacancy.

"I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story got the sack. It seems
as if one couldn't live through it, and yet one does somehow."

"I wonder if they'll marry."

"Most probable. She has a lot of money."

Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of the kitchen window.
Peggy's luggage was being piled upon it--two large, handsome basket boxes
with the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box-seat, the coachman
leaned over the roof making room for another--a small box covered with red
cowhide and tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor simplicity
brought William back to Esther, whelming her for a moment in so acute a
sense of her loss that she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the
scullery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in her
apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her habitual gravity
of expression, and continued her work as if nothing had happened.




XII


"They are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the Gaffer are the
worst. They say they had better sell the place and build another house
somewhere else. None of the county people will call on them now--and just
as they were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible cut
up about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects, and that
Ginger has nothing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to complete the
ruin of the Barfields."

"Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound another's feelings. It
is only a nasty old deceitful thing like yourself who could think of such
a thing."

"Eh, you got it there, my lady," said Sarah, who had had a difference with
Grover, and was anxious to avenge it.

Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look clearly said, "Is
everyone going to side with that little kitchen-maid?"

Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position the Latches had
held three generations ago; the Barfields were then nobodies; they had
nothing even now but their money, and that had come out of a livery
stable. "And it shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston or
young Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference."

Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache in her heart. She
had now not an enemy nor yet an opponent; the cause of rivalry and
jealousy being removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that she
had suffered and was suffering, and seeing none but friends about her, she
was led to think how happy she might have been in this beautiful house if
it had not been for William. She loved her work, for she was working for
those she loved. She could imagine no life happier than hers might have
been. But she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and she
must bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him thanks that He had
imposed no heavier one upon her.

Such reflection was the substance of Esther's mind for three months after
William's departure; and in the afternoons, about three o'clock, when her
work paused, Esther's thoughts would congregate and settle on the great
misfortune of her life--William's desertion.

It was one afternoon at the beginning of December; Mrs. Latch had gone
upstairs to lie down. Esther had drawn her chair towards the fire. A
broken-down race-horse, his legs bandaged from his knees to his fetlocks,
had passed up the yard; he was going for walking exercise on the downs,
and when the sound of his hoofs had died away Esther was quite alone. She
sat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen window. She had advanced
one foot on the iron fender; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She
did not think--her mind was lost in vague sensation of William, and it was
in this death of active memory that something awoke within her, something
that seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart seemed to drop from
its socket, and she nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stood
by the kitchen table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, a
death-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on her forehead. The
truth was borne in upon her; she realised in a moment part of the awful
drama that awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, and which
she would have to live through hour by hour. So dreadful did it seem, that
she thought her brain must give way. She would have to leave Woodview. Oh,
the shame of confession! Mrs. Barfield, who had been so good to her, and
who thought so highly of her. Her father would not have her at home; she
would be homeless in London. No hope of obtaining a situation.... they
would send her away without a character, homeless in London, and every
month her position growing more desperate....

A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh had come to the relief
of the spirit; and she sank upon her chair, almost unconscious, sick, it
seemed, to death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead slowly
with her apron.... She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in her
hands, and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon the
table, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching under any cross
that He had thought fit to lay upon her.

There was still the hope that she might be mistaken; and this hope lasted
for one week, for two, but at the end of the third week it perished, and
she abandoned herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure with
courage what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for light to
guide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she might
pity her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, whereas none might
know the truth if she did not tell it. She might remain at Woodview
earning another quarter's wages; the first she had spent on boots and
clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on for another
quarter she would have eight pounds, and with that money, and much less
time to keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But would she be
able to go undetected for nearly three whole months, until her next wages
came due? She must risk it.

Three months of constant fear and agonising suspense wore away, and no
one, not even Margaret, suspected Esther's condition. Encouraged by her
success, and seeing still very little sign of change in her person, and as
every penny she could earn was of vital consequence in the coming time,
Esther determined to risk another month; then she would give notice and
leave. Another month passed, and Esther was preparing for departure when a
whisper went round, and before she could take steps to leave she was told
that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther turned a
little pale, and the expression of her face altered; it seemed to her
impossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, who
was standing near and saw what was passing in her mind, said--

"Pull yourself together, Esther. You know the Saint--she's not a bad sort.
Like all the real good ones, she is kind enough to the faults of others."

"What's this? What's the matter with Esther?" said Mrs. Latch, who had not
yet heard of Esther's misfortune.

"I'll tell you presently, Mrs. Latch. Go, dear, get it over."

Esther hurried down the passage and passed through the baize door without
further thought. She had then but to turn to the left and a few steps
would bring her to the library door. The room was already present in her
mind. She could see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the round
table covered with books, the piano at the back, the parrot in the corner,
and the canaries in the window. She knocked at the door. The well-known
voice said, "Come in." She turned the handle, and found herself alone with
her mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and looked
up. She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice was
harder than usual.

"Is this true, Esther?"

Esther hung down her head. She could not speak at first; then she said,
"Yes."

"I thought you were a good girl, Esther."

"So did I, ma'am."

Mrs. Barfield looked at the girl quickly, hesitated a moment, and then
said--

"And all this time--how long is it?"

"Nearly seven months, ma'am."

"And all this time you were deceiving us."

"I was three months gone before I knew it myself, ma'am."

"Three months! Then for three months you have knelt every Sunday in prayer
in this room, for twelve Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and you
never said a word?"

A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield's voice awakened a rebellious spirit
in Esther, and a lowering expression gathered above her eyes. She said--

"Had I told you, you would have sent me away then and there. I had only a
quarter's wages, and should have starved or gone and drowned myself."

"I'm sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther."

"It is trouble that makes me, ma'am, and I have had a great deal."

"Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown myself cruel to you, have
I?"

"No, indeed, ma'am. You are the best mistress a servant ever had, but--"

"But what?"

"Why, ma'am, it is this way.... I hated being deceitful--indeed I did. But
I can no longer think of myself. There is another to think for now."

There was in Mrs. Barfield's look something akin to admiration, and she
felt she had not been wholly wrong in her estimate of the girl's
character; she said, and in a different intonation--

"Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn't have kept you on, on account
of the bad example to the younger servants. I might have helped you with
money. But six months alone in London and in your condition! ...I am glad
you did not tell me, Esther; and as you say there is another to think of
now, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to you
alive."

"I hope not, ma'am; I shall try and do my best."

"My poor girl! my poor girl! you do not know what trial is in store for
you. A girl like you, and only twenty! ...Oh, it is a shame! May God give
you courage to bear up in your adversity!"

"I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have prayed for
strength, and God will give me strength, and I must not complain. My case
is not so bad as many another. I have nearly eight pounds. I shall get on,
ma'am, that is to say if you will stand by me and not refuse me a
character."

"Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you were led into
temptation. I ought to have watched over you better--mine is the
responsibility. Tell me, it was not your fault."

"It is always a woman's fault, ma'am. But he should not have deserted me
as he did, that's the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was my
fault--I shouldn't have touched the second glass of ale. Besides, I was in
love with him, and you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let him
kiss me. He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round the farm.
He told me he loved me, and would make me his wife--that's how it was.
Afterwards he asked me to wait till after the Leger, and that riled me,
and I knew then how wicked I had been. I would not go out with him or
speak to him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss Peggy went
after him, and that's how I got left."

At the mention of Peggy's name a cloud passed over Mrs. Barfield's face.
"You have been shamefully treated, my poor child. I knew nothing of all
this. So he said he would marry you if he won his bet on the Leger? Oh,
that betting! I know that nothing else is thought of here; upstairs and
downstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of--"
Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but when she turned the
sight of Esther provoked her into speech. "I have seen it all my life,
nothing else, and I have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow; you
are not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death!"

Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the
memories that crowded upon her.

"I think, ma'am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a great deal of
harm do come from this betting on race-horses. The day when you was all
away at Goodwood when the horse won, I went down to see what the sea was
like here. I was brought up by the seaside at Barnstaple. On the beach I
met Mrs. Leopold, that is to say Mrs. Randal, John's wife; she seemed to
be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and for company's sake
she asked me to come home to tea with her. She was in that state of mind,
ma'am, that she forgot the teaspoons were in pawn, and when she could not
give me one she broke down completely, and told me what her troubles had
been."

"What did she tell you, Esther?"

"I hardly remember, ma'am, but it was all the same thing--ruin if the
horse didn't win, and more betting if he did. But she said they never had
been in such a fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been beaten they
would have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have heard the
best half of the town too."

"So that little man has suffered. I thought he was wiser than the rest....
This house has been the ruin of the neighbourhood; we have dispensed vice
instead of righteousness." Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfield
continued to talk to herself. "I have struggled against the evil all my
life, and without result. How much more misery shall I see come of it?"
Turning then to Esther she said, "Yes, the betting is an evil--one from
which many have suffered--but the question is now about yourself, Esther.
How much money have you?"

"I have about eight pounds, ma'am."

"And how much do you reckon will see you through it?"

"I don't know, ma'am, I have no experience. I think father will let me
stay at home if I can pay my way. I could manage easily on seven shillings
a week. When my time comes I shall go to the hospital."

While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly that about ten pounds
would meet most of her wants. Her train fare, two month's board at seven
shillings a week, the room she would have to take near the hospital before
her confinement, and to which she would return with her baby--all these
would run to about four or five pounds. There would be baby's clothes to
buy.... If she gave four pounds Esther would have then twelve pounds, and
with that she would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to an
old-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some small drawers, took from
one some paper packages which she unfolded. "Now, my girl, look here. I'm
going to give you four pounds; then you will have twelve, and that ought
to see you through your trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; I
like you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. You will write
and tell me how you are getting on, and if one of these days you want a
place, and I have one to give you, I shall be glad to take you back."

Harshness deadened and hardened her feelings, yet she was easily moved by
kindness, and she longed to throw herself at her mistress's feet; but her
nature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her blunt English
way--

"You are far too good, ma'am; I do not deserve such treatment--I know I
don't."

"Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give you strength to bear
your cross.... Now go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel your
sin, can you truly say honestly before God that you repent?"

"Yes, ma'am, I think I can say all that."

"Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to God to give you strength in
the future to stand against temptation."

Mrs. Barfield took Esther's hand and they knelt down by the round table,
leaning their hands on its edge. And, in a high, clear voice, Mrs.
Barfield prayed aloud, Esther repeating the words after her--

"Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things, knowest how Thy servant has strayed
and has fallen into sin. But Thou hast said there is more joy in heaven
over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men.
Therefore, Lord, kneeling here before Thee, we pray that this poor girl,
who repents of the evil she has done, may be strengthened in Thy mercy to
stand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as Thou forgavest the
woman of Samaria. Give her strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and
give her strength to bear the pain and the suffering that lie before her."

The women rose from their knees and stood looking at each other. Esther's
eyes were full of tears. Without speaking she turned to go.

"One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a character; I
hesitated, but it seems to me now that it would be wrong to refuse. If I
did you might never get a place, and then it would be impossible to say
what might happen. I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know what
it means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I cannot take upon
myself the responsibility."

Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which she described her
as an honest, hard-working girl. She paused at the word "reliable," and
wrote instead, "I believe her to be at heart a thoroughly religious girl."

She went upstairs to pack her box, and when she came down she found all
the women in the kitchen; evidently they were waiting for her. Coming
forward, Sarah said--

"I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we may have
had--There's no ill-feeling now, is there?"

"I bear no one any ill-feeling. We have been friends these last months;
indeed, everyone has been very kind to me." And Esther kissed Sarah on
both cheeks.

"I'm sure we're all sorry to lose you," said Margaret, pressing forward,
"and we hope you'll write and let us know how you are getting on."

Margaret, who was a tender-hearted girl, began to cry, and, kissing
Esther, she declared that she had never got on with a girl who slept in
her room so well before. Esther shook hands with Grover, and then her eyes
met Mrs. Latch's. The old woman took her in her arms.

"It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to me should have done you
such a wrong--But if you want for anything let me know, and you shall have
it. You will want money; I have some here for you."

"Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs. Barfield has been very
good to me."

The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the pantry; he came
with a glass of beer in his hand, and this suggested a toast to Sarah.
"Let's drink baby's health," she said. "Mr. Leopold won't refuse us the
beer."

The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and Esther hid her face in
her hands and tried to get away. But Margaret would not allow her. "What
nonsense!" she said. "We don't think any the worse of you; why that's an
accident that might happen to any of us."

"I hope not," said Esther.

The jug of beer was finished; she was kissed and hugged again, some tears
were shed, and Esther walked down the yard through the stables.

The avenue was full of wind and rain; the branches creaked dolefully
overhead; the lane was drenched, and the bare fields were fringed with
white mist, and the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; and the
girl's soul was desolate as the landscape. She had come to Woodview to
escape the suffering of a home which had become unendurable, and she was
going back in circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which she
had left it, and she was going back with the memory of the happiness she
had lost. All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have so
frequently to bear gathered in Esther's heart when she looked out of the
railway carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff plantations on
the downs and the angles of the Italian house between the trees. She drew
her handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her distress as well as she
could from the other occupants of the carriage.




XIII


When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, and
as she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet
streets, catching her full in the face.

She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her father
would have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but no
one could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box he
might fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even if
she had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment another
gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. The
sky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled
in vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard but
the melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a
penny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a pound
foolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the little
brick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door
open she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of the
children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound of
footsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked
over the banisters, she cried--

"Who is it?"

"Me, mother."

"What! You, Esther?"

"Yes, mother."

Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, she
took her daughter in her arms and kissed her. "Well, this is nice to see
you again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly,
Esther." Then her face changed expression. "What has happened? Have you
lost your situation?"

"Yes, mother."

"Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 'appy there and liked your
mistress above all those you 'ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper
and answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your own
temper--you was never very sure of it."

"I've no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in the
world--none better,--and my temper--it wasn't that, mother--"

"My own darling, tell me--"

Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and the
front door was open. "Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there....
When do you expect father home?"

"Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet."

Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then they
went into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehair
sofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in their
hearts betrayed itself on their faces.

"I had to leave, mother. I'm seven months gone."

"Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!"

"Yes, mother, it is quite true."

Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned her
regarding details she said--

"Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don't care to talk about it more than
I can help."

Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders' cheeks, and when she wiped
them away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob.

"Don't cry, mother," said Esther. "I have been very wicked, I know, but
God will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do,
and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow."

"Your father will never let you stop 'ere; 'e'll say, just as afore, that
there be too many mouths to feed as it is."

"I don't want him to keep me for nothing--I know well enough if I did that
'e'd put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good
money while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I must
go, Mrs. Barfield--the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever
there was one--gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my
trouble. I've better than eleven pound. Don't cry, mother dear; crying
won't do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holds
out I can get a lodging anywhere, but I'd like to be near you; and father
might be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven
shillings a week--I could afford as much as that, and he never was the man
to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?"

"I dunno, dearie; 'tis hard to say what 'e'll do; he's a 'ard man to live
with. I've 'ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming.
Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!"

"Poor mother!" said Esther, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, she
passed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. "I know what he
was; is he any worse now?"

"Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the other
day, just as I was attending to his dinner--it was a nice piece of steak,
and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me do
it, and he cries out, 'Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my
dinner for?' I says, 'I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.' 'Well, then,
taste that,' he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes,
lucky for you to be in service; you've half forgot by now what we've to
put up with 'ere."

"You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since I
dashed the hot water in his face."

"Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go and
drown meself. Jenny and Julia--you remember little Julia; she 'as grown up
such a big girl, and is getting on so well--they are both at work now in
the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word of
truth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, but
it ain't no use. If it wasn't for Jenny and Julia I don't think we should
ever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at the
warehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any
other. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds;
but they never complains, no more shouldn't I if he was a bit gentler and
didn't take more than half of what he earns to the public-'ouse. I was
glad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an 'asty temper and
couldn't 'ave borne it. I don't want to make my troubles seem worse than
they be, but sometimes I think I will break up, 'special when I get to
thinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing less
and expenses increasing. I haven't told yer, but I daresay you have
noticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poor
women down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you
must put a brave face on it; we'll do the best we can; none of us can say
no more."

Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther looked
at her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further words
mother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. It
was a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at the
back of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. There
was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on the
left-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid the
poor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs,
some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle.
Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were now
finishing the last few that remained of the order they had received from
the shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearing
the brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia.
The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling them
with brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous
fingers.

"Why, it is Esther!" said Jenny, the elder girl. "And, lorks, ain't she
grand!--quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye." And having kissed their
sister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired with
their pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled with
consciousness of the advantage of service.

Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked
him if he remembered her.

"Naw, I don't think I do. Will oo put me down?"

"But you do, Lizzie?" she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose bright
red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight.

"Yes, you're my big sister; you've been away this year or more in
service."

"And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?"

Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment's reflection she
nodded her head vigorously.

"Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on," said Mrs. Saunders; "she
makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless in
drawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it:
'ere's a dog with one shoulder just 'arf the size of the other."

"Oh, mother, I'm sure nobody'd never know the difference."

"Wouldn't know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural?
Sich carelessness I never seed."

"Esther, just look at Julia's dog," cried Jenny, "'e 'asn't got no more
than 'arf a shoulder. It's lucky mother saw it, for if the manager'd seen
it he'd have found something wrong with I don't know 'ow many more, and
docked us maybe a shilling or more on the week's work."

Julia began to cry.

"Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said I
worked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled--"

"There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser--I
always 'as the right for my dogs--and if you find one there with an uneven
shoulder I'll--"

"Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like 'erself; that's why she
stuffs so much paper into her dogs."

It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of the
excellence of Jenny's dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in the
interval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in
the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther.
Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and to
make an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia's dog and told her that
it must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped to
force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould.

"Now," she said, "it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was a
real dog he could walk."

"Oh, bother!" cried Jenny, "I shan't be able to finish my last dozen this
evening. I 'ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins that
Julia is a-using of for her little one won't do for this size."

"Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money they
would bring to finish the week with."

"No, we can't get no buttons in the shop: that's 'ome work, they says; and
even if they 'ad them they wouldn't let us put them in there. That's 'ome
work they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot."

"But 'aven't you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run and get them."

"No, I've run short."

"But," said Esther, "I'll give you sixpence to get your buttons with."

"Yes, that's it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow if
you are 'ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we'll send it."

"I'm not going back just yet."

"What, 'ave yer lost yer situation?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Saunders, "Esther ain't well--she 'as come up for 'er
'ealth; take the sixpence and run along."

"May I go too?" said Julia. "I've been at work since eight, and I've only
a few more dogs to do."

"Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don't bother me any more,
I've got to get your father's supper."

When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely;
the other children were too young to understand.

"There is times when 'e is well enough," said Mrs. Saunders, "and others
when 'e is that awful. It is 'ard to know 'ow to get him, but 'e is to be
got if we only knew 'ow. Sometimes 'tis most surprising how easy 'e do
take things, and at others--well, as about that piece of steak that I was
a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour 'e's as like as not
to take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour
'e's as like as not to say, 'Well, my gal, make yerself at 'ome.'"

"He can but turn me out, I'll leave yer to speak to 'im, mother."

"I'll do my best, but I don't answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper do
make a difference in 'im, and as ill luck will 'ave it, I've nothing but a
rasher, whereas if I only 'ad a bit of steak 'e'd brighten up the moment
he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful."

"But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slip
round to the butcher's and----"

"Yes, get half a pound, and when it's nicely cooked and inside him it'll
make all the difference. That will please him. But I don't like to see you
spending your money--money that you'll want badly."

"It can't be helped, mother. I shan't be above a minute or two away, and
I'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak."

Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchases
they remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasant
evening.

"When he's done eating 'e'll go out to smoke his pipe with some of his
chaps," said Jenny, "and we shall have the 'ouse to ourselves, and yer can
tell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don't
they? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he very
handsome? I've 'eard that they all is."

"And you'll show us yer dresses, won't you?" said Julia. "How many 'ave
you got, and 'ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy such
beauties, if they're all like that?"

"This dress was given to me by Miss Mary."

"Was it? She must be a real good 'un. I should like to go to service; I'm
tired of making dogs; we have to work that 'ard, and it nearly all goes to
the public; father drinks worse than ever."

Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther's purchase; it was a beautiful bit of
steak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat was
roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the
rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work,
pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply
to the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs.
Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread in
the passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that
its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he would
come to them mollified and amiable.

"Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready with
yer supper."

"I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice,
what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?"

"Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender."

"That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and
I'm that 'ungry."

Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some
days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle;
around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue
jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He
threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed
against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay
sniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly a
whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough
hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken.

"What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty
well this evening, I reckon. What's up?"

"Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought
we'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'as
been doing pretty well, and can afford it."

Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and
feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said----

"Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug.
"Where did you get this?"

"In Durham street, at the 'Angel.'"

"I thought as much; they don't sell stuff like this at the 'Rose and
Crown.' Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; and
I see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman--is it
nearly done? Yer know I don't like all the goodness burnt out of it."

"It isn't quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more----"

Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther.

"Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toff
yer are! Quite a lady.... There's nothing like service for a girl; I've
always said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn't yer like to go into service, like yer
sister? Looks better, don't it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence
the gross?"

"I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take my
place, I mean to try."

"It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress," said
Julia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite."

At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and
putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying,
"Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot."

Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none of
them ever had suppers like that. He didn't speak until he had put away the
better part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of
beer, he said--

"I 'aven't enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was that
beat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meat
into one's stomach after a 'ard day's work!"

Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks,
and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she was
staying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered
his questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve only
increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of the
race-horses.

"I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing through
the yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of
talk about them in the servants' hall, but I didn't notice it. They were a
great trouble to Mrs. Barfield--I told you, mother, that she was one of
ourselves, didn't I?"

A look of contempt passed over Jim's face, and he said--

"We've quite enough talk 'ere about the Brethren; give them a rest. What
about the 'orses? Did they win any races? Yer can't 'ave missed 'earing
that."

"Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards' Cup."

"Silver Braid was one of your horses?"

"Yes, Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, everyone in Shoreham won
something, and a ball for the servants was given in the Gardens."

"And you never thought of writing to me about it! I could have 'ad thirty
to one off Bill Short. One pound ten to a bob! And yer never thought it
worth while to send me the tip. I'm blowed! Girls aren't worth a damn....
Thirty to one off Bill Short--he'd have laid it. I remember seeing the
price quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. If you
had told me all yer knowed I might 'ave gone 'alf a quid--fifteen pun to
'alf a quid! as much as I'd earn in three months slaving eight and ten
hours a day, paint-pot on 'and about them blooming engines. Well, there's
no use crying over what's done--sich a chance won't come again, but
something else may. What are

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