Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  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 i
nduce 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 constan
tly, 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.